I was bullied quite regularly throughout my young life. I was just a little different than everyone else. It started with 2nd grade, when we moved to a nicer part of town and I was able to go to the “better” catholic school that was filled with kids that had a year to bond, and they were all Irish. At this point in the story you should know I’m Puerto Rican and Irish, I have an olive complexion that was darker because I spent most of my time outside on the beach since it was down the block from me, I wasn’t like them in appearance, and my family didn’t have a lot of money or socialize with the families that had their kids in that school. (Even though my mother’s family was one of the largest in the neighborhood).

The first day of class the kids found a way to make me cry. Day after day, year after year, I had to deal with something. I didn’t know what a “Spic” was until I was called one by a fellow student in 3rd grade then went home and asked my mother what it meant. She actually couldn’t tell me, so I asked my sister and she clued me in. It was at this time that I learned about “Sticks and Stones”. That was my first experience with racism towards myself but not my last.