Hawk on a Line

My first bully was my first grade teacher. She picked the kids out of the classroom with noticeably less, dirty clothes, unkempt hair, and an odor that can’t be placed. I actually remember her picking a kid out of the class and telling him, “you smell horrible.” It makes my stomach turn to this day. All the kids laughed and pointed as I sat in silence, feeling his embarrassment pour over his body. I felt it too. Would she call me out next? Would I be the next target of her cruel commentary?

School was not something I looked forward to. It wasn’t a place where I felt peace or comfort, but it was a place where I was guaranteed a meal. If only one meal, it was still enough to get me through another day at home where the cupboards were often bare. Eventually, the school started offering free breakfast too, and I would wake up early, dig through the dirty clothes to find what I could. Two warm meals a day felt like winning the lottery. a fleeting relief from the hunger that was a constant companion once I stepped through the school door every morning.

The feeling of walking up the sidewalk to school is still a memory that haunts me. The vacant stares and looks of disgust as I made my way to the door, with dirty hair and unwashed clothes. The whispers don’t need to slip from their thin-pursed lips; I can sense their judgment long before they say a word. They walk their children into school every day, their faces devoid of any understanding or compassion. And every day, I can feel their whispers wrap around me and stain my thin dress like a stale smoke ring, lingering and oppressive. A child, the most permeable of beings, born into an unforgiving situation and lost in a sea of adults who seem to overlook my existence.

I could see it all so clearly. Like a hawk on a line, waiting for a field mouse, I felt exposed and vulnerable. Except I was the mouse, scurrying under the radar, desperate to remain unnoticed while trying to navigate through a world that didn’t feel welcoming. Each morning, the anxiety swirled in my stomach as I faced the relentless scrutiny. Sometimes I would wish to disappear entirely, to be anywhere but there, to be someone else entirely, someone who didn’t have to bear the crushing weight of judgment and scorn. In those moments, I learned the harsh realities of social dynamics, of who is deemed acceptable and who is not, and I wished for a different kind of life, for a different kind of love and acceptance.