Free The Beat of My Own Drum by Sheila E.

snapping my hands back to my sides. A familiar feeling of fear came upon me, because I thought this was done and over with. He grabbed my hair and yanked my head down toward him.
    Pushing him off me, I shouted, “No!”
    I listened to the word crackle through the air like electricity, and I liked the sound of it.
    “Do it, Sheila!” he repeated under his breath.
    “No!” I repeated. “This isn’t right.” Then, more pleadingly, I asked, “Why are you asking me to do this?”
    He told me to be quiet before grabbing me and pulling me toward him once more. My fear turned to anger, and by then I knew how to fight back. I’d been bullied for playing the violin. I’d been picked on at school for being too dark or too athletic. I shoved him harder than I’d ever shoved anyone in my life and watched as the force of it sent him crashing back against a daybed.
    “No!” I cried. “I’m not doing this!” Then I raced to the door. Unlocking it, I turned and told him firmly, “And don’t you dare ask me again.”
    He never did.
    The sexual abuse had finally stopped.
    Unfortunately, the physical and emotional torment at school and on the streets was only getting worse. It was sometimes so bad that my entire neighborhood felt to me like a battleground.
    Fortunately, I had a best friend by then. Her name was Connie, and she lived just down the street. She was Mexican with two sisters and two brothers. Her father was a professional boxing coach who trained a famous fighter by the name of Yaqui Lopez.We went to see him fight a couple of times, and I was seriously impressed. I longed to learn how to knock someone out with my clenched fist!
    Connie and I didn’t go to the same school and we didn’t become friends right away, but I ran home past her house every day (often pursued by a gang), and we ended up friends for life. The running-home part started in the fourth grade when two girls from my school, who were two years older than me, constantly picked on me. They’d taunt me on an almost daily basis, pushing and shoving. They progressed to proper beating, punching me in the stomach and knocking the wind out of me, or slapping me across the face really hard.
    Another time they told me to tie up one of my friends so that she’d be beaten. I didn’t want to, but I was afraid, so I did. She was such a nice girl and would never have done the same to me, but she understood how it worked. Still, I must have disappointed her. I know I disappointed myself.
    One day, during recess, I was playing tetherball with another friend named Rebecca when I spotted my tormentors approaching. I could see they were ready to pounce, scowling at me with their fists already clenched.
    Oh, no. Here they come again , I thought. It was just like with my cousins—that same sense of helplessness and inevitability. But this time I couldn’t face another beating or public humiliation and I panicked, so determined was I not to be touched by anyone I didn’t want to touch me.
    As they closed in, a thought suddenly occurred to me. If I picked a fight with Rebecca, they might back away. Without saying a word, I shoved my friend, hard. She regained her balance and looked back at me, shocked.
    “What did you do that for?” she asked. I can still see her hurt expression and the confusion that flashed across her face.
    “Cuz!” I yelled, knowing my would-be assailants were watching. Then, out of the blue, I threw a punch that Yaqui Lopez would have been proud of, making direct and painful contact with Rebecca’s jaw. She fell back and began to cry.
    I saw her glare up at me in tears, and I was filled with shame. I didn’t know who I was anymore. My guilt was immediate and consuming. Before I could apologize, though, I realized that my strategy had worked.
    “You crazy, bitch!” one of the bullies cried, laughing. “You just hit your best friend! We ain’t gonna mess with you no mo.” They walked on by.
    Later, when I tried to explain and