These events are based on my life during this time. Every single event that you read about, from the smallest to the largest of them, actually happened, including randomly finding a Power Rangers wallet in my desk that I thought was awesome, hahaha. I used that wallet for a long time. The chronology of these events are probably not accurate, but I remember each of these events very vividly. Also, the characters Lydia and Mr. Atkinson are not their real names; I can't remember what their names actually were. So I took what I remembered about this experience and compiled them all into this short story.
People think depression is only a result of bullying — of name-calling and feelings of neglect. Oh no, it is far more intense than bullying and neglect. For me, it was being beaten to a bloody pulp at five years of age on my way home from school every day. Why? Because I was a nigger. Well, technically half a nigger, being biracial and all. The life of a nigger was arduous, and even more so if you were half and half. You struggled to survive. I didn't really understand it five years into life. I didn't know what a nigger was; all I knew was that it hurt. I didn't really understand why blood streamed from my nose every day either.
"Have a good day at school, sweetie!" my mom wished as she finished packing my lunch. I grabbed my lunchbox as I walked to school with my older brother, Danny.
Danny walked me to my kindergarten class.
The teacher came up to me. "What's your name?"
"Ricky," I said bashfully.
She walked me over to a desk and sat me down. I put my hands inside the desk, felt something, and pulled out the coolest Power Rangers wallet I had ever seen. I put it in my backpack. Finder's keepers.
"Hi! What's your name?" I heard a voice say next to me.
I looked over to my right and there was a beautiful, light-skinned Puerto Rican girl. "Ricky," I said bashfully once again.
"My name's Lydia!" she said as she kissed my cheek.
I blushed.
"Hey! No kissing!" the teacher yelled from across the classroom. "I am Mrs. Smith," she announced with authority to us all. "You will all call me Mrs. Smith. Not Ms. Smith — Mrs. Smith."
Lydia was my only friend. She always shared her Doritos and Cheetos during lunch, as well as sneaking some during class. We held hands whenever we sat at our desks and walked together. Is it possible to fall in love at 5-years-old?
The next day of school we were all sitting in a circle, waiting to do an activity. Lydia sat next to me and kissed my cheek as she always does.
"Lydia," Mrs. Smith exclaimed, "the next time you kiss Ricky, I'm sending you to the principal's office!" That didn't really stop Lydia from kissing my cheek in the future. She was just more discreet about it.
Mrs. Smith had some posters with bold-coloured letters on them. We've been working on the alphabet lately. "When I ask you what each letter stands for, I want you to raise your hand and whoever I call on, you tell me a word that begins with that letter."
We went through the alphabet. I didn't really participate, but when we got to Z I exclaimed, "Zipper!"
"No, you idiot!" Mrs. Smith snapped at me. She turned the poster over and said, "Zebra!" And sure enough there was a zebra. I was befuddled with her frustration. How was I supposed to know that there was a zebra on the back of the poster?
School ended a little later and as I walked out of my classroom somebody pushed me, causing me to fall to the ground. "Get out of my way, nigger!" a tall white kid yelled at me. I don't know why he pushed me.
Danny and I started walking home. We were about a quarter of the way there when I got punched on the left side of my nose, blood spraying out of my nose as I stumbled. I looked over, my eyes drowning in tears. It was that same white kid. He pushed me on the ground as dirt, sticks, and leaves filled my mouth. I turned and watched as Danny punched the kid square in the face, scaring him away. Danny helped me up. Tears were in his eyes.
"C'mon, Ricky. Let's get you home," Danny said as he helped me up and helped me walk home.
We got home and I saw the sorrow and worry in my mother's eyes as soon as she saw the dry blood on my face and shirt.
"What happened?" she asked Danny.
"Some kid punched Ricky, Momma!" he answered.
Momma took me to the bathroom, took my shirt off, and washed the blood off my face.
This certain event continued for several months. I'd go to school, Mrs. Smith would demean my intelligence (or lack thereof, I don't know), and I'd go home getting punched, repeatedly being called "nigger" and other racial slurs throughout the entire day. Although I would have tears in my eyes, not once would I actually weep. Lydia made each day a little better with her sweet little kisses. She made everything bad go away.
The last time this happened, the kid did his usual routine. He surprised me, punched me, but this time he continued to kick me repeatedly. What happened differently after this was that it wasn't just Danny who drove him off. This time, other kids joined in as well to chase him off and help me up. It seems they all got sick of watching him beat me up everyday. Danny helped walk me home afterwards.
Once we got home Momma washed the blood off my face as usual, but this was the last straw for Momma, too. She took me to Daddy.
"Dan, we have to do something about this bully at school!" Momma implored. "This is getting out of hand! Ricky comes home every day like this form school!"
"You're right," Daddy agreed. "It's about time we've done something about this. We'll go see the principal right now."
Momma, Daddy, and I walked to the school, Momma leading the way, her little feet marching down the sidewalk. I've never seen her like this before — so irate.
The principal accepted our unexpected arrival, sitting us down in his office with the door closed.
Momma started, "Mr. Atkinson, my son Ricky has been coming home from school for the last three months with a bloody nose! And he is repeatedly called a nigger from this kid!"
"Do you know the kid's name?" Mr. Atkinson said.
"Danny knows his name, Ricky's older brother. You need to do something about him. Suspend him, expel him, something!"
"Ma'am," Mr. Atkinson said, "with all due respect, there's nothing we can really do. We cannot control the level of racism at this school."
Daddy pounded the desk with his fist. "These are kids, dammit! Do you want them growing up with this kind of behaviour? DO you want them growing up to be racists in our society? And most of all, do you want my son growing up in this environment while you sit here and do nothing? If you don't do something about this, we'll sue the school district!"
"Okay, okay, Mr. and Mrs. Beckett. I'll deal with this tomorrow. Just give me the kid's name and I'll deal with him."
The next day of school wasn't very normal, or very routine. I never saw the white kid anywhere during school. Lydia was excited and happy as well. She gave me a big kiss on the cheek as we went our separate ways after school. I exited the building, looked back, and saw the kid.
"Hi!" I exclaimed. I have no idea why I greeted him.
He looked up and straight at me with a depressed look on his face. He looked down and continued the other way. I never saw him again after that.
On one specific night we were eating dinner — Danny, Momma, Daddy and me. We had my favourite dinner: chicken and mashed potatoes, but not the nasty green beans; they're dreadful. Momma and Daddy started clearing the table when Danny went outside into the backyard.
As soon as he went outside we heard a gunshot. Everyone froze, too afraid to move, staring at the door. Danny walked in, holding our puppy, Mickey.
"Daddy, he's not moving," Danny said in tears.
Daddy grabbed Mickey as Momma took ahold of Danny, and I followed Momma and Danny. Daddy seemed really angry.
Soon after that, everything in our house was packed up and we were moving to Shrewsbury, Pennsylvania. We got away from the racial problems. However, we had another problem to deal with: the effect this experience had on me. Before this all happened, I was a very happy and high-spirited child. After all this, I became verbally and physically violent, and dealing with depression for the next twelve years of my life.
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