The Snowball Effect

The first time I was cognisant of the fact of being different had nothing to do with skin colour, ethnicity, culture or religion. In fact it had to do with one single snowball.

I must have been five years old. One snowy, blistery night I was awaken by a large crash. Shuddering, I pulled the covers over my head. I heard my father run down the stairs and turn on all the lights. Finally, I thought, the monster had his way. I climbed out of bed in my pink nightie and slowly made my ascent upstairs. When I reached close to the top, I peered over the top step, hiding the rest of my body below. My father was dialing on the phone. My mother had come into the kitchen, hands on her hips, waiting. He was calling the police.

I slowly got up and looked to my left at the monster light. It was intact. When I went into the living room, I encountered cold air and a gaping hole in the window. There was glass on the hardwood floor and when I stepped closer to inspect, I was stopped by my mother's hand.

"What happpened!" I asked her. I could hear my father giving our address over the phone.

"Someone threw a snowball at our window. Nothing to worry about. Go downstairs to sleep," she said softly.

Someone purposely threw a snowball, broke our window and the police were coming. Who could sleep?!? I sat down on the living room sofa, pulled my nightie over my knees and waited. My parents stood in front of the window and inspected the damage. My father looked very pensive and rubbed his chin.

"Daddy, why did someone throw a snowball at our window?" I pondered.

He did not answer for several minutes. Typically my father would always collect his thoughts before offering an explanation. This drove me nuts -- I wasn't the most patient one in the family. And it was usually then I would lose my train of thought and forget what I had asked in the first place.

"It is some teenagers playing around in the night. I am sure there is damage elsewhere," he said.

When the officer arrived, he asked a slew of questions. I nodded while my father answered hoping this gesture would show how the event affected me. The enormity of the situation did not dawn on me until the officer showed up. Apparently only our house was hit. I furrowed my brow in contemplation. Why only our house? What did we do? How were we targeted?

It was from then on, I deemed ALL teenagers as BAD.

I have a faint memory of my mother and I walking to school. She was dropping me off in the morning for kindergarten in the winter. I hit a patch of ice and fell down, taking my mother with me. While we both lay on the ice, these "teenagers" walked by us and none of them helped us get up. She struggled to get herself up and then me, brushing the snow off my clothes. I tried to hide them from her but she unmistakingly saw the tears in my eyes.

"Are you hurt my dear?" she asked.

Physically no. Emotionally yes. I hurt of indignation. Nothing I could say could explain it. In my short span of life, only five years, it was disheartening to feel different. I sensed the injustice around me in little things. A look, a turn of one's back, a sneer and body language that denoted pride. I would have not known about paranoia back then. The concept was too evolved for me. But at five years old, despite living in the UN neighborhood, in my eyes and imagination, my family would stick out like a sore thumb.

For reasons unknown.