We often hear about “the talk” Black parents must have with their sons about dealing with police. But rarely do we acknowledge the conversation Black parents need to have with their daughters—the one about what happens when they’re old enough to walk the streets without adult supervision. My parents never had that talk with me. Only recently did I realize I had to have it with my own not-so-little girl.

A couple of weeks ago, driving home, I asked my 12-year-old: “Has a grown man ever tried to hit on you?” She looked horrified, as if I’d just pledged allegiance to the current administration. “Excuse me? Why would a grown man hit on me? I’m a child!”

Her shock reminded me of myself at her age, when I first realized adult men were paying attention to me—and going out of their way to make sure I knew it. At first it scared me, but eventually it made me furious. How dare these men make me feel unsafe in my own body?

I grew up in Hyde Park, a racially and economically diverse South Side Chicago neighborhood. By 12, I had the freedom to roam—record stores, sidewalks, cafés—hoping to meet cute boys. Instead, I met men.

By high school, once I was filling out a double-D bra, the harassment became relentless. When men in their 20s and 30s approached me, I convinced myself they must’ve thought I was closer to 18. That excuse didn’t work for the men in their 40s and 50s—the ones old enough to be my father. That attention creeped me out to my core.

The worst part? This harassment happened in plain sight of adults who said nothing. No one had my back. Eventually, I started snapping back. “You’re disgusting. I’m young enough to be your daughter.” I was lucky nothing escalated, but it shouldn’t have taken courage or profanity to defend myself.

I never told my parents. I feared they’d blame my clothes, makeup, or the fact that I wandered around freely. On the few occasions my mother was present, she scolded my outbursts more than the men’s behavior. Once, after I cursed out a much older man, she sighed, “He’s earned the right to look.” That betrayal stung. Now, older myself, I can only imagine how much harassment she endured, and how normalized it was for her generation.

Living in Los Angeles today, my daughter doesn’t walk as much as I did; she’s chauffeured most places. That robs her of some freedoms I enjoyed, but it also spares her from constant harassment. Still, I know her first encounter is inevitable. So I gave her the talk: If a man approaches, yell, “I am a child, and you are making me uncomfortable!” Then get away.

I want her to know this isn’t her fault—ever. Nothing she wears, nothing about her growing body makes her responsible for an adult man’s predatory attention.

It’s easy to condemn R. Kelly, but the truth is: there are countless men in our communities who do the same thing. We have to protect our girls. That means noticing who’s watching them in public. Offering to walk with them if they’re afraid. Speaking up when grown men cross the line. Because our girls deserve safety. And we know the police won’t guarantee it—too many of us remember officers who harassed us, too.

So parents, have this conversation. Don’t stop at warning your daughters about teachers, coaches, or family friends. Prepare them for strangers on the street, for men who look like they should know better but don’t. Keep the dialogue open. Ask what they’ve experienced. Remind them they’re never to blame.

Because silence doesn’t protect Black girls. Honesty, vigilance, and solidarity do.

Jamilah Lemieux is a writer, editor, and culture critic. Her new book, Black.Single.Mother, is available for pre-order.