“Derrick took Manny to eat.”
I smirked. “Those fools are at it again. What an idiot!”
“Nola, you hate Derrick.”
“No, Dominic. I don’t. Hate is a very, very strong word.”
“You do,” Dominic insisted.
I hung one of my suits on the rod and cupped Dominic’s face in my hands to get him to look directly at me. “I do not hate our older brother. Hate is a strong word. I hate my natural hair color. I hate when I overdraft my checking account and I have to tap into my trust fund. I told you before, I do not hate Derrick… I just don’t love him the way that I love you.”
“Why don’t you love Derrick?” Dominic asked innocently.
I released Dominic’s face, closed my eyes, and bit my bottom lip. “I love our brother, Dominic… just not how I love you.”
I tried to explain, but I couldn’t find the words, only vivid memories. I especially recalled one memory in particular. Before my parents moved here to Delaware, two years before Dominic was born, we lived in Bowie, Maryland in a big house located in a small development. I was walking home from my bus stop on the last day of school year, and a group of girls from our development were following me.
They were chanting, “Witch of Bowie, why is your hair so big? Witch of Bowie, we wish you were dead!”
They chanted this every school day, as a matter of fact. They chanted that awful song so much that it sometimes still haunts me at unexpected times. Each day, I would speed walk ahead of them all the way up the hill to our home, never looking back. This particular day, I guess I didn’t walk fast enough, because after they chanted, ‘Witch of Bowie, we wish you were dead,’ the unexpected happened.
SMACK! I was shoved to ground, and my face slapped the concrete pavement. I remember tasting a blend of blood and saliva in my mouth. The four girls rolled me on my back, and it felt like a piece of the sidewalk was attached to my face. That’s how bad my face stung.
“Eww. She’s all bloody.”
“Ain’t witches’ blood supposed to be green?”
“Maybe she’s not a witch.”
“Shut up, you three. She is a witch! She’s the only person in the world her skin color with that wild and ugly hair!” the leader of the evil crew demanded.
They tied twigs to my sandy brown and blonde hair and dragged me half a mile to our front lawn, using the sticks as handles. When they left my bruised body on my front lawn, I ran across our yard and busted through the door with a swollen and oozing lip, a bloody shirt, and dingy jeans.
I ran straight to my mother and cried, “They me beat up!”
My mother grabbed “Nola! You’re such a tomboy.”
With twigs still knotted in my hair, my father led me to the kitchen and tossed me an ice pack. “Daddy, it was four of them! The ones that always tease me. I hate it here!”
He lifted me onto the bar stool and roared, “Shut up! You’re a victor not a victim. If you’re gonna play rough, then you better be tough!”
I lowered my head, and my fallen tears met my bloody lip and converged on the icepack.
“Stop it! You’re being a wimp!” he scolded through clenched teeth. “Stop crying!”
I tried so hard to make the tears stop, but I couldn’t. I had enough of it all. The bullying from the kids at school, the pressure, confusion, and constant name calling from my father, mom’s
I smirked. “Those fools are at it again. What an idiot!”
“Nola, you hate Derrick.”
“No, Dominic. I don’t. Hate is a very, very strong word.”
“You do,” Dominic insisted.
I hung one of my suits on the rod and cupped Dominic’s face in my hands to get him to look directly at me. “I do not hate our older brother. Hate is a strong word. I hate my natural hair color. I hate when I overdraft my checking account and I have to tap into my trust fund. I told you before, I do not hate Derrick… I just don’t love him the way that I love you.”
“Why don’t you love Derrick?” Dominic asked innocently.
I released Dominic’s face, closed my eyes, and bit my bottom lip. “I love our brother, Dominic… just not how I love you.”
I tried to explain, but I couldn’t find the words, only vivid memories. I especially recalled one memory in particular. Before my parents moved here to Delaware, two years before Dominic was born, we lived in Bowie, Maryland in a big house located in a small development. I was walking home from my bus stop on the last day of school year, and a group of girls from our development were following me.
They were chanting, “Witch of Bowie, why is your hair so big? Witch of Bowie, we wish you were dead!”
They chanted this every school day, as a matter of fact. They chanted that awful song so much that it sometimes still haunts me at unexpected times. Each day, I would speed walk ahead of them all the way up the hill to our home, never looking back. This particular day, I guess I didn’t walk fast enough, because after they chanted, ‘Witch of Bowie, we wish you were dead,’ the unexpected happened.
SMACK! I was shoved to ground, and my face slapped the concrete pavement. I remember tasting a blend of blood and saliva in my mouth. The four girls rolled me on my back, and it felt like a piece of the sidewalk was attached to my face. That’s how bad my face stung.
“Eww. She’s all bloody.”
“Ain’t witches’ blood supposed to be green?”
“Maybe she’s not a witch.”
“Shut up, you three. She is a witch! She’s the only person in the world her skin color with that wild and ugly hair!” the leader of the evil crew demanded.
They tied twigs to my sandy brown and blonde hair and dragged me half a mile to our front lawn, using the sticks as handles. When they left my bruised body on my front lawn, I ran across our yard and busted through the door with a swollen and oozing lip, a bloody shirt, and dingy jeans.
I ran straight to my mother and cried, “They me beat up!”
My mother grabbed “Nola! You’re such a tomboy.”
With twigs still knotted in my hair, my father led me to the kitchen and tossed me an ice pack. “Daddy, it was four of them! The ones that always tease me. I hate it here!”
He lifted me onto the bar stool and roared, “Shut up! You’re a victor not a victim. If you’re gonna play rough, then you better be tough!”
I lowered my head, and my fallen tears met my bloody lip and converged on the icepack.
“Stop it! You’re being a wimp!” he scolded through clenched teeth. “Stop crying!”
I tried so hard to make the tears stop, but I couldn’t. I had enough of it all. The bullying from the kids at school, the pressure, confusion, and constant name calling from my father, mom’s
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