MAKING ME

Episode 1
   I saw it coming. And the painful thing was that I couldn't do anything to save myself as the clenched fist buried itself into my abdomen. I doubled and felt another jab to my left jaw. The taste of blood slowly filled my mouth. I felt my face with my hands to make sure my glasses were intact. I couldn't do without it. I just remained crouched, backing my locker as I felt two more blows land on my back. "Thanks for the lunch punk", he said followed by a round of cruel laughter from the other bullies. I looked up to see them, all four of them walking away with my lunch pack for the third time this week.
   My name is Tope Cole, and what you just saw is the life of a black tenth grader. I live in the city of Ann Arbor, Michigan State with my Nigerian parents. I don't consider myself to be a Nigerian because fourteen years ago, Mr and Mrs. Tunde Cole relocated to the United States of America and fortunately for me, I was born a year after, just me. The only thing I regret is that I didn't get a white skin. That, has really affected growing up in a city like Ann Arbor. As if being black skinned wasn't enough, the good Lord gave me a small body frame and bones in place of flesh. Last year I spent eighty percent of my allowances on junk food and the wind still tossed me around like a plastic bag whenever I walked. So picture a black boy, small and lanky, with a pair of glasses that never leave his face and thick black afro hair. That was enough cause for the big boys in eleventh grade at Skyline High school to pick on me. Plus I'm a nerd, or something like that. I'm sure you watch high school movies where jocks pick on nerds all the time. Yeah, that's me, helpless little me.
   I picked myself up and wiped off the streak of blood on my lips. Everyone in the hallway just stared at me. No one wanted to help a black boy. Okay some did. But then, they all feared the bullies. But I didn't care. As a matter of fact, I was fine with it. I had gotten used to the beatings and insults. As long as I went to school and came out with good grades, I cared less about everything else.
   I got home that afternoon and my mother, Mrs. Yewande Cole got all mushy on me. "Oh my God!", as I walked into our house on 35, Howard Lane. " What happened to you?", she asked in her high pitched voice as she pulled me to herself and started fumbling with my battered face. I just kept quiet and let her enter her rage mode. "Who did this? Your father must see this", she said still tilting my face from side to side. " This is the third time this week, we must sue that school. Is it a crime to be black? Ehn?" She snuggled me and I found it hard to breathe with all my face buried in her breasts. "Pele omo mi", she said softly in her native tongue, Yoruba. I always loved it when she spoke Yoruba to me. It has this strange soothing power accompanied by her sweet voice although I never understood what she always said. As she still snuggled me, I just wondered how my father would react to my story.