In the scratched up bathroom mirror, I watched the warm tear slide down my face  and felt an unfamiliar tightness in my chest.  I studied my reflection: my face did not show any signs of my ethnicity, and my hair was light brown, not the dark hair one would expect of someone with my background.  It was my family’s name that gave my inherited secret away. According to the boys in my fourth grade class, I was ugly, incapable of being good at sports--different from the rest of the kids.

Twenty minutes earlier, inside of the brightly lit classroom with drawings and multiplication charts on the walls, I sat slouched at my desk waiting until the teacher was able to get the class’ attention. Her voice alone was having no effect on the noisy class, so she chose the ‘clap after me’ method instead. I had been biting my purple colored nails, slowly losing focus as the teacher rambled on about how proud she was about our projects. My attention was suddenly caught when the words ‘presenting’ and ‘mandatory’ escaped her mouth.. 

As I listened to each one of my classmates talk about their ancestors from Ireland, Italy, and Portugal, my hands began to sweat and my fingers fidgeted. Mrs. Murphy’s voice seemed far away when she called out my name. My legs wobbled as I felt every pair of eyes silently judging me. While walking up to the front of the room, all I wanted in that moment was to hide away in the back of my mind where no one could get to me. My face had grown hot, my overalls suddenly did not fit me, and somehow my hands were sweating profusely more. The pigtails on the sides of my head began to droop as if they were scared too. 

I barely heard the words that came out of my mouth. Words that usually came out loud and proud were spoken quickly and sloppy, and I thought that maybe if my peers could not hear me right, nothing would happen. That thought was immediately squashed by the not-so-silent whispers and snickers from the corners of the room. In my hands, my paper creased and wrinkled. I pressed my lips together and rushed through the part where I talked about my great-grandfather's wife, his job, and the “fun facts.” The same part I had once been proud of, knowing what my great-grandfather had to go through in order to succeed, I was now ashamed of. Even though deep down my gut knew this was nothing to be sorry for, that would not stop what was bound to happen in a room full of kids who did not know any better. 

Lowering the paper from my face, I made the wrong decision to look out at my peers. The same boys I once played sports with, the same boys I had playdates with, had now proved their betrayals to me by the smile on their faces. As if I had done something wrong. As if I did not do exactly what every other student had done. Except my story was different. My story did not fit what they were taught to believe was normal. My story did not change who I was, it did not offend anyone, it simply made me different and apparently that made all the difference.