Not Just an Indian by DeeDee Banerjee

        “What do you know? You’re just a stupid Indian!” Tracy yelled at me in her fury after Seth accused her of cheating. She didn’t seem to mind the accusation that much when Seth listed off the people who witnessed her cheating until she heard my name.

        I immediately burst into tears. I had never felt this way before. Was something wrong with me? Why was being different such a bad thing?

        Later in the car, as my mom drove me home, there was an unusual silence. Usually bubbly and excited to tell my mother about my day at school, I sat soundless and stared out the window.

        Then those dreaded words came from my mother’s lips, “Honey, how was school today?”

        As tears streamed down my cheeks, stinging my eyes, I confessed the whole story, Tracy calling me a “stupid Indian,” how I felt the rest of the day, how my teacher knew nothing about the incident.

        My mother was outraged! “How dare a ten-year-old child say such hurtful words to my baby!” she cried out in her anger. “I’m going to call your teacher, Mrs. Douglas!”

        Never considering that my mother would take such drastic measures, I tried to stop her from calling her. This would lead to a huge controversy, jeopardizing my reputation as an easy-going, admirable girl, whom everyone gets along with and whom everyone can trust. I didn’t want my peers to call me a “tattle tale” and avoid me for the rest of my fifth grade year. Making my mother promise that she wouldn’t call Mrs. Douglas or Tracy’s mother, I tried to forget about the pain that Tracy had caused me.

        That year Tracy made many racial slurs to me, but I didn’t say anything, and I never told my parents about them. At the time, I thought it was my fault that I was different from everybody else. I let Tracy remove something from me that would affect me in such a way that I was no longer the same person as I had always been; I let Tracy take away a large part of my self-respect.

        Then came middle school! Tracy and her family had picked up their belongings and moved to Nashville. I was in a fresh environment and had a different life, which included more than one teacher, six, in fact, additional friends, and more freedom. None of my peers made racial comments, at least not to my face, and life was good, but that all changed.

        Sitting in homeroom, I was doing homework that was due that day. Mrs. Williams, my English and social studies teacher, came into the room with elongated, white envelopes. As I was working away at my math, she gave two people in the classroom an envelope each. Making her way toward the door, she looked over at me and gave me a peculiar look. Clueless at what the intention this glance was for, I smiled at her and went back to my task.

        Later that day my best friends were in smiles. Asking intently about what these envelopes contained, I hoped that it was some sort of junk mail and didn’t hold much value. Excitedly, they told me about the contents of these envelopes. They had all been nominated for the United States National English Merit Award. They all asked if I got one. No. That day, I never received an envelope.

        With a depressed look on my face, I suffered through the longest English class of my life. While everyone was scratching away at his or her papers, I sat despairingly at my desk, once again wondering if I had behaved in an unsuitable way.

        As I was somberly getting ready to leave class, Mrs. Williams called me to her desk. Looking at me with a fake, sympathetic look, she hesitantly explained, “It’s just that I could only nominate so many, and even though you and I both know you have one of the highest averages in the class, I knew it wouldn’t mean as much to you as it would to some other people.”

        Riding in the front seat of my mother’s car on the way home that day, once again those frightful words came from my mother’s lips, “So, Honey, how was school today?”

        Shifting uneasily in my seat, I told her everything. Told her about homeroom, about all my friends asking me why I didn’t get one, and how Mrs. Williams tried to explain that she didn’t nominate me, because she didn’t think it would “mean as much” to me as it would to others.

        Slowly a frown appeared on her face. Then, the anger started to show in her eyes. “Mrs. Williams said that to you? Those exact words? That’s just not right! You have done nothing but work as hard as you can on your studies. How can she come to the conclusion that it doesn’t mean as much to you? That’s it! I’m going to schedule a conference with her and your principal!”

        Starting to get worried, I thought about what would happen. All sorts of preposterous ideas flowed through my mind. If my mother spoke to Mrs. Williams, this would mean Mrs. Williams might start unfairly giving me lower grades. Also, some people might find out and come to the understanding that the only reason why I urged my mother to converse with my teacher is, because I couldn’t handle anyone being better than me. No. I would not allow it! I pleaded with my mother not to talk to her. And so she was silent. That day another great part of my self-respect was taken away.

        Then, one night in seventh grade things took an unexpected turn.

        Standing in front of a tractor, at a friend’s birthday, some friends and I were conversing with each other about the latest gossip. Then, Garth, the class-clown, after climbing on to the tractor, started yelling at us to move out of his way. We refused and went on talking.

        Suddenly, Garth yelled hatefully at me, “Get out of my way, you dumb Pakistinian!”

        These harsh words rang through my ears. I thought of Tracy, how degraded I felt when she called me a stupid Indian. I thought of Mrs. Williams discriminating against me. I thought of all the times people would put their arms next to mine and say, “You’re darker than me.” All these thoughts flowed through my mind at once. No way. I couldn’t take it anymore, this feeling that made me feel inferior to everyone else.

        Pulling him off the tractor, I started pounding him. I didn’t care about the impression I was giving off. I wanted to be able to respect myself. I desired freedom from these racist remarks that were pulling me down. I demanded to celebrate my individuality. That day I regained my self-respect.

        Before seventh grade, I believed that people’s perception of me was the important thing, and no matter how bad I felt, I couldn’t change what happened to me; I shouldn’t fight for my strong beliefs, and I must be compelled in just keeping silent. I was mistaken. If I had not made the choice of forgetting about my reputation and thrashing Garth until he understood his close-minded notions were immoral, I would probably still face racist comments to this day. The choice of sticking up for myself was by far the best choice I have ever made in my life, and I have no doubt that personal respect is a trait we must all carry.