Once upon a time, you beat me to the ground. 

We were young, and I didn’t know any better. I didn’t know to run when I saw you coming around the corner. I didn’t know you could hate someone for being different. 

I didn’t know you could tell someone was different because of their looks. 

You beat me to the ground, and I didn’t say a word. 

Days went by, then weeks, then months, and it was the same continuous cycle. 

Sometimes, you would slap me. Sometimes, you spat words. 

The words hurt more. 

I was damaged goods. A shard of glass, with a jagged edge. 

Just another broken kid, to be thrown around like junk. 

Your skin was whiter than mine, and your eyes the coldest blue. When they saw me, I swear they would flash red. 

I never understood why. 

Your parents were rich, your clothes always new. 

My parents were poor- we lived in a basement, with only one room.

Sometimes, you’d pull on my hair, strands of curls clenched in your fists. 

Sometimes, you’d make fun of my accent, how words sounded foreign when I spoke.

Sometimes, you’d make fun of my family, how we weren’t born here like you. 

As you walked away each time, I slouched down- curled into myself, too scared to stand up. 

I saw you again, a few years later. 

Your mother was killed in an accident. Your father was arrested for abuse. Everywhere I went, it seemed, there were people speaking of it in hushed, reverent tones.

I felt sorry for you. 

In the streets, people would cast you pitying glances. They would give you wide clearance when they walked past you. They’d look, look away, then look again.

I grew up. I spoke fluently now. My accent was but a rare shadow, which would cast its glare and disappear quickly. A passerby, who never stayed. 

I forgot about you. 

You were the blackhole of my universe once. The supernova that threatened to wreak havoc at every turn. 

Now, you were only a meek wanderer. 

I saw you again, broken down in an alley. 

I didn’t know someone could cry like their flesh was being torn with every breath. 

I didn’t know someone could hurt, because they were only hurting themselves. 

I walked away. 

Years passed. 

I never thought I’d see you again. We grew up, grew apart. 

But then once, I saw a man in the streets, with the palest skin, and eyes that froze me to the ground. 

They were your eyes. 

You dropped something onto the ground. A piece of paper, out of a briefcase. 

You wore used shoes, and a wrinkled suit. 

I lived most of my life in a spacious apartment in Manhattan. 

I picked up the paper, and handed it to you. 

You recognized me, I was sure. You looked at me a second too long. Recollection flashed in your features as you took in my dark hair, the familiar brown tones of the skin you once mocked. In your face I saw shame. Then regret. 

You opened your mouth, as if to say something, when I realized that I could forgive you. 

I had forgiven you, already. 

I just needed to see you, to be sure. 

Before the words that were at the tip of your tongue could spill, I excused myself hastily and walked away. 

This time, I no longer slouched. 

Once upon a time, we were kids. One hurting, one hurt. 

Once upon a time, I believed I was worth nothing. 

Once upon a time, I believed you were worth everything. 

I used to think that my skin and my family defined me. That these things defined you. 

It took me years to decide what defines you. 

It took me years to let go of how small you made me feel.

But now we’re adults, from different worlds, on different paths. 

Both of us, imperfect. Both of us, only human.

You were the one who felt small. 

So you hurt me. 

So I forgive you. 

Sometimes, I feel there’s nothing to forgive. 

About the Author

Jasmin is a Persian-Canadian high school student who moved to Canada when she was eight years old. She needed to learn to speak English for the first time, and now enjoys reading, writing, and learning more about both the Persian and Canadian culture.