There is a crescent moon-shaped scar on my right cheek. Every time I look in the mirror my eyes catch it. Looking at that scar my blood runs cold and a shiver runs up my spine. It reminds me of the day I was viciously attacked in school.

University Avenue Elementary wasn’t located in the hood. I grew up in the northern suburbs of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Now, Minneapolis is one of the safest cities in the country. As Prince (you know the artist formerly known as Prince, then was symbol guy and now is Prince again) said, “It’s too cold for the bad people.”

Blaine, the suburb where I grew up, was the land of strip-malls, sticker clubs, and neighborhood kick-ball games. Elementary school was a dream for me. We’d get to the bus stop a half-hour early so we could all play pom-pom-poll-away. When it was square dancing time in gym, you’d drive by the bus stop and see a dozen kids doing the Virginia Reel.

Not having enough friendship pins on your shoelaces was usually the biggest tragedy to befall most students at University Avenue Elementary. We were good kids. We played 4-square at lunch. We were quiet in the library. We listened to our teachers.

But that all changed in sixth grade, in sixth grade my innocence was shattered and I realized that living in the suburbs did not mean I was safe from violence at school.

Since I was a good kid, when Mrs. Mullins left the room I worked diligently on my math homework while the rest of the kids chatted idly. We were working in our calculator workbooks. This was a big deal. The calculators were kept locked in a wooden treasure-chest type box. It was a great day when the calculators were taken out and passed out. We loved those calculators.

Yes, so I sat there happily multiplying 12548×1528. It was a good and joyous day, but not for long. I heard a ruckus behind me and as I turned to look I felt a searing pain shoot through my cheek.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” I screamed like a little girl. I brought my hand up to my face and there was blood. Standing next to my desk was Beth Richmeir, a broken pencil in her hand.

We looked at each other and both of us started to cry.

“I am so sorry. I just wanted to scare you,” she said. “Scott tripped me.”
“I could die from lead poisoning,” I wailed.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it!”

Not in the mood to listen to her bullshit I just sat there crying and holding my cheek. Someone found Mrs. Mullins and she escorted me to the nurse’s office, where the tip of the pencil was removed from my cheek. It was determined that stitches were unnecessary. They sent me back to math class with a Band-Aid. I was furious.

I wanted to sue. I wanted her arrested. At the very least, I want to poke her with 493, 284 sharpened pencils. She got off scot-free. The injustice! So I took matters into my own hands. I started calling her Beth Bitchmeir. We wouldn’t give her any friendship pins. We didn’t let her play our 4-sqaure games anymore. The justice system of the sixth grade is much swifter and crueler than anything you will find in the U.S. legal system.

I’m pretty sure that was the worst week if Beth Bitchmeir’s elementary school career. Yeah, I am sure the freeze out only lasted a week. We might have been mean, but we were easily bored. Once we moved on to different junior highs, I lost track of Beth. I haven’t the foggiest notion of where she could be or what she’s doing.

Which is so odd. I carry this memory of her on my face. This person shaped the way I look today. It’s amazing how she’ll always be a part of me, always with me. It makes me wonder what my former classmates remember about me. What memory they carry with them. I hope it’s good. I don’t want to be remembered as a cruel, vile disfigurer.