Ms. Hanada writes, “I’m married to a wonderful and supportive guy. I work as a grant writer and also love to write creatively.”

Why Me?
At 15 I was marked: VICTIM. The stuff I thought I could hide: insecurities, lack of confidence, complete discomfort with myself -- it was blatant. Especially to those who preyed on it. Insecure in their own way too, troubled families, drugs, wrecked home life, whatever. They knew.

A crowd of kids in math class knew. They saw me -- the girl in the loose fitting jeans and baggy sweatshirt. Shoulders slightly hunched, head down, hair in a messy bun. The way I focused on the lessons, struggled with my homework. I was in honors English and ashamed to be in the "retard" math class. They knew. When the teacher left the room (often in spurts of 5 to 10 minutes), they struck. The ringleader, a second-year senior with thick bangs and a crop top whispered, "Bitch," and other names that made my face warm. Another girl with dark penciled lip liner and pale lipstick flipped my hair. "Nice hair."

The teacher, nearly retired, pretended not to notice when he came back in the room. Maybe at one point he had wanted to teach, connect, shape young minds. Now he left for constant smoke breaks. Gave textbook lessons. Watched the clock.

As the days progressed, the bullying got worse. I tried to repeat the “I’m-rubber-you’re-glue” mantra over and over in my head and ignore the comments and snickers. When all ten students in the class threw sharp pens, spit wads, and erasers at my head, I continued to look down. Hot tears burned my cheeks, but I couldn’t speak. After class, I raced to the door and three girls shoved me against the wall.

I walked the halls of the school in a blur. Wondered, why me? Why not somebody else? I felt worthless; I didn’t belong anywhere. My world felt like it was over. Kids talked about the big party at the river, kissed against the lockers, met up for football games. I was either invisible or an easy target.

Eventually, I told my mom and she told the school and they transferred me out of the class to a private tutor. I begged the principal not to punish the classmates. I didn’t want retaliation; mostly I didn’t want the humiliation of being a “tattle tale” that had gone to her mommy. In the hall I averted my eyes when I passed my former classmates. They found new victims. I was relieved.

It’s taken nearly ten years of repeating similar patterns --  striving to belong in college, jeopardizing my self-worth to fit in -- to finally be able to look in a mirror and realize that I’m comfortable with myself. My mom has been an incredible influence. She has always shown me strength and independence. Sure, I’m still slightly insecure, but I’d like to tell my 15-year-old self to walk proud. To realize, I could kiss at the lockers, I could go to the party at the river, I could watch the football game. But it’s okay if I don’t really want that. Maybe being different isn’t such a sin. And maybe that’s why I became a writer.