Free There Goes My Social Life by Stacey Dash Page B

any of that. Gang members assimilate into various roles. Some are quick-tempered, while others are chill; some fight, others are on the lookout; some make plans, some execute the strategies. The gangs—thankfully—had already noticed my reputation as a brawler, so they let me in without having to prove myself. They called me “the smart girl.”
    After I chose my colors, I had to dress differently. I had to start wearing khakis and big white tee shirts and a certain color rag. The gangs took the fact that they didn’t have a lot of money—and therefore couldn’t afford nicer clothing—and turned it into a badge of honor. A pair of khakis, a tee, and a rag were all that were required to fit in. In fact, anything else was shameful. You were in or out, and your clothes were a kind of uniform. The first morning that I was a gang member, I took one look in the mirror and laughed. I looked like an inmate at Rikers Island.
    But my gang membership didn’t protect me from the one-off fights.
    The next month, the biggest girl in the school said she didn’t like the way I talked. She was an ugly black girl named Keisha. Everybody was scared of her—white kids, black kids, everybody. When I heard that Keisha didn’t like the way I talked and wanted to fight me, I thought, Oh great . But here’s the thing. I’m not going to be bullied or intimidated. If I feel for one second that someone is going to try to hurt me, I’m going to let you know real quick that’s not how it’s gonna go down. I’m not going to stress out about it every day, I’m going to finish it before they even know it’s begun.
    I went to the location where Keisha wanted to fight and scoped it out—a corridor with lockers lining the walls. I’d learned in New York that I had to act faster and use an element of surprise. I knew I had to take her out quick before she saw me coming. As soon as I saw her, I pushed her up against the locker and took the locker door and I bashed it into her head. I kept bashing it into her head until she fell to the ground with her face bleeding. Then I got on top of her and started pounding her. I was so sick of people telling me that I wasn’t good enough because I didn’t live up to their standards. I guess you could say I fought dirty, but she was big and that was the only chance I had. I think I might have killed her if somebody hadn’t pulled me off of her.
    I guess you can see that I’ve never backed down from a fight. My stubborn insistence on standing up to bullies twice my size came from necessity . . . but I have to admit it has helped me in life. Without the constant practice of conjuring that strength at school, I’d never have been able to stand up to the bullies that hide behind computer screens on Twitter, blogs, and Facebook as an adult.
    My classmates got the message—don’t mess with Stacey—but life didn’t get easier. I missed my dad and my friends in New York, and I felt like I was in a war zone at school. I didn’t get in trouble for fighting—it’s amazing what sort of violence was just left unchecked by the teachers. But I would frequently get in trouble for talking back to them. “Here, do pages 47 and 53,” the teacher would say, before slipping off to the teachers’ lounge for a smoke. I guess I had been spoiled by the example of Mr. Ackerman back in New York, but I could spot lazy teachers a mile away.

    â€œWhat’s wrong with you?” my mother asked me when she noticed I was favoring my hand.
    â€œI broke my finger,” I said. It was the last day of school in the eighth grade. I had leaned over the water fountain to get a drink when I felt a hand slip up my shirt. Rather, a hand trying to slip up my shirt. I turned around and hit the guy square in the face. He hit me back, and we ended up having a fight right there in the hall. My finger was throbbing and