“There goes the sumo
wrestler!”

Ignoring Che, I quickly changed the subject to last night’s Blazer game, but on the inside I wanted to run to the darkest corner of the room, pull my gray hoodie over my head, and sob.

Many would think I despised Che Peters, but in middle school I wanted nothing more than to be him. He was the popular kid. The 6'2" star wide receiver of Youth Football. He told jokes during class, and everyone, including the teacher, would crack up. All the girls chased after him, and he pretended it was no big deal.

There was one major problem with Che. He made fun of others and fed on the humiliation of his victims, including me. I was six inches shorter and thirty pounds heavier than Che – thirty pounds of pure fat. I was a seal, and he was a shark. Whether it was the middle of class or in the café at lunch, he targeted me with callous expressions.

I never fought back.

I often wondered what would happen if I stood up for myself. Would Che continue to make fun of me? Would he hit me? What if no
one backed me up? I lacked the self-confidence to retaliate – until one fateful day in eighth grade.

Math. It was the usual: review the homework, ask questions, learn new material, get new homework assignment.

“Yo, Eric,” Che began. Oh, boy, here comes another racist joke, I thought, cringing inwardly. “I realized why Asians have such small eyes.”

Annoyed but also curious, I took the bait. “Why?”

“Because of genetics, bro. Your ancestors spent so much time in the rice fields that the sun made them squint permanently.”

Enough was enough. My blood boiled from head to toe. Without thinking, I grabbed my pencil and stabbed Che’s hand as hard as I could.

Immediately, time seemed to freeze. The room dropped in temperature. The poker-sharp Ticonderoga had sunk nearly one-inch into his flesh. My jaw gaped as I realized what I had done.

Che screamed and held up his hand, still skewered by the pencil. The entire class turned to look, some people with hands over their mouths and eyes opened wide.

My anger quickly turned to panic. Not knowing what to do, I ran out of room into the boy’s bathroom. I locked myself in a stall, sank into my gray hoodie, and began to sob.

I never talked to Che again, but he never bothered me either. I was finally free from his mocking.

Although I savored the positive effects of my actions, the pain I inflicted on him hurt me too. I had finally stood up for myself, but my resistance came with a cost; I didn’t like to hurt others.

I quickly realized that I no longer wanted to be like Che. I just wanted to be myself.