When my mother was pregnant with me, my dad cut off his pointer finger when something slipped using a table saw (I know, this is an awkward way to start the column). One of my first memories was in preschool, when a “mean boy” accused me of sticking my middle finger up at him. I was just pointing down at something for him, per his request, which I had seen my dad do plenty of times. I was mortified and confused by the accusation, having never heard of “flipping the bird.”

That was the day I realized kids might intentionally lie to get someone in trouble.

I started reading before I was three years old. One day in kindergarten, the kids around the table started giggling, and a whisper started traveling from one to another, heading in my direction. When it was my turn, the girl next to me whispered into my ear “F-U-S-K,” her eyes widening as she finished her turn and leaned back to await my reaction. I quietly replied, “FUSK? What’s,” unable to finish before, startled and delighted, the girl quickly turned and alerted others to my crime. I can still hear (quite vividly), the table-wide crescendo of children’s voices that followed, rising to expose me to the authorities: “ooaawwwWWWW!” I remember the principal pulling me by the hand to her office; she had extremely long fingernails.

That was the day I learned that a group of kids might enjoy singling a person out — and that adults might refuse to listen to a child.

When I was in second grade, classrooms no longer had individual bathrooms in them, so we gained access to the hallway bathrooms. Unsupervised boys like being mean to one another, and though I don’t recall the exact circumstances, I do remember a boy threatening to hurt me — so I stopped using the bathroom away from home, even when the waves of stomach pain were so crippling my vision would blur and ears would buzz.

That was the day I realized I wasn’t safe in a public restroom.

When I was in fourth grade, I went to a neighbor’s house across the street before and after school every day (my parents both worked full-time jobs). Coincidentally, this was the home of the neighborhood bully — who hated me. I remember watching TV as quietly as possible when arriving, dreading the moment he woke up and commandeered the remote, forcing us to watch ESPN. He loved to call me names, and severely criticized my preference of My Little Pony over Ghostbusters, lack of sports interest, and hanging out with the neighborhood girls. One day he pushed my best friend into the ground and shoved dirt into his face, a punishment for coming to my defense, and proclaimed “God made the dirt, so the dirt don’t hurt!” as my friend cried.

That was the day I realized safety in numbers wasn’t always enough.

When I was in eighth grade, two girls found a loudspeaker in the middle school gym and announced to hundreds of students, “Brian Reach is a f**.” I called my mother and asked, as I did quite frequently, to go home sick. After finding out what happened, my mother went to the school and met the gym teacher and vice principal. The gym teacher, weeks from retirement, smugly informed her that, technically, that word wasn’t on their list of swear words and, as a result, the girls had done nothing wrong. The guidance counselor added that by coming to my defense, my mother might “make me that way.”

That was the day I realized some adults were bullies, too.

When I was in ninth grade, juice was poured over my head (and the white sweatshirt I was wearing) in the school cafeteria, and the janitor, unable to understand English and not having seen the incident, pushed his mop into my hand and made me clean up as others laughed. Shortly afterwards, the bully from the school bus stole my keychain, calling me a f for its picture keychain showing my best friend and me on the Anaconda at King’s Dominion the summer prior. He proceeded to promise that he’d soon be waiting for me inside my own home to beat me up. When my parents confronted his parents to get our house keys back, they denied that he had them. So we changed all the locks in the house.

That was the day I realized wouldn’t always get justice.

I moved schools after each of these events — I started at a new school for kindergarten and again in first, third, fifth, seventh, and ninth grades, then switched to a second high school towards the end of my freshman year.

I’ve attended four different colleges without graduating, and I’ve recently realized the connection between this and my secondary school experience.

If I sense unfairness — especially in a classroom environment — I evacuate.

In classes I complete, I perform exceptionally well; but I’ve quickly withdrawn from (or just abandoned) many others.

Being afraid to use the bathroom isn’t a small issue, let alone being forced to use one that puts you in harm’s way. Student athletics are about camaraderie, teamwork, work ethic, and fun — Trans athletes should be allowed to play on the team they identify with.

Students should be allowed to confide in teachers without their parents being informed. Some parents hurt their kids.

Kids are immature; there will always be some mistreatment, and differences will always stick out. Adults doing the same should be considered universally unacceptable, yet many pundits and politicians have created an art form out of demonizing the vulnerable. “Protecting children” from Trans kids is a bold-faced lie — a red herring — and they know it.

Has anyone noticed that, in most hypothetical situations used by opponents of queer rights, the culprits are usually not queer?

Is it not ironic that the implication in most anti-Trans arguments is that straight boys might pretend to be Trans in order to commit sexual assault (or excel in girls’ athletics)? How exactly does a straight marriage fail because of a gay one?

Will society ever stop allowing ‘different is bad and scary’ arguments to be successfully lodged against people who are doing no harm?