Have you ever been discriminated against because of your skin color, your religion, or your beliefs? Here is a story of mine. Because I have been discriminated against. But I’m not the only one. It happens everyday.

“Hey. What are you guys talking about?” I asked, approaching the group. They became silent. One of the girls looked at me with contempt.

“Is it true?” she asked. I looked at her blankly.

“Is what true?” I asked.

“Do you really not believe in God?” she asked.

“No,” was my simple answer. From that day forth, I was labeled a Satanist, an outcast, an outsider, a loser. I had a hard time making friends at first because I believed maybe I was as bad as these people said I was. I hated what they spread about me, ruining chances for me to make great friends. Worst of all, none of it was true. It stung, to once have been so popular, though not necessarily liked. My so-called friends turned on me, except for a select few. I realized they were the ones that mattered and thank them a million times in my mind for helping me make it through the dark times.

I grew up a Christian. I was raised with those beliefs and went to church a lot. But I was listless. I had questions and when I asked them at church, all I got was “This is the way it is, the Bible says so.” But I couldn’t settle for that. I had tons of questions about the so-called Holy Book. Why were dinosaurs not mentioned? How could we tell all of this stuff was true? Could we really believe it? If God really loved us, why did he cause that flood? Many questions still left unanswered. But it doesn’t bother me anymore. Not since I found my path.

Ever since I can remember, I would read anything I could get my hands on. Mysteries, encyclopedias, fiction, non-fiction, biographies, it didn’t matter. And then I found books on mythology. In my thirst for more information, I enlisted the help of the internet. I came to a site one day talking about Gods and Goddesses, but it was something I had never read before… this was a religion. Curiousity peaked, I read on. And I was ecstatic as I read sentence after sentence that was the exact same way I felt. This was what I believed! This was amazing, this was my path! After that, I read everything I could on Wicca. It felt so good to have my questions answered. Before, when I had prayed to the Christian God, nothing had ever happened. But now… when I prayed to the Gods and Goddesses of my people, I received answers. Visions, dreams, feelings, I was amazed. I became more in tune with nature too. I felt better.

Then, I made the mistake of telling my friends. A few of them were like “Oh, cool, tell me more.” whereas others were like “They don’t believe in God, so that makes them evil.”. I tried to explain, believe me I did, but the way some people have raised their children these days, it’s next to impossible. They are fed these beliefs at breakfast, lunch and dinner. They are so narrow-minded. Either you believe and God and you are good, or you don’t and you are evil. There is no in-between.

Some of my friends were interested in what I told them, and went to research it on their own. At my courage to come out, a long time friend of mine admitted it too. Some friends joined me in my studies, sharing books, exchanging spells, copying notes. But then, something happened. People began avoiding me. I couldn’t figure it out. Until one day, I passed a group of the richer students and one hissed “Satanist!” at my back. And it stung. I didn’t get it. The next thing I knew, I was walking down halls to threats of being “Damned for all eternity”, being sent to Hell, and those that would say gently to me “Come back and the great Lord will forgive you” to me as though I were a little lost child. I began to act out in bursts of anger and rage. My life had been ok, I was coping with everything that was happening. But now it was all tumbling down around me.

I tried to talk to people, but they were turn away, looking scared. I tried to be nice to the “preppy” people despite the fact that, as I saw it, they ruined my life. But I was continually snubbed, one of them was always breathing down my neck, waiting for me to do something wrong. And it got under my skin. I did exactly what they wanted me to. I rebelled. I was being called to the office, day after day, office referrals littering the bottom of my locker. I joked around in ISS, relaxed when I had OSS, skipped ASD, earning more ISS. And I didn’t care. My grades fell. “So what?” I thought. “I’ll bring them back up…” I was blind to what was going on around me. My friends were getting more distant, because I continually pushed them away. I was letting snide, rude, scathing, and cutting remarks slip out as easy as I said hello. Rumors began to fly thick and fast, but I was deaf. I reveled in the attention I was getting. I had become so desperate to fit in with at least one group that I chose the only group I believed I stood a chance with. The Goths, the punks, the freaks. Pretty much the other outcasts. They accepted me as though I was one of them, and every day I became more so. I didn’t realize it would get worse before it got better.

I just didn’t care. About the only thing that would surprise me anymore was if suddenly I was accepted everywhere again. But because it is a fact of the school social ladder, as long as the preps were in charge, I was a loser.

A few close friends stuck by me, pushing, shoving, chipping away at the wall I had built around myself. I didn’t want to let anyone in again, not after being burned so bad before by the whole student body. But they persisted. One especially. I broke down and told her everything, everyday I told her more, I cried with her, she let her own tears fall. But I was so scared. No one had ever seen me cry before. It was something I didn’t do. I was the schoolyard bully, despite being female. Even the guys were intimidated by me, whether it was my height, my skills in fighting, or my scalding tongue, I didn’t know.

Eventually, I came to depend on this person, so much that being separated from her made me almost sick. It hurt, knowing that there was only one person that still loved me. I felt as though my family was disappointed in me. It went against the rules of my people, but I began to cut myself. I used scissors, knives, safety pins, needles, my own finger nails. I wasn’t really sure if I was ready to die, so it was always on my outer arm. One slice fore every cruel remark. One slice for every lost friend. One slice for all the dark thoughts I had. I pierced my own belly button without batting an eyelash. That’s where it went from worse, to rock bottom. I was beginning to get accepted again, I was “cool” for that piercing, only because I did it myself and walked around with a safety pin in it. One of the friends who stuck with me demanded I do hers. I brought a needle on a school fieldtrip and we stood in the bathroom of the restaurant and tried to pierce her belly button. Someone ratted us out though. One this bus ride home, it is greatly debated what was said, but I said “Preps will crash and burn.” By the time we got back to school, the remark had escalated to where I had personally threatened to kill a few of them myself.

I was called to the office the next day and I knew what was coming. I was livid. I couldn’t believe what they were telling me the other students had said! Some of these students were in the front of the bus too! I was in the back. I was normally so calm and cool in the assistant principles office. I have my own chair in there you know. She likes me, she thinks I’m a great kid, but she has no choice but to listen to the preppy students, some of whom weren’t even on the field trip. I felt cheated, betrayed and wrongs. I blew and yelled at her, cursed her, screamed at her. They got my mother on the phone and I was still ranting and raving, screaming obscenities so loud I’m sure the whole school heard them. They sat me down in a small room. Did I mention I hate small spaces when I’m angry? I waited for a few minutes, before I slipped out, and slipped back into class. I saw the SRO officer and other “important” people pass the classroom multiple times before one finally looked in and saw me. The assistant principle dragged me back to the office. This time, I was kept where they could see me. I don’t believe I’ve ever scowled so hard. I’m sure that if looks could kill, many people would be stone cold dead. My mother arrived, and yelled at me, letting out a few obscenities herself. She had not known about my belly button piercing. She demanded to see it, demanded for me to take it out, threatened me, threatened to rip it out. The assistant principle called in the SRO officer who told my mom if they tried to take it out of me against my will, they could do more harm than good if I decided to jerk. Reluctantly, she decided to let it go. I was originally going to receive 1 week of out of school suspension but due to my wild behavior it was upped to 2 weeks. My mother hauled me out of school and dragged me to an emergency meeting with my psychiatrist. After he talked to me, then to her, I reluctantly took out my treasured piercing. We climbed in the car, and sure I was going home where I could cry to myself in the silence of my own room, I slipped into a comfortably sleep.

I woke in a slightly familiar area. Thomasville Hospital. I had been treated for injuries here before and wondered what we were doing here. I saw my Papa, my beloved Papa approaching the van. He was crying. I immediately knew something was wrong and I was scared. No, terrified. My mom told me I was here to get a psychiatric evaluation. I was even more scared. I sat with my Papa, wrapped tight in his arms as we bawled like babies. I kept crying out that I would be good, just take me home. My Gramma arrived, followed by my ex-step dad, whom I still call Daddy. We waited, my dad talking to me calmly outside. He had known about my piercing, he was a free spirit like me and trusted him to things that I never would have told my mom. My Papa and Gramma bawled and babied me for the last few minutes before I was called back. I dragged my Papa with me, reluctantly allowed my mom to come, I wasn’t to happy with her at the moment, I blamed her for bringing me here. I hated hospitals. I had a fear of them since I was young. I nurse questioned me and my heart stopped when she said she wanted to keep me here for a few days. I sat there and waited until I was shown upstairs, where I was strip searched and had to take out all piercing anyways. I was surprised when I was treated warmly by the teens that were already there. They were there for a variety of reasons, suicide, anger, juvenile delinquency, and much more. We all talked. There were so many rules, the one I hated most being no touching. No high fives, no hugs. We were being taught to survive on our own, not to need others. That was the hardest 9 days of my life. I have always depended on the human touch to soothe me and comfort me. My bed was uncomfortable, the lessons we were taught were hard. I suffered many set backs, but was finally released. I felt terrible when I saw what I had done to my family. My rotten little sister was terrified, my family blamed themselves. Later, my Papa gave his consent with these words: “It goes against everything I believe, but if it means she can’t harm herself, I’ll let her do anything.” He was referring to the law “An it harm none, do what ye wilt” It means we can herm no one, not even ourselves. I can’t really saw I blame the preps though. They never really liked me because I was different. I don’t know if it was anger, jealousy, hatred, or simple grudges that made them do what they did. But I have learned many lessons. And almost all of them I have to thank those preps for. They may have made my life miserable at first, but now I am proud of who I am. Comments made about me roll off my back and I don’t care what they think. It’s not their fault their parents raised them the way they did. It is all in how you look at it. As one of my friends said recently “The Iraqis think we are the epitome of evil and should be wiped off the face of the earth. We think the Iraqis are the epitome of evil and should be wiped off the face of the earth. Who is right?”

I ask you that same question now. Are you better than someone because you have more money than them? Money can’t buy you happiness. Are you better than someone because more people like you? That doesn’t guarantee you a job. Are you better than someone because you are smarter? Kindness matters too. Are you better than some one because of what you believe? Everyone is entitled to their own opinions. Are you better than someone because you look better? Looks aren’t everything. If we are going to live together and work together, then we need to love, trust, and understand each other. You may think this story may seem petty, caused just by social status, but to us, to the teens around the world, how well you are liked in school determines everything.

Today, I work hard, my grades still aren’t what they used to be but I am trying. I am making an effort to reclaim the friends I lost and make new ones. Today, I am kind, caring, a great listener according to some, and a lively person. I am the jokester. I seem to know when someone is in their darkest moments and needs a few words of kindness. A few words can make someone’ day. I make people laugh with my jokes and antics. When I looked past the pain I felt when the guy I was sure I cared for rejected me and wouldn’t even let me speak to him because of the rumors, I saw one of my old friends in a new light. One of the friends that had stuck by me, one that had made my new life here easier when I moved here was standing there. I ran to him with my arms wide open, welcoming the hug he gave my in return. What I feel for him is amazing. Simply to hear his voice makes me smile and he knows every funny quirk about me. He is one of my kind, but that couldn’t really matter less to me. Because we don’t care about that. All we care about is the other, and I realized that if those spoiled kids hadn’t discriminated against me because of my religion, I wouldn’t be the person I am today.

The old saying “Sticks and stones may break bones but words can never hurt me” is wrong. Sticks and stones may break bones. But words can also break the soul. Bones can mended. A soul will never be the same.