The First Time I Felt Different

One of my earliest memories is my fourth birthday on a cruise to the Bahamas. My family and extended relatives on my mom’s side were all there, celebrating. I don’t remember every detail, but I do remember the cruise staff picking me up and singing to me as I blew out the candles on my cake. That same year, I started youth league cheerleading. Life still felt good. Simple.

Then came preschool.

I didn’t have the words for it back then, but looking back, I know what it was. Bias. Racism. A system that saw me as a problem before I even knew what that meant.

There was one other Black girl in my class. She cried every single day. I never knew why, but I remember one moment so clearly: she leaned too far back in her chair and fell. Every white kid in the class burst into laughter. I chuckled too—not because I thought it was funny, but because at four years old, I was being a follower. I didn’t think much of it, but the teacher did.

I was sent to the corner. For HOURS.

No one else was. Just me.

Then there was recess. I was so excited to go down the slide, waiting my turn behind the same little girl. But she just sat there, not moving. I asked her if she was going, if she needed a little push. I gave her a light tap, and down she went. She started crying once she hit the bottom. Back to the corner I went.

And then there was the worst day.

A white boy pulled his pants down in front of me—on the playground or maybe in class, I can’t remember. What I do remember is my teacher telling my dad that I had done it. That I had pulled my pants down.

I was wearing a dress.

It didn’t matter. My dad believed her. And that night, I got my ass whooped.

I hated that place. The way they saw me. The way they punished me. The way they treated me differently in a school that was supposed to be “Christian.”

Then came kindergarten.

I had the meanest teacher—let’s call her Mrs. Tiger. Not strict. Mean. The kind of mean that makes a five-year-old afraid to speak up. The kind of mean that follows you long after you leave.

Even years later, when my godsister’s daughter ended up in her class, we immediately requested a transfer. She was placed with my old third-grade teacher, Ms. Hayes (formerly Mrs. Ingram), who had moved down to kindergarten. Ms. Hayes was cool. We’re even Facebook friends now.

But back then, I wasn’t happy.

I was the only Black kid in my class. I was even the only Black kid in my neighborhood aside from my sister. My only friend was my neighbor, Let’s call her…. “Alice”. We played together every day after school, but inside that classroom, I felt so alone.

Mrs. Tiger decided I wasn’t ready for first grade.

I was smart. I knew my letters, my numbers, my colors—my dad made sure of that in preschool. But she held me back. She even suggested I be put on Ritalin, wanted me tested for some kind of learning disability.

My mom wasn’t convinced. Instead, she took me to a Black child psychologist. After the evaluation, the results were clear—I was perfectly fine. Just bored. Uninterested in repeating what I already knew.

But the decision had already been made.

I still remember my parents sitting me down in their bedroom. Their faces were serious, but they tried to be gentle. They told me I wouldn’t be moving on to first grade.

I was devastated.

I didn’t understand why. I still don’t. Maybe they thought I wasn’t mature enough. Maybe it was just Mrs. Tiger’s personal bias. Maybe it was something deeper that I’ll never fully grasp.

All I know is that for the first time in my life, I started to believe that something was wrong with me.

And that belief? It followed me.

Until Next Time…

Peace & Love,

Ash