For two years, our local church lady measured my skirts with a wooden ruler in front of the entire church. Last Sunday, she tried again until she tripped, her purse burst open, and something heavy rolled across the marble floor. What fell out exposed far more than my knees ever could.The cold edge of a wooden yardstick snapped against my kneecap, the sound echoing off the marble foyer like a gavel in a courtroom. Mrs. Gable was already on her knees, her floral Sunday dress bunching around her as she squinted through thick spectacles.The entire congregation slowed its pace to witness my weekly public shaming.

“Three inches above the joint, Katherine,” she announced, her voice projected with the practiced authority of a drill sergeant.She didn’t look at my face; she stared at the hem of my navy dress as if it were a tear in the fabric of the universe itself. Her self-appointed role as the morality police was in full swing.I stood frozen, the heat of a hundred eyes crawling up my neck while my parents looked everywhere but at me. They always whispered about “keeping the peace” and “respecting our elders,” even when that elder was treating my legs like a construction site.