Sticks, stones, break bones. Pero words, Me hieren (Hurt me) también (too).

“Cumulus clouds are what we see in the sky today,” Ms. Ferris, our science teacher, announces, gesturing toward the large windows that reveal the outside world.

Ms. Ferris is a tall, slender woman in her thirties, with short brown hair styled to the side. Her enthusiasm for teaching science is contagious; she always wears a bright smile.

“Look! They resemble massive cotton balls, suggesting a beautiful, sunny day ahead,” she beams.

However, I gaze outside and feel an immediate sense of confusion. Instead of a lovely day, I see ominous gray streaks of stratus clouds threatening to unleash a storm.

Porque when I peer down from the second-floor window, I witness an unsettling sight: a gathering of white men and women of various ages in the schoolyard, brandishing baseball bats.

Their raised arms and fierce expressions make it clear they are hambrientos—hungry for sangre—my blood and the blood of any black or brown child who dares to step into their predominantly German American school in Glendale, Queens.

Among them, I recognize the parents of my friends Heinrich, Gunter, Anja, Chris, and Janet—German American kids I’ve known since kindergarten.

Some are holding white cardboard signs that, upon squinting, reveal messages I dread. I understand their meaning all too well. I learned this yesterday, and it fills me with dread.

It’s two-thirty in the afternoon, and as the school day nears its end, the thought of facing the brewing storm outside terrifies me.

To an outsider, it might appear that these parents are valiantly protecting their children from a perceived threat. But no. They are determined to drive “our kind” out of this school, out of this town—just two and a half miles from our home in Ridgewood, Queens, in New York City.

In March 1974, while my classmates buzz about the film “The Way We Were” and the song “Killing Me Softly” by Roberta Flack, the Vietnam War and Watergate occasionally surface in our conversations.

As for me, I remain fija—frozen in our cueva, our sanctuary. Like any good Dominican girl, I’m usually at home with my mother when I’m not at school or church.

At home, I craft my emotional armor, inspired by the new non-stick coating on pots—Teflon, I think. I build my own protective cloak by immersing myself in Tolkien’s tales of Middle Earth, where good triumphs over evil.

Now, with twenty minutes until three o'clock on a Tuesday, I resist leaving this classroom. No quiero, no puedo salir. I cannot fathom how to escape this situation. No se me entra en la cabeza.

As Spock from “Star Trek” might say, “It does not compute.” I don’t know how to live like any eleven-year-old should. I cannot confront these real, breathing, hateful monstruos again.

My fear causes my knees to tremble violently beneath my maxi green corduroy skirt.

Although it is March and spring is near, it feels far from bright and cheerful. Instead, all I perceive are dark clouds closing in around us. Y no comprendo, I don’t understand why Ms. Ferris sees the clouds as fluffy.

Someone is deceiving me. It could be Ms. Ferris, the sky, or my quaking mente.

Peering out the window again reveals an even more ominous sight. More waves of gray stratus clouds fill the view, accompanied by angry faces wielding bats and odio—hate. Their expressions are so filled with disgust that I feel nauseous.

I have never felt fear or danger among my German American friends. I have played tag with them, endured tense band practices with Mr. Dorman, our strict music teacher, and celebrated Spring Day by dancing around the colorful maypole.

I know and trust these friends. But now, I see their parents do not accept me or anyone who isn’t German. They definitivamente do not want us in school with their children.

Sticks, stones, break bones. Pero mentiras (lies) Me hieren (hurt me) También (too).

Yesterday, I first glimpsed the storm hovering over our school when the ominous stratus clouds gathered at two-thirty. Initially, I was confused. This was not the typical scene of cheerful parents waiting to pick up their kids. No, these parents held bats and signs that read:

“You. Your Kind. Out.”

Written in bold, red paint, they resembled a threatening mob prepared to strike.

As I read that first sign, my hand shot up in class to get Mr. Brecht's attention.

“You should feel lucky,” Mr. Brecht remarked, “as today’s reading tells us we live in the most diverse city in the country. Some refer to it as a melting pot; others call it a salad. What’s your take? Write an essay about it.”

“Yes, Luna?” he asked.

“Can I speak privately, Mr. Brecht?” I whispered, struggling to catch my breath.

He approached me, a laid-back teacher with a gentle German accent and a welcoming demeanor.

Dressed sharply in a dark brown corduroy suit and a silk tie, Mr. Brecht, in his thirties, has honey-colored hair styled in a shag cut that nearly reaches his shoulders. His sparkling blue eyes and patient smile make me feel secure—until I ask:

“Can you please look out the window, Mr. Brecht? They seem angry and ready to fight. Can you call the principal or the police? I’m so scared. How can I get home safely?”

My voice trembles, and my shoulders shake.

Mr. Brecht moves to the window near my desk.

“There is no danger, Luna,” he reassures me, smiling widely, only for his expression to shift into a sneer, as if he’s just detected something unpleasant. His blue eyes narrow, and I sense a change in his demeanor—less kind, less patient, less understanding.

Years later, I will learn the term “gaslight.” I will come to understand that Mr. Brecht and the other teachers I sought help from gaslit me and any other black or brown child who perceived the threatening armed stratus clouds outside, waiting only for us.

“Now be a good girl. Return to your seat, Luna.”

“¡¿Que qué?!” I want to scream. I feel an overwhelming urge to cry, but I recall my father’s advice from years ago: never cry in public—especially not in front of those eager to make you feel weak.

“Nunca llores. Never cry, baby,” he taught me.

“Es lo que quieren más robar de ti. It’s what they want to rob you of the most. Quédate calladita. Stay quiet.”

Instead, I take a deep breath and return to my seat. I glance at the clock again.

“I feel everything. I feel nothing. Like ice, I am numb and poderosa, powerful in this odiosa frontera, even though no tengo los papeles, I don’t have the papers, the visas to exit school safely,” I think, pray, and repeat in my mind.

“What can I write for homework? My social studies book states it’s a fact that New York has the largest variety of races and cultures living harmoniously together, and that this city is a melting pot where todo el mundo, everyone, gets along,” I ponder, trying to suppress a wave of anger that colors my ears as red as a tomato.

“Pero what exactly is a melting pot? What melts and becomes one? Crayons? Butter?”

“Pero, if I dare to look outside, I do not see people merging into a joyful city. I see furious individuals with bats and signs.”

I remain terrified and bewildered. The books say cumulus clouds float above, and that there isn’t a storm. Pero, there IS a storm.

Perhaps I’m mistaken. Yet all I see are mentiras, lies. Why can’t Mr. Brecht or Ms. Ferris see? Do they even care?

Yesterday, I managed to get home by hiding and running to the tall handball court at the back of the schoolyard—where older kids go to skip class and smoke.

Today, however, more angry stratus clouds gather outside, and a larger crowd fills the schoolyard, blocking my route to safety.

“How will I get home safely?” I wonder.

Suddenly, a crumpled ball of paper flies over my head and lands on my desk as Ms. Ferris turns her back to write our homework on the blackboard with a shiny chalk holder.

I quickly snatch the paper, glance around, and discreetly unfold it in my lap.

Mis ojos scan the classroom. I uncrumple the paper slowly.

“I’m not taking the bus today. I want to walk home with you. I know a safe way home that I can show you. Hasta luego, Anja.”

Anja is my best friend, slightly taller, with bangs and wheat-colored braids. We’ve grown up together, and she lives just a few houses away.

Anja’s family speaks German, and she attends German school during the week, visiting her grandparents in Germany each summer. What makes her special is her interest in Spanish, unlike many others in this frontera who react with anger at my beloved language.

I enjoy learning German from Anja, as saying “Guten Morgen” or “danke” can sometimes open hearts and smiles in a community that typically expresses disdain for “our kind.”

Today, I am truly recognizing how remarkable Anja is. Although she has a safety visa due to her appearance, she chooses not to take the bus because it’s too perilous for me and “my kind.”

“When the three o'clock bell rings, come over here,” Anja signals, gesturing for me to follow.

Dressed in a pink long-sleeve top and trendy denim pants, Anja is stylish today. She puts on her pink cardigan and scarf, crafted by her mother for Christmas.

“Is that all you’re wearing, Anja? It’s chilly out,” I ask as I don my long winter coat.

“I’m fine. I wasn’t cold this morning; it’s warmer now. *Ven. Vamos,” she says, smiling and shrugging.

I trail behind Anja as we head to the gray metal staircase, where the excitement of children echoes throughout the building.

Suddenly, the thunderous sounds of insults and bats striking the ground reach my ears.

I shiver, overwhelmed by fear, my legs feeling heavy as I descend the stairs.

“I do not know what I’m going to see,” I utter shakily, holding back tears.

“No problem, amiga,” Anja reassures me calmly.

“Just follow me. Ignore that,” she points toward the chaotic crowd outside.

“Let’s think of it as if they’re merely playing baseball. The noises we hear are cheers for a home run. Just follow me. I know a secret, magical path for us.”

“Okay, Anja. I will try. I do like to imagine things,” I respond, mustering a smile for her.

Anja takes my left elbow and directs me toward an exit door across the building.

“Let’s go there,” she points.

“But are we allowed to use that door? Will we get in trouble?”

“Hey, trust me, amiga. Besides, if those mean adults outside are doing something wrong, maybe we’re allowed to avoid them. *Ven. Come on! We can’t stop,” Anja urges with calm determination.

We step into otro mundo, a serene parallel universe where tall trees muffle any noise from outside.

Anja runs ahead, and we sprint for what feels like our lives, navigating past houses made of warm brick until the tree-lined street merges into busy Myrtle Avenue, where buses to Ridgewood stop.

“We are going home that way,” she indicates, pointing to a wide green gate.

No sticks. No stones. No words. No harm. Solamente (Only) Paz (Peace), Dulce paz (sweet peace).

“But aren’t you scared, Anja?! That place is a *cementerio, where the dead live!!*”

“Pero Luna, do you see any scary people here?”

“No, Anja.”

“Think of this place as a big, beautiful park. It’s our field trip,” she winks.

“Okay, amiga,” I concede, still anxious about the potential dangers lurking in this angry neighborhood, yet I keep moving quickly.

“Are we even allowed to walk through here, Anja? Is it against the law? I don’t want to go to jail,” I worry aloud.

“I don’t think so. My *Großvater, grandpa, is buried here. We visit often. Ven. Come on!” she encourages.

I follow her, looking back nervously every few minutes.

Then I glance up and see the softest cumulus clouds floating in a serene blue sky—real clouds that convey safety.

Surrounded by lush, manicured lawns and hills, a gentle breeze stirs the cherry blossoms lining our path.

The fluttering petals sound like waves of applause, welcoming us to this enchanting parque.

Small gray buildings made of cement and limestone house families that have passed away, with tombstones dotting the hills surrounding us. We wander deeper into this parque de los muertos for nearly an hour.

Blue jays and robins hop between the hills and soar into the clear sky, filling the air with joyous melodies. The atmosphere feels light and refreshing, igniting my laughter and desire to sing.

The inviting sounds and sights convince me that this is truly el parque de los vivos, a haven for the living. The school we fled is the real parque de los muertos, where el odio, hatred, suffocates and tempts you to surrender.

“Are you certain you know where you’re going, Anja? We’ve been here almost an hour. I don’t want to be lost when darkness falls,” I express my concern.

“Nein. Nein. No, amiga,” Anja replies. “Mira.”

She gestures toward a set of large iron gates in the distance. The sounds of cars whizzing by and glimpses of blue skies assure me—no stratus clouds, no storms await us.

As we exit the magical parque, I recognize exactly where we are.

“Hey! It’s Cypress Avenue! We’re only six blocks from home! Wow, Anja. Gracias,” I exclaim in relief.

We continued to visit that beautiful parque de los muertos week after week until peaceful, fluffy cumulus clouds finally floated across the sky above our school.