By Sarah E. Murphy

When I first read about – and later heard – the ignorant, hateful “Lock her up!” chants directed at our former First Lady and Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, it was eerily reminiscent of an incident I experienced in junior high. 

It was 1985. I was thirteen years old, a seventh-grader at Lawrence School in my hometown of Falmouth, Massachusetts. Somehow I had fought the shyness and insecurity I suffered from being bullied in sixth grade, when I lost all my confidence and belief in myself and my capabilities. 

As Ronald Reagan sat in the Oval Office, I ran and was elected Homeroom Representative for the Student Council, composed of seventh and eighth-graders. One day, as I stood at the front of my classroom and quietly delivered my report from the most recent meeting, some of my male classmates decided they were not only underwhelmed but unsatisfied. 

“Is that it?” a voice asked in an accusatory tone from one of the back rows.

A flood of shame washed over me, and I was back in that sixth grade classroom, when I was afraid to raise my hand or participate in anything, including recess. I stopped going and began volunteering in the school library, where I felt safe among the stacks.

I was always an introverted, introspective kid, and I could physically feel the tone in that 7th grade homeroom shifting. Suddenly, a group of boys started yelling, “We should impeach her! Yeah, Impeach Her! Impeach Her!”

I stared helplessly at the teacher, wordlessly pleading and naively hoping he’d say something. And he did.

“Well, Sarah? Do you have anything to say to that?”

I felt sick to my stomach, as I did on most days in sixth grade, and my mind went blank. I now realize my “fight or flight” mode kicked in and, once again, having been raised to be polite and respectful, of my elders and peers, I didn’t know how to advocate for myself, so I froze. 

I don’t remember much after that. That’s how our brains protect us when we’ve been attacked, verbally or physically. I’m sure those boys, who are now “men” don’t even recall this event, or if they do, they’d now tell me I’m too sensitive, I’m overreacting, I’m angry, or it was “just a joke.” I’ve experienced it all as a woman in America speaking my mind on virtually any topic. 

I never told my parents about it, for I was observant enough to see they had more than enough on their plate, so I had no tools for “fighting back.” Instead, that experience robbed me of all enthusiasm for doing my little job in homeroom. I didn’t run again in 8th grade, and instead, I became more introverted and insecure. 

I recently saw that teacher at a local event, and I felt a wave of anger, thinking of the little girl who still doubts herself and has to fight those fears to speak up. Those men, and so many like them, have become more angry, more emboldened. 

I’ve been fighting for a woman’s right to control her body for over four years, in a country that rewards men who break the law while vilifying women who bring attention to it, from Vice President Kamala Harris to former State Representative Liz Cheney to former First Lady Michelle Obama to Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde to former First Lady and Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. These are the true Patriots. I’ve also been trying to keep my head above the waters of anticipatory grief, watching my mother, a former Catholic, in her final chapter of life, contemplating all the rewarding things she had to give up in order to raise six children, particularly her teaching career. All she wanted before leaving this earth was to see a competent, emotionally intelligent human being, who happens to be a woman, elected to the Oval Office. Instead, my mother, who just turned 89, and survived the pre-vaccine polio epidemic when she was hospitalized in sixth grade, watching some of her classmates die, has lived to see an entitled cokehead conspiracy theorist anti-vaxxer go from being the punchline to Pennsylvania Avenue. 

Since the “election” in November, men in my community have come out of the woodwork, angrily attacking women, denying us our experience – again, about virtually anything. If you’re enraged to see women sharing their fears about the countless times in our lives men have made us feel unsafe, you might want to explore your anger. If “Not All Men” is your default response, then I wouldn’t want to be alone with you. To say that this election has been eye-opening is an understatement. 

People have been treating me like Chicken Little for years, yet I saw this coming, and tried to use any platform I could to bring attention to it, especially when I noticed men from my community, and some of my former teachers (including one who taught me Catechism at St. Patrick’s Church which, the last time I checked, is supposed to reflect the beliefs of Jesus) “liking” and “loving” posts on social media, or giving them the laughing icon, stating that Kamala Harris “slept” or “blew her way to the top.” 

In October, a few weeks before I proudly voted for Kamala Harris and Tim Walz, I had a sinking feeling when I spotted support for RFK on Surf Drive, right near my neighborhood, which is also a mere three miles from the global science community of Woods Hole Village, home to Nobel laureates. 

Months later, although it’s a bit battered, it’s still on display, informing us all we can be optimistic for apparently this is our future. A sickening sign of the times. A perfect metaphor in this comedy of errors. Another day in The Twilight Zone. All I can hear since the pathetic escalator ride a decade ago is the chorus of Rockwell’s hit from the year I was in sixth grade.  I keep waiting for Allen Funt to jump out of the hydrangeas, assuring me none of this is real.

“I always feel like somebody’s watchin me…”

Truth is stranger than fiction. Just ask Rod Serling…