I looked around at the brightly colored motivational posters that poorly attempted to cover the austerity of the gray wall. My plastic chair squeaked and groaned under the weight of all the faces staring at me with masks of compassion to hide their disappointment. The heavy silence that had fallen over the room was broken by the sniffling of a scowling boy wedged between his parents. He clutched his bruised arm and glared. I almost smiled. His expression was the only thing not attempting to hide the truth, which gave me a great deal of comfort despite my racing heart and sweating palms. I had never been in such big trouble.

The principal leaned forward. “Sweetie, would you like to tell us why you did it?”

Second grade is more important than people think. Studies show that it is the first time you get to develop your own identity and are fully capable of choosing who you want to be and what you want to do. It is a time of trial and error to find out your likes and dislikes, only to have them change with slight variations in later years. You establish personality, memory, and personhood. You choose the foundation of who you are through whatever defines the world as you see it.

As for me, I chose books.

To me, books were another world away from reality. The words had a certain magic that would be otherwise impossible to say out loud. Every thoughtful phrase brought a deeper understanding to a world that answered complex questions with vague responses. Life was so much more clever and beautiful on paper. Everything had a rhyme and a reason, with no misplaced actions or unnoticed deeds. There was no homework to be done or violin to be practiced. Books were a lifeboat on a sinking ship. So I read anything and everything I could. During recess, lunch, and math when the teacher wasn’t looking. 

But someone else saw.

The boy with flat brown hair and eyes too close together teased me constantly. He was fairly creative with his insults, and I learned quite a few variations on the “bookworm” label. He would follow me around as I tried to find a quiet place to sit, calling me names and stealing my book. In the mornings, I could rival the Easter Bunny with my ability to hide my possessions in the depths of my cubby. When I complained, adults would dismiss me with a wave of their hand and a smirk. They told me not to tattle – that he simply had a crush on me, and if I ignored him he would go away.

I couldn’t ignore him, though. He was insulting who I’d chosen to be and what I’d chosen to like. I was perfectly comfortable being the quiet kid in the corner as long as I had a book to keep me company. I was at peace, coping with the problems of the real world by immersing myself in the problems of a fictional one. The boy with flat brown hair and eyes too close together tried to take that away from me. He had declared a war on who I was, and that was not something to be ignored. If I let him win, it would start me on the path of sitting passively as every bully and critic belittled what I valued most.

I refused to kneel to the boy fulfilling himself by destroying me. And that’s why I pushed him off the top of the jungle gym.