mean kid

I always figured that my granddaughter, Somi, would be teased at school. After all, we had dealt with the stares, questions and ugly comments since she came into our family from India. Somi’s arms end just above the elbows and although she has her own scripted answers for the curious, I couldn’t be at school to overhear. So when she came to me one day off the bus in tears, there was no surprise when she told me that a boy called her mean names. In the microsecond after her comment, my mind went several different ways, coming up with the scripts I had rehearsed to discuss racism and disabilities, starting with the question I finally asked. (I tried to hide my grandma-tiger adrenaline rush.) “What did he say?”
She answered with righteous indignation, “He called me a little kid!”

Carol Gloetzner