Cant hurt me master your mind and

party way out in the country. We stayed out well past curfew. In fact, we
were up all night long, and after daybreak we called our grandmother for a
ride home.
“Excuse me?” She asked. “You disobeyed me, so you may as well start
walking.”
Roger that.
She lived ten miles away, down a long country road, but we joked around
and enjoyed ourselves as we started to stroll. Damien lived in Indianapolis
and we were both sagging our baggy jeans and dressed in oversized Starter

---

jackets, not exactly typical gear on Brazil’s country roads. We’d walked
seven miles in a few hours when a pick-up truck came bouncing down the
tarmac in our direction. We edged to the side of the road to let it pass, but it
slowed down, and as it crept past us, we could see two teenagers in the cab
and a third standing in the bed of the truck. The passenger pointed and
yelled through his open window.
“Niggers!”
We didn’t overreact. We put our heads down and kept walking at the same
pace, until we heard that beat-to-shit truck squeal to a stop on a patch of
gravel, and kick up a dust storm. That’s when I turned and saw the
passenger, a scruffy looking redneck, exit the cab of the truck with a pistol
in his hand. He aimed it at my head as he stalked toward me.
“Where the fuck you from, and why the fuck you here in this fucking
town?!”
Damien eased down the road, while I locked eyes with the gunman and said
nothing. He stepped within two feet of me. The threat of violence doesn’t
get much more real than that. Chills rippled my skin, but I refused to run or
cower. After a few seconds he got back in the truck and they sped off.
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard the word. Not long before that I was
hanging out in Pizza Hut with Johnny and a couple of girls, including a
brunette I liked, named Pam. She liked me too, but we’d never acted on it.
We were two innocents enjoying one another’s company, but when her
father arrived to take her home he caught sight of us, and when Pam saw
him, her face went ghost white.
He burst into the packed restaurant and stalked toward us with all eyes on
him. He never addressed me. He just locked eyes with her and said, “I don’t
want to 
ever
see you sitting with this 
nigger 
again.”
She hustled out the door after him, her face red with shame as I sat,
paralyzed, staring at the floor. It was the most humiliating moment of my
life, and it hurt much more than the gun incident because it happened in
public, and the word had been spewed by a grown-ass man. I couldn’t

---

understand how or why he was filled with so much hate, and if he felt that
way, how many other people in Brazil shared his point of view when they
saw me walking down the street? It was the sort of riddle you didn’t want to
solve.
* * *
They won’t call on me if they can’t see me.
That was how I operated during
my sophomore year in high school in Brazil, Indiana. I would hide out in
the back rows, slump low in my chair, and sidestep my way through each
and every class. Our high school made us take a foreign language that year,
which was funny to me. Not because I couldn’t see the value, but because I
could barely read English, let alone understand Spanish. By then, after a
good eight years of cheating, my ignorance had crystalized. I kept leveling
up in school, on track, but hadn’t learned a damn thing. I was one of those
kids who thought he was gaming the system when, the whole time, I’d been
gaming myself.
One morning, about halfway through the school year, I milled into Spanish
class and grabbed my workbook from a back cupboard. There was
technique involved in skating by. You didn’t have to pay attention, but you
did have to make it seem like you were, so I slumped into my seat, opened
up my workbook, and fixed my gaze on the teacher who lectured from the
front of the room.
When I looked down at the page the whole room went silent. At least to me.
Her lips were still moving, but I couldn’t hear because my attention had
narrowed on the message left for me, and me alone.
We each had our own assigned workbook in that class, and my name was
written in pencil at the top right corner of the title page. That’s how they
knew it was mine. Below that, someone had drawn an image of me in a
noose. It looked rudimentary, like something out of the hangman game we
used to play as kids. Below that were the words.