Prove What?

Ariella Aghalarian
English 110
Professor Schwartz
Who am I?

Who would have ever thought that writing about “what defines me” would be so difficult. Who am I? Honestly, I don’t know. I know that I’m a modern orthodox, Jewish, Persian girl that lives in Great Neck. I know who and what others think. How they define me. I’m “the triplet”, “the studyhollic”, “smiley”. But that’s what I am, not who I am. Sure, I study a lot, just to do well in school to get somewhere in life. Sure, I’m a triplet, but it’s not something I made myself. And I may smile a lot, but doesn’t everyone “put on a face” in front of others? I’m not saying that I don’t have things to smile about, but really, can someone truly be happy all the time? I walk down the streets and see people looking at me. But they don’t see… me. They see a girl that limps, and tries to do well in school to “make up for it”. They don’t realize that this girl could not care less to “make up” for anything and I am not embarrassed of anything. I work to do well in school because I want to. I’ve been doing karate for the past five years not because I want to prove myself. I do it because I love it. I do it because it’s the only place that I’m not limited because of what I can’t do; rather, I am pushed to do more than what I can. Just because I looked helpless doesn’t mean that I would let those boys in middle school just push me to the lockers, call me a “handicapped Jew” and get away with it.
I was in the eighth grade, just walking down the hall to get to class, when they spotted me. Those two boys that thought everyone was scared of them thought they can do and say whatever they want and not be reprimanded for it. Walking passed them, my eyes averted as to not have to meet theirs. I was not scared of them, and did not intend to show it, but apparently they were searching for vulnerability and found it.
I’ll never forget the feeling of Brandon’s big, heavy hands on my shoulder as he was shoving my body into the blue metal lockers that stood next to the red brick walls. I’ll never forget the sound of his voice, full of hatred, as he hissed out “get out of my way, you handicapped Jew”.
As I walked on and turned back in disbelief of what had just happened, I realized that I was not angry enough at him at that moment to retaliate. Instead, I felt bad for him. I knew that no person would do what he did if they were not in need of attention. But, as moments went on and I realized how much pain my shoulder was actually in, I realized that letting him be reprimanded for what he did might actually end up helping him. After [English] class, I walked up to my teacher, who was actually the dean of the school at the time, and told him what had happened. He asked me to tell who the boys were and I told him I knew one of them, but not the other. Luckily, he knew exactly the two boys I was talking about. They “were partners in crime.”
He then explained to me that these were the two most troublemakers in the school and that they needed just one more reason to be sent where they needed to go. I was the reason. A meeting was arranged between the boys, their parents and school officials (I opted to stay out of it- I didn’t need the drama). Within three days I got news that both boys were sent to a boarding school and were not allowed in the school district again for quite sometime. The fact that they had actually caused the dislocation of my left shoulder was just another “push “.
He’s gone now. He’s been gone. But the fact that he actually lives just four houses down from me and I am forced to remember that day every time I pass by does not help. At least I was able to “prove” one thing that actually needed proving.