I’m in 5th grade at an Intermediate school (for 5th and 6th-grade students). I hate my social studies class. My teacher, Mrs. Jones, is nice. I get good grades. But I hate the class.
I sit in the front row of the room. On my left is Steve. He’s got dirty blond hair, big teeth, and horrible breath. But he’s really nice and says funny jokes. We talk about Pokemon and how Kyle can be really annoying sometimes.
On my right is D’Ante. He’s got a short afro, baggy jeans, and horrible breath as well. But he’s really mean and makes fun of me a lot.
“Hey. Hey you.”
D’Ante jabs my side with a pencil to get my attention. I wince, knock away his hand, and return to my worksheet.
Taking my response as an attack, he puts his face inches away from mine.
“You wanna fight? I’ll beat you up right here, Ching Ching. I’ll punch you in the head.”
I swallow my fear and anger, determined not to give him the reaction he wants. I stare intensely at the definition of “patriotism”.
A few more jabs into my side follow before D’Ante gets bored. He turns the other way to talk with his friends.
“I saw your parents at our basketball game last Saturday.”
D’Ante and I play on different teams in the local, children’s basketball league. Our teams had faced each other over the weekend.
“They can’t speak English, right? They were talking funny.”
He follows this insightful observation with a series of strange noises in an attempt to recreate what he heard from my parents. His friends find this hilarious and laughter erupts.
I look down with stinging eyes. They’re making fun of my mom. They’re making fun of my dad.
Mrs. Jones hands back our quizzes, but none of them have been graded.
“Today, we’ll be grading each other’s quizzes. Please swap your quiz with someone else’s.”
Steve and I switch quizzes and pull out red pencils. D’Ante and his friend, Robert, do the same.
As Mrs. Jones starts to read the correct answers and we begin to grade. About halfway through, Mrs. Jones notices that D’Ante and his friend are erasing incorrect answers and writing correct ones.
“D’Ante, Robert. Are you two cheating?”
They both deny it, trying to hide their laughter.
Mrs. Jones looks at me, “Are they cheating?”
I nod, hoping D’Ante doesn't notice me. He does. He puts his face close to mine.
“You snitching? You wanna die? I’ll kick you.”
He kicks my desk. I keep my mouth shut.
Mrs. Jones tells D’Ante to leave me alone. He backs away. But not without one last threat.
“Do it again. Snitch on me again.”
These instances happened quite often. Sometimes they were racially focused, other times they were just cases of bullying. I often hear the argument that similar verbal attacks are just jokes and shouldn’t be taken so seriously. But I can’t help but wonder where that line is drawn. If we allow some forms of harmful behavior to exist, at what point do we take it seriously?
If you think these verbal attacks and microaggressions are dismissable, how would you explain to my 5th-grade self that his fear and pain are dismissable?
Whether its racist remarks or just plain bullying, is it more helpful to teach victims to toughen up than to reprimand the bullies?
Some people, including some who claim to be Christian, say we shouldn’t get so offended or hypersensitive. They call us to “be better” and “take the high road”. It’s one thing to be offended/hypersensitive and another to be hurt. It scares me that some people, including some who claim to be Christian, don’t seem to see the difference. Because at this point, it’s pretty clear that those who feel that it’s ok to use slurs and insults are starting to feel that it’s ok to use knives and fists.
So again, where is this line drawn? At what point do we take these attacks seriously?
Is it when one of us is murdered? We HAVE to take that seriously right? We will definitely unite and agree right?
That might be a bit unrealistic and extreme. Not really.
Ahmaud Arbery. George Floyd. Breonna Taylor.
