The Beating

Authors note:
I never learned the reason for the following events, nor the identity of anyone involved.

I never saw them coming. I remember hearing the words “who’s the nigger now?” as pain exploded in the back of my head and the lights began to fade. Struggling to hold onto consciousness, I fell to my knees as the boys began to punch and kick me for what felt like forever. Trying to protect myself, I curled into a ball and covered whatever I could with my hands and arms. At some point, I remember fading into darkness for I don’t know how long, only to come around to the sensation of being simultaneously dragged and kicked. I remember realizing that I had no idea who these boys were, nor how many, but knowing that they were much older than me and that they were pulling me into an ally where things were about to get worse.
Fear and confusion flooded me, and I found myself upright and swinging wildly as I tried to make my way back to the street where I had at least some chance of a grown-up seeing us and putting a stop to this beating I was taking. I don’t know if I ever landed a single punch before I was brought back down again by what seemed like dozens of fists and a chorus of angry voices shouting things like “Fuckin white boy”, “gonna kill you” and “now who’s the nigger?’. I did manage to clutch to one boy as I fell, bringing him down with me and tried to use him as some sort of shield between me and his friends. This lasted only a very short time as he was much bigger than me and ended up sitting on my chest, raining punches down on my now unprotected face. Darkness again.

Laughter. I could hear laughter through the fog that seemed to cloud the whole world as rain began to fall on me. As the laughter became louder and clearer, I realized that it wasn’t rain I was feeling, but piss. The boys had apparently tired of beating me and decided to add this last insult before they left me alone. I lay there, covered in urine and bleeding for a long time before I could muster the strength to move.

I don’t recall much of the walk home, other than seeing a string of blood oozing out of my mouth and trying desperately to keep it from touching my skin or clothes. I think this blood represented one last thing I could still control in a world that suddenly made no sense to my eight year old mind. The devastation I felt when that blood ran down my shirt was nearly crippling, and I recall a sense of panic hitting me almost as violently as the group of boys had a few moments before. To this day I still remember clearly the shame I felt as I snuck into my bathroom and showered before anyone could see me, and how no matter how much or how hard I scrubbed, I could still feel the filth on my skin, burning like acid, and I remember crying, silently and shamefully, as I understood for the first time in my life, what it meant to hate.