I went to a Catholic school in Manhattan. My classmates were all kinds. You had Africans; African Americans; American whites; all kinds of Caribbeans; some Asians, mostly from India and Pakistan; multiracial; Muslims, Jews, Christians, Hindus. I should have fit right in. Mostly, I did. I had a lot of friends. But though we were all mixed up there, the other kids really didn’t mix, you know? Kids stayed with their own kinds, especially black and white. The African people kept to themselves in my school. The African Americans acted like they were kings. And queens.

I sort of moved from group to group. I didn’t fit in anywhere. I was African, but not really African. I was born in America, but not really African American. Half the time, I didn’t understand African American slang. I had a bit of a Nigerian accent that I’d picked up from my parents, which was strange since I was born in America. I loved the Caribbeans, but we all knew I wasn’t one of them, either. I was light-skinned like the whites, but my puffy hair and the way I look, I could never fool anyone.

This one day when I was in third grade was bad. Those older African American girls, I don’t know why they hated me so much. They truly truly hated me. I think if I had been hit by a car and was dying in the street, they’d point and laugh and watch my slow death. Anyway, this day, I went to the bathroom during my lunch, and they followed me in there. They must have followed me. You had to ask permission to go to the bathroom, and there were four of them. No teacher would have let them all go at the same time like that. They snuck out. To follow me. It wasn’t a coincidence.

I knew they were in there with me while I was in my stall. So I waited and waited. But I could see their feet. They weren’t going anywhere. They were waiting, too. For me to come out. Anytime a girl would come in, they’d bark at her to go use another bathroom. Eventually, I knew I had to come out. I couldn’t stay in there all day and miss my classes. So I flushed the toilet and came out.

These were sixth graders. Big ones. The leader was this overweight, very angry girl named Faye Jackson. She was always getting into fights with other girls in her grade. She’d only spit cruel names at me; we’d never fought. I don’t know why they came after me this day.

I moved quickly to the faucet to wash my hands. They stood at the sink near the door, blocking any quick exit I could make. So I was forced to go to the sink farthest away from them, near the foggy window on the far side of the bathroom, farthest from the door. Bad move. As soon as I did this, they closed in.