This was nothing new for me. I had always been made fun of. I was too poor. Too fat. Too smart. I loved reading too much. I didn’t look, talk, or act the right way.
Fifth grade was more difficult for me, socially, than any other grade in elementary school. I was made fun of on a daily basis. An hourly basis. I’d had my favorite dolls ruined by the kids in my class. I’d had my jackets ruined. I’d had notebooks thrown into the sinks in the bathroom. I was told that I was too poor to be in school. I’d had my crush revealed to everyone in the class, only to have him and everyone else taunt me for years. I was told I wasn’t smart because my parents didn’t have money or nice clothes for me. I was ridiculed and punished for being different.
But this day… This day, things were different than they had been. It was gym day and as usual, I was wearing clothes that the other kids could never have imagined having to wear. I was wearing a really old pair of hand-me-down sneakers, green stretch pants, one of my mom’s white t-shirts, and a green-white-and-black windbreaker.
Gym was set to start, and the entire class got in our usual line to head down to gym. I resumed my usual position of being the last person in line… The last person in line could trail behind and not talk to or be near anyone. Everyone then headed down to gym with me trailing behind as I always did.
I don’t remember what activities we did that day, but I do remember taking my windbreaker off and putting it in the two-row bleachers that were installed in our gym wall. I put it in my usual spot: the farthest spot from the door, closest to the water fountain where no one went. As you can tell, I’m a creature of habit. Regardless, I went about my normal gym class, participating and playing as instructed, but not quite as well as the other kids in the gym. At the end of class, the gym teacher, Mr. Kennedy, instructed us to line up at the door and get ready to go back to our classroom. We all did as instructed, with me in my usual caboose placement, and we all walked back to our class.
I hadn’t realized that Steven and Ryan stayed in the gym when everyone else had left. For what reason they stayed, I didn’t know. But they came running down the hall and through the classroom door a few minutes later. Steven had my jacket in hand, and Ryan grabbed it from him and said, “This was left in the gym. Is this anyone’s jacket?” I was astonished. They were actually being nice to me!
“Oh! Thanks, Ryan. That’s mine,” I said. Ryan dropped my jacket and started screaming and looking at his hand in mock horror. His facial expression was one of disgust: nose scrunched, jaw dropped in disbelief, eyebrows furrowed.
Ryan kept screaming on and off for a minute. Then, in a panicked voice, he said, “Someone get me the Lysol!” Now, considering that I was in fifth grade, I was entirely aware of what Lysol was—Disinfectant. He’d held my jacket for a moment, and he needed to disinfect my existence away from him. I was bacterial—I was contagious—And I was sickening…
I was instantly enraged. My inside felt a shock of cold from my head to my toes. My face began to grow hot, and soon was on fire. My fists clenched in anger. I started screaming at him and trying to think of the worst thing I could say to him to make him hurt like he had hurt me. I wanted him to feel how I felt: small and worthless.
Luckily, for both of our sakes, Mrs. Pifer intervened quickly. She came up next to me and put her arm around my shoulders. Looking at Ryan, in a chillingly calm voice, she said, “Ryan, go see the principal.” Ryan was astonished and most likely questioning what he had done (though to most of us, it would have been obvious). He was about to speak, when Mrs. Pifer said, “Don’t even try to argue with me… Go.” I was so emotionally overwhelmed, and once he left the room, I immediately began to cry. Mrs. Pifer wrapped her arms around me, and told me it was okay. Eventually, I calmed down, and the day continued.
That was one of the worst days of my fifth grade year. I was too poor. Too fat. Too smart. I loved reading too much. I didn’t look, talk, or act the right way. But, what stuck with me, and what reoccurred frequently throughout that year, was Mrs. Pifer’s willingness to defend me. She worked with me all year to handle my emotions concerning the bullies, and she was always there to defend me. It was a long, stressful and painful road to recovering from the torment. But she was the one to help me take the first step. And it all happened because of the worst day I’d ever had in fifth grade.
