All I wanted was to get to choir without any problems. That, apparently, was far too much to ask for. There was the typical shout of ‘hey, faggot’, and a shove that sent me into the nearest lockers with a thunderous clang. I didn’t recognize the one who’d hurled me to the side, but I knew from his black and gold jersey that he was an upperclassman football player, one I’d never even met.

My knee ached as I hobbled to down the hall. I did my best to ignore it, but it began to throb and demanded to be dealt with. After the first month and a half at this place, I had learned to keep ACE bandages, my makeshift knee brace, in my locker for just such occasions as this.

The late bell rang while I wrapped my knee in the bathroom. I exited the stall and two girls doing their hair in the mirrors stopped whispering, and stared. A death glare was my only weapon against them, so I shot, only to have them giggle and tell me to quit staring.

As I limped my way to the choir room, I passed my history class, and my scalp ached at the mere memory of the previous Friday when pencils had been thrown at my head with enough force to make my scalp bleed. The memory was interrupted by a call of ‘lesbo’ and I picked up my pace, knee screaming for me to just sit down already.

Choir wasn’t even a safe haven. Chris was there and he wanted to tell me exactly what the rest of the school thought of me. As if I didn’t already know. It was strange how easily he could talk with them about how big a freak I was behind my back and then smile and tell me what ‘all the other people’ were saying and pretend to be on my side. He acted like a friend, but I knew what he said about me when I wasn’t looking.

That day, I didn’t want to hear it. I blocked him out, made a pathetic attempt at singing, then gave up on that and took a nice look at my life and the people around me.

Emma, who sat just past Chris, was one of the only people I could talk to. She knew a lot about me, and I knew a lot about her. She was one of the only people who truly accepted me for who I was. Emma saw something that other people just couldn’t.

I realized that day that the problem was that most people couldn’t see past my sexuality. They saw me as that, not as a person. I wasn’t real to them. I was something to shove when they felt like shoving something. They thought it was fun to push me.

And then I had a thought: What if someday they pushed too hard, pushed me past lockers, to something more drastic? What if they pushed so hard I decided to make it stop for good?

That thought scared me, and it came to mind often throughout the next days. That I had even been brought to having such ideas was terrifying to me. It was then that I decided things were done. I was not going to let those people ruin my life, and I wasn’t going to let them end it.

Instead of allowing these things to happen to me, I stood up. I spoke up for myself, told parents, told teachers, told anyone who would listen to me. When a tall lynx of a girl pushed me, I pushed back enough to keep myself upright. In that simple motion, she realized that I was done being the victim.

It’s only a matter of time until the others figure that one out.

I will not allow them to push me over the edge.

I will not stay silent as I have for so long.

I will stand up.

I will push back.