Nazi Thailand Communist Prick. This string of four words was my hateful monicker at Borden Elementary school. It was given to me by three boys—one in particular who would become my tormentor—that sat behind me on the bleachers during my first day of school.

I’d relocated to Indiana after my mom remarried and was finishing my sixth grade year. I must have been quite a sight for my fellow classmates. I wore my hair slicked back with copious amounts of hair gel; this flamboyant fashion faux pas would eventually earn me the additional nickname, “Slick 50.” I was “husky” as my mom would say, and after while, some of the boys would flick my nipples and laugh at my oversized mammaries.

A typical graduating class at my new school would have thirty students; all of them having known each other since Kindergarten. Needless to say, a lumpy boy with slicked back hair from California would be viewed as a pariah.

My primary tormentor had long black hair that drooped over his eyes in a sinister fashion; he wore an oversized sweater to broaden his skinny frame. The boy, with a thick southern drawl, started our conversation innocently enough with, “Where you from?”

At first I was happy to have someone to talk to. All of the kids at my previous school were friendly so I enthusiastically replied, “California. Northern California. How about you?”

“Bunch of queers in San Francisco.” He scoffed, “Are you gay?” His two friends flanking him chuckled at the obtuse question.

“No.” I shook my head in bemusement.

“Where your parents from?”

My olive oil skin betrayed the fact that I wasn’t fully caucasian like them, and I got the feeling this boy wasn’t trying to make a new friend. “My Mom grew up in California and my dad is from Thailand.”

The gears or racism shifted in his head, “Are you a communist?”

“No, I’m not a communist. I’m from California.”

“Well you’re a faggot then.” His racism reached third gear, “You’re a faggot communist!” His friends now broke out into a loud chortle.

I was flabbergasted. I grew up watching Mr. Rodgers Neighborhood and living in a loving home; I never knew someone could be so vicious to another person after knowing them for such a short time. I turned around and tried to ignore their insults.

“I’m talking to you faggot.” The boy punched me in the back. “I’m talking to you Nazi Thailand Communist Prick.” He kicked me so hard I fell into the dip between the bleachers and landed with a loud crack on my tailbone. My tormentors laughed harder and I noticed other students were now looking at me.

The series of insults that were hurtled my way impresses me to this day. I’m amazed a sixth grader was able to come up with a set of words that painful; judging by the indifference of my new classmates, he must have had practice.

I faced forward and stared at the glossy wood floors on the indoor basketball court. I thought to myself please start with the announcements so these boys will leave me alone. I looked around to see if I could spot a grown up; there were none. I attempted not to cry, but my reddened eyes welled with tears as my lips quivered. I had never been in a real fight and there were three of them and one of me. I thought about turning around and punching my tormentor, but my fight or flight instinct veered towards pacifism. I’d like to think I behaved as Gahndi would have.

“He just sits there” my tormentor said to one of his friends, “Hit him. He aint gonna do nothin.” One of his friends finally took him up on his malicious offer and pummeled me in the back, again and again. I found out punches that land square in your back don’t hurt too much. But what these blows lack in physical pain they make up for in emotional humiliation.

At my previous school I’d never thought about my bi-racial background; actually, I’ve never thought of myself as bi-racial until I wrote this story. I looked at myself as a human being.

Thankfully, most of the students at my new school turned out to be good kids; but in life, you don’t remember the pleasant people from your childhood as much as you’re haunted by the vicious ones who made your life miserable.

I wish this story ended with me standing up to my tormentors. It doesn’t. I wish a teacher would have come to my rescue. They didn’t. I wish I could say these boys never picked on me again. But I can’t.