They are boys.
As a child, I lived in England with my family for a few years. Members of my extended family visited us a few times during our stay there. One time, when I was around seven years old, I met my grandfather for the first time.
I don’t remember how this came to be, but I got to introduce some of my school friends to the family members who were visiting. Since I was going to a co-ed school, some of my school friends were boys.
I was playing with my friends, and, taking a short break, I ran to my grandfather. “These are my friends!” I exclaimed excitedly to him in my awkward-sounding Arabic.
“They are boys,” my grandfather said, and let out a laugh.
I looked up at him, smiling, happy to share my life with this man I had heard so much about. But when I saw his face, I froze. Though he had laughed, his face looked kind of twisted. Something inside me told me to not laugh as I had intended.
He turned to my parents and barked, “how long are you going to let her play with boys?!” I looked over at my parents before going back to play. I don’t remember if they said anything in response, but I do remember their sheepish expressions; they couldn’t look him in the eye.
Two or three years after that, I went back with my family to our country.
And fifteen years later, my grandfather would begin molesting me.