Sometimes I laugh and try to make a joke, it seemed like everyone knew about my sexuality before I did. Even when I was young I was always called gay. Although I did not know what it meant, I was sure it was something bad. I remember coming home from school and asking my mother what gay meant. She did not give me a definition and only asked who had said that. I remember thinking in a childish way, “If I tell, I’ll be a snitch.” So I remained silent. She hugged me close; the comfort was immense. All through elementary school I was teased. I remember walking around during recess; a day like every other, I remember the sky clear of clouds, and the birds flying. I remember closing my eyes; feeling the sun caressing my skin; spreading my arms and running across the playground pretending I was one of those birds that could take off. I remember feeling good, content that I had not been teased, because not being called fag or “maricon” for a day was the best that could happen to me. I felt like the whole day was going to be good. As I was running through the courtyard, I felt something hit my head. I looked down and saw an orange rolling across the playground. I pretended not to notice. Just then another hit my back; I could feel the tears coming, as my antagonizers laughed. As I ran, I bumped into the principal. I hugged her and cried. Despite mucus running down my face, she hugged me back. She took me inside her office and said something I will never forget. “Always keep your head up, and be who you are. Everyone is beautiful in their own way. Being different is something great.” Today her words not only provide warmth, but they motivate me to “be the change I wish to see in the world”.