My first experience of racism occurred when I was in grade 1, in 1980-81. There were a number of kids there that would constantly call me nigger and other, more childish names. I took it personally and obviously felt shitty for much of the year. Luckily, I had a good friend in the class so that I wasn't isolated and completely alienated. Plus, I was smarter than any of them or all of them combined. I know that other kids haven't been so lucky. My mistake was in telling the teacher about it. Mrs. McIntyre did absolutely nothing about it except to say that I should ignore them and "take the high road". Back then I believed that teachers knew best and that their word was gospel. Unfortunately, this advice didn't help and I was resigned to the fact that there was no one that could help me.
What I should have done was to tell my mother. She didn't take shit from anyone, and when someone was bothering her children, well, that was pretty much the end of them. If I had realized this then, things would have been a lot different that year. I never mentioned it to her until about 8-10 years later. I wasn't hiding it, I just didn't think to bring it up. Actually, that's not entirely true. After Grade 1, it didn't really come back for many years, but in that year, I saw it as a sign of weakness to run to your mommy. Teachers are different because it's their job. At least that was my 5-year-old logic.
