Editor’s note: The following was originally written as a performance piece (to watch the video of this performance, please click here). I believe it speaks to the impact of racism on a child, which inevitably affects their long-term health in a negative way. I also think it is extremely important for each of us to look at our own childhood to find moments that were deeply painful due to somehow not being accepted. Whether we like it or not, “being unacceptable” as a child is a part of who we are, and how we feel, as adults.

Photo: Meanest Indian

In her dreams, she is a beautiful Bollywood princess. She fights for the weak and stands up to the immoral. Her body is her weapon and her dancing–ammunition. She is invincible in her dreams, she is happy, she is loved by everyone, and she can do no wrong.

IN REALITY, kids at school call her curry muncher. Her house is full of aromatic smells that remind her of India, of home. Strong pungent smells of onions, coriander powder, turmeric and garlic permeate throughout the entire house and into every nook and cranny.

It is 1988, and she and her family have just immigrated to the land of the free, home of the brave, and at school she smells of stale spices that are offensive to American senses. But this is the least of her worries.

She is bullied relentlessly by kids in her 6th grade art class. These bullies begin everyday with a game of musical chairs. The objective of the game is to keep her from finding a chair to sit on. They stand in front of chairs, in between chairs, on top of chairs. They pull chairs away from underneath her.

If she is fast enough, she sits in the back row. When she doesn’t sit in the back row, she finds spit-soaked wads of paper entangled in her thick, black curly hair. The back row is always the safest.

The bullies move on to their obligatory racial and sexual storm, most of which she does not understand. “Did you forget your turban at home, rag head?! I hear you don’t have a vagina!” She can tell they are being mean, even though they are laughing, because she can see hate in their faces, in their eyes.

Her dad tells her, “Behta, don’t worry about them. They will end up street sweepers. You focus on your studies and forget about them.” Sticks and stones. Names still hurt her.

Every morning, she begs her mom to let her wear American clothes–a t-shirt and jeans. Her mom tells her, “Just because we move to America does not mean we throw away Indian culture.” So today she is wearing a blue and pink salwar kameez, with a white sash hanging around her neck. She walks into class preparing for the worst, and expecting nothing less.

The teacher has not yet arrived, and she is a little concerned, because the bullies are not safely tucked away in their cages; they are allowed to roam freely. What is the worst they can do to her? Besides, she can always access her super magical Bollywood princess powers if she needs to. She doesn’t display them in public often; only in cases of emergency, because her mom disapproves, “Why you are talking to yourself? You are looking like buddhu, silly?” She just doesn’t understand.

Photo: jasleen_kaur

The bullies start immediately with a game of monkey in the middle. “Come and get it A-rab!” One of the bullies grabs hold of her sash.

Her beautiful….stupid sash that her mom makes her wear is in the hands of scum, a boy who is dumber than dirt, a boy who wouldn’t last one day at her school in India.

They ball up the sash and are throwing it back and forth over her tiny head, from the hands of one grimy boy to another.

She is jumping up with all her might to grab the piece of cloth, but it is out of her reach, she is too short. “Come and get it monkey!”

Something comes over her, a feeling that she is unfamiliar with. The classroom is spinning out of control, and all the blood in her body has made a b-line for her head; and…SHE…SEES…RED. She leaps for the sash, and is knocked off her feet. Her glasses fly off, the right lens pops out, and the left side of her head hits the edge of a wooden table. She cries out in pain as she lands on her left knee, and for a minute she can’t breathe, her lungs are on strike. But she gets up, and in her emotional frenzy, she finds herself in a glittering, opulent Indian palace.

Lush magnolia and jasmine trees surround the grandiose structure, filling the air with a sweet, fragrant smell. She is wearing a beautiful red silk sari, dagger in one hand and whip in the other. Her hair is wild and she has fire in her eyes, and she knows that she must right the wrong, and teach these evil boys a lesson. Her legs and arms are strong as she is dancing, she is warming up for the battle ahead. She is going to fight her tormentors and win.

The bullies are at the other end of a very large, cool, white marble courtyard–they have been tied to several of the many marble columns that are holding up the roof of the palace. They look miniscule and unclean compared to their palatial surroundings. She dances, she twirls, she glides effortlessly over to the bullies; she will make their punishment quick and fair.

The bullies cry out, “We will never harm you again! We are so sorry, we didn’t know you were a princess!” but it is too late, she has made up her mind–they must be held accountable.

She takes 10 graceful steps to get to the other side of the courtyard; she is barely touching the ground as she moves. One by one, she whips, slashes, stabs bully after bully until they are wiped out of existence. Out of her life for good. Her parents cheer her on. “We are so proud of you, behta. You are the best daughter in the whole world.” She feels powerful, calm, safe.

Photo: Meanest Indian

She is smiling and then she starts laughing. She can’t stop laughing, she has never been so happy in her life. She brushes her jostled hair aside, and feels water on her forehead. She looks at her hand which is also wet. Maybe she has worked up a sweat administering justice.

What is that scent?

She smells something foul; a familiar smell. Urine and mold. A feeling of dread so heavy comes over her, she is having trouble moving her body, and she finds herself sitting in a bathroom stall, her hand is half way submerged in filthy toilet water as she is trying to grab hold of her sash. She pulls out the piece of cloth before it is completely immersed in piss water, and stares at it.

Her eyes well up with tears, as she wonders, why is this happening to her? She is a good kid. She does her homework, she massages her mom’s tired feet. She must be doing something wrong, and so this is when she decides that she will duck into the bathroom before art class and hide in the last stall, the one that no one ever uses, for the entire year. She is going to fail her class if she doesn’t go, and her mom and dad will be upset with her, disappointed in her, but the alternative is much more painful, much more humiliating.

Standing in the graffiti ridden stall, next to the toilet bowl, sash in hand and nose running, she imagines that she is a Bollywood princess, and she begins to smile.