I was introduced to world's perfidy at the age of four. The milkiness of her white skin was evidence enough to show how that brown thing sprawled on the floor caused the fracas. I was detained to a prison cell by one of my few role models for a crime I did not commit. It was the first place I learned to see the desolate side of being the minority.

After four whole years of living in the supposed haven we call the world, I thought I knew how life was supposed to be: wake up, eat breakfast, get ready for preschool, have my mother drop me off at the daycare section of Whitesburg Elementary School, play and wait for her to pick me up, eat lunch at home, annoy my eleven year old brother, wait until my father got home, eat dinner, and go to bed. I was such a happy child, experiencing simplicity at its finest. Each and every day was a new twist on the last. It was not ignorance. I was only shielded from the racism.

Shields break.

Like any other normal day, we finished up the pledge by eagerly promising “liberty and justice for all.” By the end of the day, I began to realize that some were only eager because they had the ability to memorize and spew out such big words. Some of us were eating the nifty little prepackaged snacks given to us by our parents. Once I finished my carrots, I wandered over to the middle of the room. I sat down and began to play with the miniature fair-skinned dolls, moving them around like the happy little family they were inside their doll house. A dark shadow overcame my view of the doll house.

I turned around, still on the floor. Towering over me was Kelly, dressed up like the dolls I was holding. Pretty perfect bow, pretty poofy dress. Pretty in pink and white. Such a princess with a dark chocolate mustache and beard combination of pudding. I simply looked at her, oblivious of her intention. I began to get up from the ground, and she took it as an opportunity to knock me down. She proceeded to shove me backwards, causing me to crash onto the doll house. I could only imagine my back crushing the inauthenticity of the world I had just created moments ago. Green, plastic men flew up in the air from my head hitting the backyard, where they were hiding.

Hurt from the fall, I began to cry. Then, of all things possible, Kelly began to cry. As I began to pick myself up from the mess she had created, our beautiful, white teacher Miss Melissa came to the scene. She'd obviously understand the situation and provide justice. With this kind of faith, I began to stop crying. Suddenly, Kelly started screaming at the top of her lungs, “The brown girl pushed me,” while pointing her finger of accusation at me.

Shocked at the horrendous allegation, I stood there in silence, trying to comprehend what just happened. I could not even believe how low Kelly had sunk. It reminded me of why I never associated with her. I witnessed Miss Melissa, whom I had put my complete trust in, look at me with disgust after Kelly's comment. She then grabbed my arm and escorted me on my walk of shame. I began to cry again out of apprehension. I was taken behind a black wall of wood, where there was one seat: the bad chair. She sat me down in it and left without saying a word. I sat there, contemplating my life and how I believed in a picture perfect world until then.

After much more crying, I attempted to call my mother at home with the toy Fisher Price telephone on the floor. My efforts were futile. Suddenly, the same role model-turned-monster who had ruined my streak of perfection only a few minutes before began to scoop me up and put me in her lap. Whether it was guilt or her duty that caused her to try to console me, I do not know. I was angry. Who could I turn to?

My mother later came that day, and I remained silent, as if nothing had happened. Miss Melissa remained the same way. I went home with my mother and solemnly ate the tuna sandwich she had prepared for me. Guilt for nothing at such a young age. When I look back on the situation today, I realize that it was beneficial to me in one way only: I learned to see the true feelings of some horrendous people and how the world is not anyone's oyster. I remain quiet about it to this day, eleven years from then for fear of being oppressed once again. More than eleven years of seeing past the secrecy.

Thanks, Kelly.