by May Papa
The storm consumed the blackened sky as Michelle turned to me, surrounded by a pool of blood. I remembered how fear, awe, and admiration filled the eyes of the other kids, their stares piercing my skull. Startled by my own violent reaction, I was overwhelmed with a painful numbness. Did I make the right decision? Was this inevitable? After all, I was driven to this point, and Michelle had just pushed me over the edge of madness.
I focused intensely on one familiar face in the crowd, a face typical of perhaps every childhood, the adolescent demagogue unmarred by pubescent awkwardness. His name was Andy, and at thirteen he possessed an immense power. He was followed by all and possessed the chalice of undisputed criticism, his every judgment a word of gifted insight. In and out of the classroom, Andy often picked on the kid who ate too much or ate too little, the kid whose cherry-red cheeks would change colors when you touched them. Together, we laughed when no one was looking, seldom vocally announcing what we were laughing at. In my mind, these kids were freaks of nature or had personal problems. Either way, they were different from the rest of us and easy targets for attention. I thought I was just having a moment of fun, never thinking it was at the expense of another's quirks. Maybe I laughed because everyone else did. It never entered my mind that what we were doing was wrong.
I remember a boy named Allan who used to ride to school on his bike. Whether or not Allan had good hygiene was irrelevant. By the time a thirteen-year-old boy riding a bike arrived at school, his hair would be more tousled than a Caesar salad. I remember the day Andy accused him of being a filthy slob who never took baths.
"Pig! You look like you woke up and rolled in the mud."
"And you smell awful. Bugs crawling out of your hair. Don't you ever take a bath?"
We laughed and harassed Allan for days. Although I had never noticed Allan or his odor before, I began to see him as filthy and slovenly. I started to sneer and think of Allan as inferior, and I noticed, from that day on, that Allan brought a comb to school and left his bike at home. Beyond my under- standing at the time, he also became unusually self-conscious. Like a lavish king gracing me with his royal request, Andy often asked me in class for help in our assignments, and usually, I was happy to help him. In fact, it was the day that Andy asked me to help him cheat for a test that I experienced the full power of alienation in our society.
On the day of the exam, Andy bothered me relentlessly about helping him. I remembered all the times I had watched other kids become prey to delinquency, escorted away like hardened criminals to the principal's office, humiliated with tears of pure terror pouring from their eyes. I imagined myself being dragged away, too, trembling with fear of facing my friends, my teachers, and eventually, my parents. Intimidated by these consequences, I refused Andy's request.
When lunchtime came, we emptied the classrooms like soldiers returning home from a long, lonely war. Basking in the spring weather, I walked to the lunch tables designated especially for the eighth graders. On that day, as he had done on many occasions, my uncle pampered me by bringing me a fast-food lunch, my favorite meal: a McDonald's filet of fish sandwich and a chocolate milkshake. Sitting in my usual spot with my little group of friends, I pulled my sandwich from the bag.
"Hey, May," a haughty voice inquired, "why do you always have fish sandwiches for lunch?"
I looked up, startled to hear such a question. There stood Andy, with a Cheshire grin from ear to ear, repeating the question again while everyone's eyes hung on his words.
"Why do you have a fish sandwich every single day?"
I shrugged, embarrassed, not knowing what to say. My fingers began to tremble.
Andy sucked in his cheeks and puckered his lips mimicking a fish, "Hey, you're even starting to look like a fish."
As the spectators laughed, I started to feel every eye of every eighth grader fixed on me. They laughed louder and louder, or so it seemed. I looked around nervously as the voices joined in a thunderous roar. Even my friends laughed, deepening my humiliation.
In one instant, I saw how I had become a vent for others' social frustrations. Kids who were considered socially outcast found a ticket to being "in." By following Andy and the mainstream, they felt a power they had never experienced before, the power to criticize, while I had lost my identity and took on the gruesome role as the subject of ridicule.
The next day, and for many days to follow, I was known as Fish. As the fad spread, even the younger children started calling me Fish. The word "Fish" was written in chalk on my books, locker, and gym clothes. I would find smelly cans of mackerel, sardines, and tuna in my locker, often accompanied with gifts of rubber fishes. In sick-humored fun, some would even turn up their noses or hold them in my presence, as if I radiated the foul odor of fish. What was once a derogatory joke became a discriminatory outrage.
Michelle was a girl in my class that year. Even though we belonged to different social circles, she repeatedly tried to merge into the desirable social scene, publicizing her wallflower image even more. Michelle and I had never really talked much in the past, yet there was one thing I knew about her, compliments of the grapevine. She adored Andy. As a devoted social climber and fan of Andy, you can imagine that when the hook was dropped, Michelle bit the bait.
That morning the clouds were in an ugly mood, momentarily mute, but with something important to say, like an agitated can of soda ready to explode. As I walked through the school gate, Michelle greeted me, her voice like a loaded gun itching for a kill.
"'Morning, Fishy. What's for lunch? Sardines?" she hissed, holding her nose in routine manner. Unlike the others, who merely saw this as a joking game, Michelle acted with a seething tone of hatred in her voice.
"Fish can't talk?" she said. "Is that it? Are you pissed? Pissed that no one likes you anymore. Thought you had it made, huh? Now no one will even talk to you. You have no friends. They all turned. Tell me, Fish, do you cry yourself to sleep at night knowing the whole school hates you?"
My back was turned against her, and I tried to ignore her voice. But the more I tried, the more it became like a voice in my head speaking the truth. I couldn't help thinking that this was the universal feeling. I felt myself slipping back, trying to remember being so well liked, when I was so critical of those we judged as "unacceptable." I remember feeling so confident of myself, and I kept thinking of the kid who spoke with a funny accent or wore the same clothes every day because he was poor, or even Allan whose hair was messy from riding his bike because both his parents worked and couldn't drive him to school. These were the kids who suffered at my hands for things in life that are predetermined and cannot be changed. I couldn't help thinking, if this were to end, would I forget how it felt to be disliked by others? Or to be ostracized and outcast for petty reasons?
As a drop from the clouds hit my forehand, I suddenly became mad with fury. Without thinking, my arm extended straight out, and aimlessly I flung my book bag with all my strength at Michelle. I had no real intention of hitting her. But I was senseless with numbed emotions and uncontrollable.
My bag fell to the ground a few feet away as blood poured onto the pavement from a gash on her forehead. I looked up at all my peers, staring in awe. I watched their faces as the urge to pass judgment flushed away, thinned by the volatile event. Their eyes implored forgiveness; it seemed as if they had come simultaneously to the realization of their monstrous and inhumane behavior. They stared at me like the perpetrators of Original Sin. As I walked away disgusted by the moment, I caught a glimpse of Allan, who, like a reflection in the mirror, stared at me with a look of pity. Neither of us said a word.
Michelle later received a large gauze band-aid above her brow, and I was condemned to a week of detention. As I think back, I realize how meager the punishment and how instantly that one blow stopped the torment of those last few days of Junior High. Poof!
I know now that it never really disappears. After many years and many similar trials, I understand better the obscure role of power in discrimination and prejudice. It resembles a tennis match, where the ball is hit back and forth until, by skill or luck, someone loses a point. But then again, it is only one point in one game within one set that makes up a match. In the eyes of an all-powerful God, I may just be a Fish. But, now I know, I'm a Fish among a sea of many.