My grandmother’s brother-in-law used to lecture the neighborhood girls and threaten them maliciously. “You can tell from the way a girl walks if she’s done something.” Then at a subsequent session he would repeat the idea with a more alarming tone, “You can tell from the way she walks if she’s a girl or a woman.”
After hearing such statements, girls who were sitting down hated to stand up to head home. They would get up grudgingly and walk, barely able to move, stumbling all over the place, as if every last one of them had forgotten how to walk. They lost a lot of their pureness of heart on the journey to maturity. They were forced to prove their chastity and to remind everyone of it even when the occasion didn’t call for it.
Now I forgive them for being proud of the blood of their hymen
