“Courtney is a freak! Courtney is a freak! Courtney is a freak!”

I don’t remember why my white classmates decided to chant that as they ran around the playground but they did. It was morning recess during my kindergarten year.

I remember their voices taunting me. I had a half-smile on my face, but I was mortified inside. They circled me almost like banshees. I wanted to burst into tears and bury my head in the ground. Instead, I opted for the next best thing: the swings.

Playground etiquette says when an empty swing is open and there is no line formed behind it, you hop on.

So I did.

Time seemed to stand still, and I remember the moment like it happened yesterday. They were screaming at me, making fun of me. I knew, at five years old, it was because I was different, because I looked different.

The harder and the higher I swung, the farther the sound of their voices seemed to me.

I couldn’t wait for recess to end.

What’s interesting is years later, many of those children who ridiculed me that day became friends of mine as we progressed in elementary school.

I’m sure most if not all of them have forgotten that incident at the playground next to the convent.

I have not.