When I went into my classroom, one of the other fifth years was at the window, roaring out at our classmate, “Oi! Ginger pubes!” When there was no reaction, he opened the window to scream louder. “Ginger pubes! Ginger pubes!” he called until the quiet student disappeared from sight. Disappointed, he turned around, saw me, and went pale.
“Not you! I wasn’t saying it about you!” Before I could open my mouth, the others spilled in, and the French teacher shouted at two lads who were in a scuffle. “Arrêt! Arrêt!”
I didn’t stand up for myself then. Over a decade later, about to become a mother for the first time, I felt more capable of snapping back, for the kicking child in my belly, more than for myself.
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