Sticks, Stones, and Words 

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. This famous line has been featured in countless anti-bullying videos, an attempt to convince young children that you should never let words hurt you. The sad truth is that words can hurt, unfortunately, and I’ve had to learn this lesson the hard way. I cannot say that I will ever fully understand how it feels to be discriminated against. However, I have felt the sting of harsh words aimed at me to ridicule my appearance, specifically my skin tone and hair color. I have fair skin and light-blond hair, features inherited from my dad’s side of the family. These are features I have been surrounded by my entire life, sometimes even complimented about. I was proud of how I looked, yet a few words from some ignorant pre-pubescent boys managed to quickly turn my pride into shame.   

I remember middle school so clearly: the crowded hallways, the strict teachers, and most importantly, the mean boys who were supposed to be my friends. I entered my 7th grade homeroom like every other morning, ready to listen to another lesson coming from my short and spunky science teacher who had the voice of a smoker. I have always loved science, and my class was full of many friends of mine, so starting off the day with this class was a blessing. I remember one specific morning more vividly than others, and that is because it was the turning point when my so-called blessing turned into a curse. There was some laughing behind me, followed by a tap on the shoulder. Two of my friends (for now, we will call them Steven and Kyle) had something they needed to show me. The bright phone screen was tuned toward my face to reveal a Google image of an albino woman. “That’s what Steven said you look like,” said Kyle as the pair’s giggles pierced my fragile middle-school ego. I attempted to hide my embarrassment with a little laugh, although my red-hot cheeks gave away all of my secrets. I tried to fight back, insisting that I didn’t look like the image displayed in front of me, but it was no use. Within seconds, their skinny little fingers had carried out a search on Google images: the once empty space bar now filled with the word “albino.” More pictures, more laughs, more bright-red cheeks. Suddenly, my homeroom class didn’t seem like so much of a blessing anymore. 

I wish that I could say the whole “albino” joke was a one-time thing, but it has been never-ending. Being the butt of these jokes was something that stuck with me throughout middle school, and now is a part of who I am today. It started with a few jokes here and there, and it eventually evolved into a nickname for me. I never let my friends see how much it bothered me, and maybe that part is my fault. I guess I just figured that my best friends would know that referring to me as albino, a term which for some reason was seen as an insult to us middle schoolers, was something that would bother me. Slowly, my self-esteem began to drop, and I found myself hating that dreaded label that was given to me. I would cry because of my appearance, thinking that I would never fit in with everyone around me because my hair and skin were too light. I began to wish my hair and skin were darker, began to envy those around me whose features were not as light as mine. This is the ironic part, considering there are so many people in this world who wish the exact opposite. There are kids who suffer through much worse than some rude middle-school jokes, and maybe sometimes they wish they had pale skin and blond hair. Yet here I was, crying and wishing away what so many others wish to have, all because some kids decided that “albino” was a clever insult. 

As a pre-med student, I know that albinism is nothing more than a lack of melanin. It is a simple medical explanation that has nothing to do with a person’s mind, heart, or soul. Yet somehow, this lack of melanin was “undesirable” because it was too little, too white. Too much melanin is undesirable because then some will say that you are “too dark.” What I don’t understand is this: Why must people be treated differently solely because the cells in their body behave differently? I am not albino, yet in the eyes of my peers I was different because of my light blond hair and pale skin. I was being treated differently because I didn’t fit their view of how they wanted me to look. With age, I realized their opinions do not matter, and their dumb jokes should not make me think less of myself. I walk around with my head high knowing that my features make me unique, make me who I am. In the end, sticks and stones will probably still break my bones, but I will no longer let those words hurt me.