For the most part, I got along pretty well with the other students. Occasionally though, I got in a few scuffles with kids. One day in fourth grade I was heading for recess. As I walked down the hall, I was talking to myself and playing with my thumb. I was pulling it back towards my arm. I remarked out loud how it looked like a four-fingered-foot. A sixth grader, who I had run into before, happened to see me. He walked along side of me for awhile, then said, “Hey, kid. You’re a mental.”
The way he said it sounded more like, “Yew mentul.” He could hardly talk right himself because he obviously hadn’t been taught by his parents to speak somewhat good english, and here he was calling me mentally retarded. I said, “I am not.”
“Yeh yew are. Yew mentul.”
This made me mad. I slugged him right in the shoulder. Of course he slugged me back, only harder. It could have developed into a big fight in the hall, and I probably would have been beaten to death if a teacher hadn’t stopped us right there. We both went to visit the principal, and I got in the most trouble because I threw the first punch, but that was better than being pulverized by a kid who hated my guts.
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