Should have stood up for myself

Local columnist

link Kitsana Dounglomchan

Nazi Thailand Communist (expletive). These four words were my nickname at Borden elementary school. It was given to me by the three boys that sat behind me on the bleachers during my first day of school.

I’d moved to Borden, Indiana, after Mom remarried and I had to finish my sixth-grade year at a new school.

The town of Borden was small and rural. A typical graduating high school class consisted of 30 students, most of them having known each other since kindergarten.

Needless to say, a new kid from California with slicked-back hair would be viewed suspiciously.

My primary tormentor had unkempt black hair drooping over his eyes. He wore an oversized sweater to broaden his skinny frame. The boy, with a southern drawl, started our conversation innocently.

“Where you from?” he said.

At first I was happy to have someone to talk with. All the kids at my previous school were friendly and I assumed he was, too.

“California,” I replied. “How about you?”

“Bunch of queers out there,” he scoffed, “You gay?” His two friends laughed at the question.

“No.” I shook my head in amazement.

“Where your parents from?”

My brown skin betrayed the fact that I was of mixed descent, and I got the feeling he wasn’t trying to be friendly.

“My mom is from California and my dad is from Thailand.”

The gears shifted in his head.

“Are you a communist?”

“No, I’m not a communist. I’m from California.”

I was flabbergasted. I never knew someone could be so vicious after knowing a person for such a short time. I turned around, trying to ignore him.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.” The boy punched me in the shoulder. “I’m talking to you Nazi Thailand Communist (expletive).”

He kicked me in the back and I fell into the gap between the bleachers. The boys laughed harder and I noticed other students were now looking at me.

I picked myself up and faced forward on the bleachers, staring at the glossy wooden floors on the basketball court. I tried to spot a teacher, but there were none.

I’d never been in a fight before, and there were three of them and one of me. I thought about turning around and punching one of them, but I did nothing.

“He just sits there,” my tormentor said to his friends, “Hit him. He ain’t gonna do nuthin.’” One of his friends took him up on the offer and pummeled me in the back.

Thankfully, most of the students at Borden were good kids. But in life, you don’t remember the pleasant people as much as you’re haunted by the ones who made your life miserable.

I wish this story ended with me standing up for myself. It doesn’t. I wish a teacher would have come to my rescue. They didn’t. I wish I could say these boys never bullied me again. But I can’t.

Kitsana Dounglomchan, a 12-year Air Force veteran, writes about his life and times for Clovis Media Inc. Contact him at: [email protected]