To Stand Against

I felt the need to explode. I was surrounded by hostility; a few dozen of my peers who felt no need to be subtle about insulting me. To them, I am an inferior person. They hate me because I am different; because I am adopted, because I don't like sports, because I have "strange" hobbies, and because I have Tourettes Syndrome. That is just how people are at Mansfield High School. If you're different, you're not good enough.

I reach to open the locker room door as a tall, formidable man walks in my path. "Where are you off to, Morgan?" he asked. I recognized him from a few of my classes; his name was Anderson Light. More importantly, his facial expression displayed malevolence. He was trying to provoke a fight, or if that was out of the question, to show me up to everyone in the locker room. "I need to go to class." I replied as I stared at the ground to avoid eye contact. I was intimidated, we both knew it, and we both knew I could do nothing to force him out of my way. "To play with your dolls?" He was referring to my collection of action figures; I brought a number of them in to school each day. I could say nothing to him. I was hoping someone else would have to leave, and would make him move. "What's the matter, Morgan?" he gave me a shove before he continued: "Talking to your dead parents?" I contained myself for every word, it was painful, but I lucked out as one of the coaches opened the door from the other end. Anderson quickly shuffled to the side, and I took the opportunity to flee. I had practically run through the coach to get out of the locker room.

I walked down the halls, counting the floor tiles. I don't enjoy isolating myself, but two years ago I had given up on making friends; the rejection was more than I could handle. So now, instead of embarrassing myself, I watch the tiles and hope not to be picked on. It worked well in the halls, as everyone seemed to be in a hurry and had no time for me. When I would arrive at class, it was just the locker room scene repeated over and over again. This time was no different. I sat down in the front row, in hope that the teacher being only a few feet away would protect me. The protection rarely lasted the duration of the class; the minute the teacher turned his back I would receive whispers from behind me. "Morgan, could I borrow one of your dolls?" inquired one of the kids behind me. Weeks ago, I had taken him seriously, and handed over an action figure. Minutes later, it was handed back in four pieces. I ignored him, but he continued tapping my shoulder. "No!" I cried at the top of my lungs. The entire class laughed hysterically, and the teacher turned and stared me down before he mumbled "See me for detention, Morgan," before returning to his lesson. I was enraged by his misconception. However, I kept my emotions inside of me. Never had I felt such strong hatred, not even to the people who make everyday life a painful chore for me. Sadistic images appeared in my head, I suddenly felt violence was my only solution. The thought died down by the time class was over, but the anger was still present.

I returned home that day more depressed than ever. I felt weak after having to contain every ounce of anger in my body. "How was school, honey?" asked my foster-mother. She would always ask, but I could tell she never cared enough about my day to listen to my answer. "It was fine," I would always reply. That night passed casually, I did my homework, ate dinner, showered, and went to bed. That was when I suddenly had a breakthrough. I finally realized that I had sunk as low as I possibly could have. The fury that I had been containing all of this time was suddenly racing through my veins. I felt the need to take action. I yelled at the top of my lungs "I hate you!" It was for every last person at that miserable school. I had established one thing in my mind: I was not going to take it any more. I was going to take a stand. Trying to fall asleep that night was useless, with a million thoughts of fear, anxiety, and exhilaration racing through my head.

The next morning, I had completely forgotten about my stand. The powerful emotions I had felt the night before were nonexistent. The morning was as dull and painful as ever. I cleaned myself up and prepared my backpack for school; my depression not relenting for a moment. From the moment of my awakening to the car ride to school, the only thing I thought about was what kind of hell those kids were going to put me through today. When I arrived at school, I realized my first class was with Anderson. My heart somehow sank even further. I was hoping to avoid him, but just as the thought came up I felt a muscular arm reach across my body. I was certain it was him. "How's it going, Morgan?" I walked away, praying that he wouldn't stop me. I was asking for too much. He ran up in front of me and repeated "How's it going, Morgan?" in a firmer tone. "Just fine," I replied. "How're you're parents doing?" he grinned as he asked me that. I walked away again, this time he allowed me to leave, he had gotten his satisfaction.

After the class had ended, I rushed out, trying to avoid Anderson. When he noticed me, he quickly stuffed his work into his bag and ran after me. He firmly held on to my shoulder and walked with me. He finally spoke several seconds later. "Hey Morgan, I just realized it would be more fitting if I called you Morgue. That's where your parents are, right?" Suddenly, my emotions were ignited. Everything I felt was exploding from my heart. "I have had enough of you, punk!" I screamed. The hallways paused, with all eyes on me. I began to sweat uncontrollably, in disbelief of what I had just done.

"You think you're so damn great! Well, wake up sunshine! The only difference between you and me is that you THINK you're better than everyone!" I had gotten everything I needed to say out of my system. I still had one huge problem; I had no choice but to take anything he had to say in response. A mob had formed around us, deeply interested in what my next action would be. "What are you going to do?" he asked calmly. The question stumped me. However, to my amazement, people were answering for me. For the first time in years, I felt respected. Two older students stepped out of the mob to my defense. "What's the matter with you?" one of them inquired in an angered tone. Anderson was at a loss for words; I was in shock as I came to realize the truth about him: he was a coward. He stood in silence for several moments before turning and walking away slowly. I could tell, he was sweating, praying that nobody would stop him. As he left, I turned the other way and did the same, with pride. The crowd began to complain, but were silenced by the men who had stood up for me. As more time passes from that day of confrontation, more people applaud my actions. The reason I tell this story is not because I had won respect for myself; it is because I had helped many others who deal with my same problem of hatred at my school.

It has been over five years since that day. I am attending Brown University and I feel I have accomplished great things in that time. I link all my successes to the day I regained my long lost dignity. The world seems so much brighter with just a little less hatred. I was able to approach life without the burden of enemies on my back. With the burden removed, neither today, nor tomorrow seemed so harsh.