Pink Veil

c h a p t e r | t w o

Trigger Warning: Mention of bullying, name-calling, depression.

Before moving to Massachusetts, I and my parents used to live in Portland.

One of the many reasons why my parents decided to move there from the bustling city of New York was to get a little space from my grandparents.

Granna and Granddad, as my father used to tell me had always been very religious and very American in everything they did. My father grew up watching them hate Mexicans and Brazilians (basically anyone not American), and at the same time preach Christianity (which negates any divide based on status).

So when my father went against everything that my grandparents stood for, and decided to introduce them to his Mexican girlfriend, it was like the beginning of the Third World War.

There were a hundred attempts to set him up with girls who had a well-reputed family background, but my father was convinced that a girl with good education and hardworking parents also counted as a well-reputed background.

They got married, with Granna and Grandad's consent, but my mother was never fully accepted by them, which is why my parents shifted across the states to Maine and started a life there.

Despite their hectic schedules, Mom and Dad were always there when I needed them, running a law firm by starting from scratch and gradually becoming the best in the town was enough proof of how dedicated they always were to their work, and not ever making me miss them at the same time, is not something a lot of millennial parents can do.

In my pre-school, all the girls had luscious long hair and I liked them a lot. So after deciding that I want to grow my hair long, I stopped Mom from cutting it as she used to every month. When she asked why, I told her that I wanted long hair like the other girls in my school.

I still remember her amused laugh when I said that, 'Boys don't grow their hair long Rom, you can keep them like that for a few days but no more.'

That was the first time I realized that I was different, different than the other boys and girls at my school, and I felt guilty for being different. Even at the age of just eight years, my brain told me to act normal, or the other kids will make fun of me.

And then started the never-ending cycle of ignoring. Of ignoring what my inner self was trying to tell me and to just act normal.

I tried.

I tried to ignore the uneasy feeling in my stomach when someone called me a boy when I actually felt like a girl. I tried to ignore the way my stomach clenched whenever I was called Roman. I tried to ignore the disgusting feeling I got whenever I looked at my body or at my face in the mirror. I tried to live like a boy but I couldn't.

My classmates soon realized that I was a soft target, and started treating me like all the soft targets at different places in this world are treated. They started harassing me.

They called me names.

Fag.

Faggot.

Homo.

Bitch.

But I tried to ignore these words as well. Because I knew that if I told my parents it would hurt them, and they will want answers as to why I was being treated that way.

And those answers were not something I was ready to give them.

So at home, I behaved like the perfect happy son that they deserved.

But I was able to keep them oblivious only for some time.

Dropping of grades from an A to a D is not something that usually happens to a middle schooler, and when this happened to me, my parents were worried. I tried to assure them that there was nothing majorly wrong and that I would cover the gap soon, but I couldn't. I could never escape the name-calling. My ears rang with them even when I was at home and during my sleep. Apart from the name-calling, I had to fight with my subconscious every day.