AMERICAN HUMILIATIONS - PART 1

[Miguel85]

AMERICAN HUMILIATIONS - PART 1 - CHAPTER 1
(translated from the original Spanish by Nepas96)


PROLOGUE

It starts with a grimace I just can’t seem to wipe off my face. Instinctively I try to put on a smile over my suffering, but it just makes me look worse.

My eyebrows draw together sadly. This is another thing I just can’t seem to make my face not do.

My breathing becomes irregular. I get trembly. If I’m sitting, one of my legs starts shaking nervously, and quickly it’s full-blown restless leg. Even if I’m standing, just my irregular breathing is enough to make me a little shaky.

Then the noises start. A deep whimper, soft at first, rising until it’s a sharp whine. Sometimes it ends at that. On certain days though, the whine morphs into something more horrible, guttural and animalistic, while I make the ugliest crying face you’ve ever seen.

Finally I’m braying like a donkey, sucking in giant gasping breaths in between deep sobs, while my whole red, puffy face leaks.

I tend to look around panicked, eyes wild and darting, desperate for a friendly face, for some sympathy, for a way out – there is none.

So I cry. I cry and cry and cry.

Why do I do it? Why do I make such a spectacle of myself? Why do I add so much public humiliation on top of what is already being handed to me? It can’t be helped. It’s automatic.

I don’t even need a reason sometimes, nobody has even said anything to me today, but I’m still going from class to class just softly crying.

“Hey, Baby Dick! Quit your fucking crying!” a boy shouts as I walk by in tears. I don’t even know him. Thanks for giving me a reason to cry even harder, stranger.

“Look at him, he’s the boy who was naked in the pool at Ryan's pool party! Oh my god it was SO funny!" a passing girl says to her friend. "Geez, what a big crybaby, haha!" They laugh together.

Some cries though, some cries are ripped from within me as if someone's reaching into my throat with their hand, putting their entire arm in there, and pulling it out. It feels like that much of a violation. I don’t WANT to give you the satisfaction of crying… but it doesn’t matter, it’s simply going to happen.

How did I get here? How could this possibly be happening to me? I never liked being the center of attention, and now you could say I’m the most popular kid in school, for all the wrong reasons.

Maybe we should start at the beginning.

MY BEFORE LIFE

I was born in Argentina in the early 80s. I was always a shy kid -- couldn’t make friends easily, didn’t feel too comfortable talking in public -- while other boys fought to be the center of attention, I preferred to blend into the background. You guys go and play, I’ll be here in front of the TV watching cartoons.

Over the years I got a little better and by the time I was in middle school in the early 90s, I had a handful of close friends (all boys), got good grades, and didn’t get picked on too often, so life was ok. Well, sometimes other boys in gym class would say I ran like a sissy, but that was about it, and it only happened in gym class.

I even talked to girls sometimes, though it was hard to not immediately feel self-conscious and then to start blushing and then feeling hot and sweaty and then feeling embarrassed about getting hot and sweaty.

If I had to pick the worst thing about my “before” life -- my life before the American Humiliations started -- it would have to be… speedos. I know, that sounds silly, so I’ll explain.

In Argentina, all guys wear speedos. Heck, in most of South America all guys wear speedos, and nobody makes a big deal about it. But I wasn’t just a shy kid, I was a particularly body-shy kid, and it only got worse as I grew older. To me, wearing a speedo to a beach was no different than wearing underwear out in public, and I was baffled by how everyone just went along with it.

My Mother and my little sister Jessica - and practically everyone else who lives in South America – are simply crazy about going to the beach, so I got dragged along every time. And what was I forced to wear? What every other boy and man, from babies to the geriatric, wore: a speedo.

There were always kids from school at the beach, or cousins, or older teens, all having a great time, and here’s me, feeling ridiculous and self-conscious in practically-my-underwear. It didn’t help that I didn’t like my body, I always thought I had a big butt even thought I’m skinny everywhere else, and wearing a speedo did not help with that issue. It wasn’t that anyone was picking on me or anything, but still, I always felt that everyone was staring and secretly laughing, making me a bundle of self-conscious nerves.

So there you have it, my top complaint about my “before” life.

Boy, I miss that life.

In November, 1993, a week after my 12th birthday, Mother announces that we will be moving to the United States of America, the land of opportunity, as she calls it. My sister Jessica – Jesse for short -- a year and a half younger than me and always enthusiastic about new things, is immediately into the idea. Jesse is outgoing, loud, playful, attention-seeking -- everything I am not.

The news crushes me. I am comfortable in my life. I have 5 good friends, I go to their houses to play Nintendo. I feel mostly safe in school, and now… and now.. now I’ll have to go to a strange new country, barely knowing the language (Jesse and I took English classes for the past two years in Argentina, so we aren’t completely lost), and somehow start my life over from scratch!? Ugggghhhh.

But I have to admit, there is a funny silver lining: I know from watching many American movies that in the USA -- maybe because of their cold winters, maybe because people from north of the Equator just aren't as outgoing -- I know that in the USA guys wear swimming trunks when they go swimming, instead of speedos, and that is a huge win for me.

NEW COUNTRY/NEW HOME

I spend my last 3 months in my home country moping around, saying goodbye to my friends and everything I’ve ever known, and off to America we go! We arrive near the end of March ‘94, too late for me and Jesse to enroll in what is left of that school year, so we won't have to be in school until September! I can’t believe our luck!

We move to a suburb of Lodi, Pennsylvania. There is a nicer side of town, and a less nice side of town; we are in the latter. My mother’s sister Tia Sofia and her son Cesar already live there, so she helps us find a place. It is a mostly white, lower middle class, beaten-down kind of town. Our brick building has four floors, and two apartments per floor. We are at the very top.

We pull up in Mother’s new-used beige station wagon, another hookup from Tia Sofia, and grab the few belongings we brought with us.

My sister bounces up the stairs, ponytail flailing, exploring excitedly. “Whoa, they have cages!” she squeals.

She’s right, that’s what they look like -- outside of each apartment’s door there’s a little “alleyway” leading to the landing on each side of the staircase. That whole area, about 5 feet wide by 8 feet long (hugging the wall on one side) is entirely fenced in, with a steel security door at the end. So it’s like a floor-to-ceiling cage outside of each apartment’s entrance.

“That’s so we’re really safe,” Mother says, opening the security door. “And we can keep extra stuff in here too, isn’t that great? It’s like an outside closet!”

I step into The Cage for the first time, never imagining the role it would soon come to play in my life. Mother sticks the key into the front door for the first time and looks back to us happily. “If we get some bicycles we can keep them out here, like the neighbors!”

“Yaaaay!” Jesse squeals.

We go in and start unpacking. The place is small, but long, railroad car style. Mother’s room is at one end, then a small kitchen, a narrow hallway with a bathroom off to the side, then a fairly big living room, then another medium sized bedroom, which will will be mine and Jesse’s room. Great, I have a roommate. In Argentina I had my own room. On the bright side there is a big color television, and we have American cable! I have six months to live the dream of being a couch potato!

But just a few weeks later, with the trees budding and flowers pushing up from the ground, Mother has to go and ruin everything: she’s enrolled me in ESL classes from May through August, right up to the official start of school. This will be at the same Middle School/High School I’ll be starting 7th grade in September. There goes my free summer. But that's not the worst part: she also enrolled me in swimming classes. Ugh!

"You'll be able to get used to your new school, brush up on your English, maybe make some friends, right? And finally learn to swim!" she says. I whine and protest, but what can I do, she's the boss. ESL will start next week, and swimming on the first week of June.

[Miguel85]

AMERICAN HUMILIATIONS - PART 1 - CHAPTER 2

ARE YOU A GIRL?

ESL (English as a Second Language) classes would be taking place alongside summer school for failing students, so it was a mishmash of new kids who didn't speak English, kids who were failing because they didn't speak English well, and then just the dumb kids and troublemakers.

Right from the start I did surprisingly well. The English classes I’d had in Argentina helped, as did my steady diet of American television. I didn’t immediately make any friends or anything, but I did OK at talking to other kids in class… I managed to not make a fool of myself, to say where I was from, how old I was, how my day was, without feeling too self-conscious or embarrassed. The teacher liked me.

I started to get comfortable. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. A week later, the first sign of trouble.

As I walk out of ESL class a group of 3 boys walk right up to me. The leader, a very radical looking blonde boy covered in denim, casually asks: "hey, are you a girl?"  

I do what I usually do in the face of confrontation: I clam up, look down at my sneakers. My underarms quickly start feeling damp.

"Hey, can you talk? Do you speak English?” the blonde boy with the mullet continues to be obnoxious. “Guys, I don’t think she hablas ingles.”

She? Why did he call me a she? I maneuver around them, hugging my trapper keeper and books to my chest as if I really were a girl.

“Heh, maybe she’s a mute,” my prospective new bully adds. “Hey, are you wearing makeup? Heh, I think she’s wearing makeup…”

As I shuffle off, tail between my legs, he shouts across the hall: “We have a bet, Josh thinks you’re a boy, but I say you’re a girl, I mean, you are wearing makeup, right?” I glance back to see him grinning. I flush bright red, feeling the stares of the few kids in the hallway turning to look at me.

I’m 12 and a half years old and haven’t started puberty yet (not any of the interesting parts anyway) but i’ve always been lanky and taller than most kids my age. Even though I’m skinny, for whatever mysterious genetic reasons I have chonky thighs and a big butt – it makes me kinda pear-shaped and a little feminine looking -- which as you can imagine is a huge point of embarrassment for me, and the main reason I hated wearing speedos so much in Argentina. 

To make things worse I’m slightly pigeon-toed and knock-kneed, so in Argentina I had recieved my fair share of teasing for having a “girly walk” or for “running like a maricón”.

I wonder, has this trio of jerks somehow pinpointed that, the way mean kids have that power to zero in on what hurts you the most? But everything I’m wearing is baggy and oversized, how could they even tell I have a big butt or a girly shape? There’s no way.

Being called feminine was something I was already too familiar with, much to my youthful chagrin. I always had a bit of a “pretty” face, long, slender arms and legs (except for my thighs), qualities that made me appear... delicate, you could say. Since I was a little kid my Grandma would tell me how pretty I was and I would say "no, Grandma, only girls are pretty, guys are manly and rough, they can't be pretty but they can be handsome..." but she would just laugh and say, "not with those eyelashes." 

The blonde boy’s comment about me wearing makeup really gets to me. I've always had very long, dark eyelashes, and once a boy accused me of wearing eyeliner while in front of a group of kids. I just froze in place, feeling so embarrassed as they laughed, and couldn’t even think of a comeback.

Those long eyelashes naturally came with thick eyebrows, which, combined with my big dark eyes, olive skin and dark brown hair, gave me an exotic appearance.  Around this mostly-white town, anyway.

Is it at all possible he really thought I was a girl? I’m still so hairless... As an almost-teenage boy I’m already used to living every day in fear of possible embarrassment, but I really hope I’m not about to have my first American school bully.

JUST A LITTLE BOY

The next month passes by mostly without incident. We go to the mall a couple of times, eat at McDonald’s a bunch, and I go to ESL for 3 hours sessions four days a week. Jesse quickly makes friends with some neighborhood kids and spends most days outside playing. My own non-school hours are spent planted in front of the TV.

By early June its already shaping up to be a hot summer, feeling hotter than any summers I remember in Argentina.

ESL class is going amazingly. Or maybe it’s watching so much TV that is helping, but I’m picking up English like a pro. Well, reading and writing it, anyway. Speaking, I’m still a bit shy. I haven’t seen any of the three boys who picked on me in the hallway again, but on this fourth week of ESL, as I walk out of class, there he is, the blonde, mullet-sporting leader. We nearly bump into each other.

“Oh, hi,” he says, and smiles an odd smile. His incredible blondeness and sharp, focused features makes him look a bit like a lion. A teenage boy lion.

I should’ve just walked away like before, but I see his smile and perhaps misinterpret it as friendliness. I feel weirdly compelled to answer back.

“Uh… hi,” I manage.

Is he about to be nice to me? He was totally making fun of me before, right?

“You in ESL?” he asks, pointing to the ESL room. His hair is long and combed back, very 90s, but like a mane. A mullet mane. His hair, his skin, his eyes, he just seems to be blonde all over.

I nod.

“Summer school,” he points to his own chest. “Sucks to be us, huh. Where you from, yo?”

Ok, I’m getting uncomfortable. “Argentina,” I reluctantly squeak out.

“Oh, ArHenteena, heh,” he says it in an exaggerated Spanish accent. “I’m Ryan. What’s your name, yo?”

I look down embarrassed.

“Aw, are you shyyyyyyy?” he says the word shy in what I can only describe as a retarded voice. “But for real yo, you a boy or a girl?” he smirks his lion smirk and readjusts the flannel jacket tied around his waist.

My eyebrows instinctively draw together in a pitiful look, hurt that he’d bring that up again. I look down at my sneakers and start to back away.

A voice calls out from behind me. “Mr. Mitchell, get in here.” I turn to see a gray haired, round-faced teacher poking his head out of a classroom.

“Coming, Mr. Carpenter,” Ryan says in a bored voice and begins walking towards the classroom, then stops, uncomfortably close to me. He’s about an inch shorter than me but looks older, and if I had to guess, has been left behind a year. He leans in, close enough to whisper. I flinch slightly.

“Ok sissy, I’ll just make up a name for you then. How about… Sissy?” he says with a flat, unblinking expression.

“Mr. Mitchell!” the teacher calls out again.

After eye contact that goes on for way too long, he starts turning away.

“See you around, Sissy Spacek!” he says as he walks into class, leaving Mr. Carpenter rolling his eyes. Then, just before disappearing behind the door, he actually waves goodbye at me. What’s crazy is I half-heartedly wave back at him.

At that point of my english-education I’m not quite sure what “sissy” even means, but I’ll soon become well-versed in all manner of childish 90s insults.

------------------------------

That Friday night mother arrives home with shopping bags. By now she is working two jobs, cleaning houses from early in the morning to mid afternoon, and then working as a waitress at a cheap diner. She’s usually only home by 8:30 now.

"I got you some new shirts for school, and some new socks and underwear too!" she says happily.  Mother still bought all my clothes, often without taking me along.  She even buys my tighty whities, which I hate wearing almost as much as speedos.

Monday is to be the first day of swimming classes. I'm on edge because changing in locker rooms has always been something to be avoided at all costs. But the topic hasn’t come up for a few weeks now, and I'm hoping and praying that somehow Mother has forgotten all about it.

“Did I tell you, your cousin Cesar is going to be swimming with you?”

So she didn’t forget. Damn. “Oh, that’s uh…” I don’t actually know Cesar too well, he’s Tia Sofia’s son, just a couple of months younger than me. We had played together in Argentina as little kids. Well, at least that was some familiarity. “That’s cool,” I say.

And then she spoke the words that would set me on a steady course of misery and shame for years to come, words that would mark the official start of my American Humiliations:

 "Oh and I got you a new speedo, too!"

My blood froze. Oh my god. Oh. My. God. Doesn’t she know??? Doesn't she KNOW!?! How was I so stupid that I never saw this coming? I immediately go to 11 on the panic scale, begging and pleading, tripping over my own words, "nononono, listen, m-mooOOom, in the the the United States, m-men don't wear suh-suh-s-speedos! They wear shor--"

"You're not a man, you're just a little boy."

"MooOOoom! I'm almost 13, puh-puh-pleeeeease, everyone's gonna l--l-laugh if I wear a spee--"

"You've been wearing speedos your entire life, mijo!"

"But I never liked them! NEVER! I told you!! You always made me wear them!! And at least that was back home wh-where EVERYONE is wearing one! If I'm the only wa-one it'll b-be even more embarr--"

"You are wearing the nice clothes that I bought you, end of story!"

At this point I just can’t help myself. I start crying.

"Pleeeease, I caaaaan't, *sob*, everyone is gonna, *sob*, laugh at meeeee--"

Jessica strolls in from our room. “Ugh why are you crying??”

“Shut up, Jesse!” I yell.

“Don’t tell your sister to shut up!” Mother snaps back. "I don't wanna hear any more whining, you ungrateful child!” Mother continues.  “I buy you nice things and all you do is complain?! You are becoming such a spoiled American brat! Be proud of your country!  Suddenly you wanna be American in every way?"

".. but I’m gon-- *sob* I'm gonna looOOOok, *sob* so stuuUUuupid.." I continue sobbing. I feel like a pathetic toddler.

"Good friends will like you for who you are!" she declares, as if that solves everything.

I keep whining and crying and moping, but she is done listening. The rest of the weekend is a dread-filled waking nightmare. Sunday night I can hardly fall asleep, so terrified I am of Monday.  

MAN WITH A PLAN

I wake up at 6 am, feeling nauseous. Swimming class is only at 3:00pm. I don’t have ESL today, all I have is too much time to stress myself into a nervous wreck. I eat cereal. Watch TV. Pace, trying to think of some scheme to get out of this.

Still only 1:30 pm. I’m so tense and scared. I can’t do this! I simply CANNOT start my life in this country off on such a wrong foot! I need a way out, something even Mother would accept as a reasonable excuse. At least for today. Deal with this thing on a day-to-day basis, yes. The hours pass. Finally I figure it out: I need to bleed. So I proceeded to concoct one of my better tricks: the fake nosebleed.  

She will be home to get me in half an hour. I have to act fast. I get some tissues. I try red pens, red markers, no good, nothing looks realistic enough. I look for needles to prick a finger for some blood. Eventually I realize I will need a real nosebleed.  I pick at my nose with my nails until I get results.  Yes, glorious blood! I make sure to get the tissue really nice and red, all balled up, stuffed in my nostril.

Just as I get it looking perfect, I hear the rattling of the steel security door. She’s coming. Oh god oh god please work please work please work!

"Ready for swimming class?"

"I can't, I got a nosebleed," I say like a sad child.

She bends slightly in front of me, grabs my head with both hands, and tilts it backwards.  I sniffle, tissue still stuck in nostril.  She pulls the tissue out, and peers into each of my nostrils.  Taps them both gently with her index and middle finger.  

"You're fine, get dressed, you're going."

I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.

[PhillyPhan321]

Glad to see you are back posting!

[Jonjon2]

I agree - I love your stories and look forward to how this will develop. Thanks for posting.

[Miguel85]

AMERICAN HUMILIATIONS - PART 1 - CHAPTER 3

THE SPEEDO

We live less than a 10 minute walk from school but Mother insists on driving me, to make sure I go. I feel nauseous the entire ride. Mother tells me I’ll do great and make new friends and the kids will love me if I’m just myself. Ugh! I stay silent and leave the car without kissing her goodbye.
 
If this were happening just a few years earlier, still in the glow of the 80s, maybe nobody would’ve cared. But this was 1994, all the kids at my school were listening to rap music and wearing oversized, baggy shirts and pants, even the girls. This was not the era of speedos. 

I walk like a condemned man from Mother’s car to the outer entrance of the pool. You could get into the pool building from inside the school, and also from a short path just off the sidewalk near the side of the school.  There’s a mean-looking older lady at a desk, she takes my name and makes sure I’m on the list, then points me towards the boys’ locker room and tells me to go in, get changed, and head towards the pool.
 
Oh my god it’s all happening so fast there’s not even time to plan an escape! It strikes me then that after making such a big deal about the speedo, I’ve never actually laid eyes on the thing, Mother had just packed it into my backpack for me.

I walk into the locker room. It’s big, it’s scary, and it smells of chlorine. My heart is pounding like a jackhammer. A couple of half-naked boys are already in there. They exchange quick glances with me. I approach an empty locker and with mounting dread I peek inside my backpack. There’s the bag. It says GAP KIDS on it. Oh no. I open it. 
 
Oh god.

My speedo looks like the opening credits of Saved by the Bell: all geometric shapes and bright pinks and loud yellows mixed with black and white squiggly lines and neon -- an explosion of early 90s attention-calling design.  It’s beyond ridiculous, and it feels impossibly small in my hands.
 
I hold it out in front of my waist. My heart sinks. For the first time it truly hits me… this is for real. This is for real… and this is happening… right now. I swallow hard. Oh god I feel so nauseous. There are now about 8 other boys in here with me, a group of two here, a group of three there, a couple loners, every face unfriendly. They’re changing, chatting, laughing. Ignoring me, luckily.
 
I grab my towel, thank god for my towel, and wrap it high around myself like a girl would, held in place under my armpits. I take my shorts and tighty whities off fast, and quickly pull the horrid speedo on. It resists a bit when it gets to my thighs, and I have to do some serious tugging to get it over my butt.
 
Ok, the speedo is on. Oh my god. Calm down calm down calm down. I discreetly open my towel and look down at myself. Oh my god I feel faint. I don’t know if Mother bought something a little too small, or if it’s my damn thighs and butt that are just too plump, but this is squeezing me in all the wrong ways -- giving me a muffin top, making my thick thighs look even thicker, like sausages squeezed into... well, into a tiny speedo. 

And this pattern! This horrible pattern, the pinks and blacks and yellows, when seen from far way they just blend into this almost floral pattern and it looks like… Oh god… it looks like I’m wearing little girl panties. Oh my lord I want to die. I look around nervously, some of the kids have gone to the pool, some are still hanging around, as a few more arrive. My cousin Cesar hasn’t shown up yet… or maybe he’s already out there. What will he think of this? That’s the least of my problems.
 
I try to swallow again but have such a knot in my throat. I wrap the towel around my waist tightly and tie it. I take my shirt off, and fold everything into my locker. My hands are shaking as I put the combination lock back on. Oh god, I feel like throwing up. I look around, there are four kids left. Oh god, can I just run away? Oh god.
 
Trembling, almost out of my body with fear, I find myself walking through the shower room, and out the double-wide doors into the pool.
 
Geez this room is big. Geez this pool is big!! Ugly green tiles everywhere. There are over a dozen kids milling about, boys and girls, some have their towels wrapped around them, some don’t. All the boys are wearing baggy, dark swimming trunks that go down nearly to their knees, all the girls are wearing modest one-piece swimsuits of various colors. There’s even a bigger girl who is wearing a t-shirt over her bathing suit.
 
The coach pokes his head out of his office and points, “Ok guys, everybody hang up your towels over there, remember your number, and come join me on the shallow side of the pool!”
 
Oh god oh god oh god! I can hear my heart thumping inside my head. I follow the other kids to the wall with the pegs, hugging my towel pathetically. Is this what hyperventilating feels like? Is it better to be the last one out there or better to be in a crowd?! My knuckles are turning white I’m holding onto my towel so tight. I have no choice. I’m doomed.
 
Looking down at the tiled floors, feeling sick to my stomach, I shamefully open my towel and hang it on peg number 16, exposing my nearly naked, trembling body to all around me. I break into goosebumps and my nipples harden.
 
Immediately there are gasps and squeals, giggles and whispers. I don’t look up, not yet, but I can feel the heat of everyone staring at me. I see my own body, squeezed into this ridiculous outfit, oh my god how is this happening??

My groin aches, like my testicles want to retract into my body. The nausea has doubled and I’m trying to not visibly wince. I don’t know whether to keep my arms casual at my sides, or cover up, or what.

“HAAA!!!” a boy laughs, very loudly. I turn to see he is literally pointing at me. He’s thick and has a short, buzzed haircut. Everyone else who wasn’t already looking now turns to me. “Dude, what! The hell! Are you wearing??” the boy says, then practically laugh-screams: “HAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!”

The place quiets down for a moment until all I hear is the water in the pool. I slowly look up and meet a random girl’s eyes. “On my gawd he’s wearing panties!!!!” she screeches as everyone explodes into laughter.

The smell of chlorine, the sound of bubbling water, the staring, laughing faces, those horrid mint green tiles… all these sights and sounds and smells imprint themselves on me then. I feel like a deer in headlights. I feel like I’m on fire, paralyzed in front of the ogling crowd.

“Ew, he’s got a BIG ASS!” a girl’s voice from behind me. I turn.

“You can tell he’s got a small dick,” another girl, speaking to her friend. Then she switches her focus to me and says in a goofy voice, a munchkin voice: “you got a small dick!”

The laughter grows louder, it’s everywhere, comments just keep flying. I start feeling dizzy.

Just then the coach blows his whistle. The kids disperse and I shuffle over in my knock-kneed, pigeon toed walk, to join the rest of my classmates. I know I look ridiculous, walking like I have to pee or something, my maricón walk.

Laughter and whispers follow me. I approach the small crowd, as more kids come up behind me, until I’m surrounded on all sides. 

WHAT’S IN A NAME

I’m squirming, covering up, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I feel beyond uncomfortable and beyond mortified, I really don’t know what to do with myself.  But much to my dismay, that will soon be decided for me. 

There are a total of 23 students, 12 boys and 11 girls, all around my age, 12/13, maybe a couple of 14-year-olds. I count them. I memorize their faces. The coach clears his throat as the giggling and whispering eventually dies down.
 
“Hi everyone, welcome to the summer swim program at Van Buren High, I’m Coach Hansen.”  He’s wearing a red baseball cap, grey sweatpants and a Van Buren High t-shirt. 

This was the 90s and past the era of the short-shorts gym coach, but other than that, he was the typical 80s gym coach you see on TV, just about 10 years older and 20 pounds heavier.  “I know we’re all at different skill levels here, so, how many out there would say you can’t swim, at all?”
 
I look around and see a half dozen hands go up. 
 
In a new country, afraid of everything, I’m very hesitant to break any rules or disobey an authority figure, let alone lie to one, so, foolishly, I raise my hand too.

"Ok looks like we got a few non-swimmers in here... we better go over some stuff before we get in the water.” He points into the crowd. “You, come here, you can be our guinea pig…"

Nearly out of my mind with embarrassment by this point, I hardly even hear anything over my own pulse throbbing in my head. Suddenly I realize it’s been quiet for too long. I look up, my eyes focus, and I find that everyone is looking at me, dozens of grinning, snickering, disbelieving faces, just looking me up and down. My eyes meet the coach’s, then widen in horror.

"Yoo-hoo, over here," he snaps his fingers. "Yeah, talking to you, eyelashes.”
 
The eyelash comment barely registers.

“Come on up you’re our big winner!" he says in a mock game-show-host voice and motions for me to join him.

Everyone is staring at me like I’m a weirdo deaf idiot immigrant.  My jaw hanging open, I point my index finger to my narrow chest. "Muh-me?" I mumble.

"Yeah, you, c'mon!" the coach barks, enthused like a coach can be. I can’t tell if he’s well-intentioned or just a jerk like most other gym teachers.

I start making my way through the giggling crowd towards the coach.

“Oh my gawwwwd!” a girl whispers as I squeeze by. “Look at his butt!” My heart is pounding so bad I feel I’m gonna pass out. I’m covered in a cold sweat and goosebumps. I approach the coach slowly as the crowd parts.

"Ok then, what's your-- Whoa!” his eyes bug out as he sees the full length of my body for the first time. "Uh, ok there... uhhhhhh." I have my hands down, sort of covering my crotch area, but not really covering so as to not draw even more attention to it. Casually covering up. I feel like the most pathetic creature that’s ever lived.

"Uhhh, what's your name, kid?" he finally says.

Oh yeah, I haven't told you my name yet. It is a very common boy’s name in Spain, Argentina, in many Latin American countries. It was always a masculine name. But thanks to a massively popular Disney cartoon from a few years ago starring a certain little mermaid, it became the worst possible name for a shy, lanky, big-butt Argentinian boy to have in a country where bullies eat you alive for much less.

My stomach doing somersaults, my head down, I mumble through my mortification: "Ariel." 

"Ariel?!?" he asks, much louder, pronouncing it just like in The Little Mermaid.

A burst of laughter sweeps through the room.

I try again, pronouncing it the way we did in Argentina, "Ah-ri-ehl" but it doesn’t matter anymore. The entire room laughs for a full minute before coach can get them to stop. My face feels like it’s on fire.

TO BE MADE AN EXAMPLE

"Ok, Ariel," the coach says again through a chuckle, and then to the whole class: "there’s a few basic swim styles we’re gonna show you guys, but first, stretching is very important… this is a swimming stretch..” and he proceeds to put his arms up as far as they can go, push his chest out, and stand on his tippy toes. 

“C’mon Ariel, you do it too.”

Oh my god. I somehow flush ever hotter. “Uh... whaa?” I meekly groan. I just...  I cannot believe this is happening. 

“Stretch!” he insists.

With two dozen eyes on me, wearing just a colorful little strip of nylon to cover me, I lift up my arms, stand on my tippy toes, and stretch my exposed body as much as I can, a shameful display for all to see. 

More giggles, then guffaws from the crowd.

“C’mon, settle down, everybody stretch!” the coach commands. The kids comply, but that doesn’t help my situation any. I’m as taut as I can get. I swear I’m visibly trembling. 

The coach continues: “Good, now, the front crawl is the most popular style of swimming...” he starts doing the front crawl, on land, one arm over the other in a circular motion. “C’mon!” He cheers me on. 

I feel like I have a serious fever. Oh god I want to jump into the pool and drown. Instead I proceed to do as I’m told like a good little boy, and mimic every swimming style the coach does to the great amusement of my classmates.

They act like they have never even seen a boy in a speedo before. Maybe they haven’t.

Flapping my arms to the front crawl, turning my back to the class so they can see my big butt as I do the backstroke, and finally the breast stroke, which involves me doing little squats in this mortifying excuse-for-an-outfit. 

I catch sight of my cousin Cesar in the crowd, who looks embarrassed for me.
 
After what feels like an hour of humiliation the laughter grows so big that even Coach can’t get it to stop. I am glowing red, hunched over slightly, grimacing, trying to cover myself, when he gives up.

“Ok, everyone, go jump in the pool!” he says, throwing his hands up. “Shallow side!”

“Hey Little Mermaid!” a boy shouts.

“Ariel, the Little Mermaid, how cute!” a girl laughs.

“Little Mermaid, you’re so pretty… NOT!” another girl adds.

“Gay!” a boy flatly declares.

-----------

Coach then has us do some some remedial exercises in the water. I’m nearly out of my body by now, the buzzing in my ear and the hotness drowning out the rest of the laughter and talking. After that we have a few minutes of free swim where everyone forms into their cliques and mostly ignore me, except for the few times someone from one group turns to me and points and laughs.
 
Finally the coach blows his whistle and the most mortifying experience of my young life is about to come to an end. 

I grab my towel and quickly wrap it around my exposed figure.
 
As I head back to the locker room, laughter follows me. "Hey guys I think Ariel is in the wrong dressing room!" I don’t know who says it. I realize this isn’t over yet.

"Hey Ariel, where's the rest of your bikini?" another one laughs. I hug my towel tightly. 

"Yeah little mermaid, where's your seashell bra? We can all see your little titties!"  

Oh god, I gotta get outta here, fast. I keep my head down, and rush straight to my locker. The boys follow, taunting and mocking.
 
“Jeez, look at his fat ass, he jiggles!” one boy says.
 
“That’s cuz he’s a girl, that’s a girl’s ass!” another one says.
 
“Do you even have a dick?”
 
“You should ask Ursula for a dick next time, loser!”
 
Oh lord I feel like I’m running a 200 degree fever. I struggle with my locker.
 
“Oh no, she can’t get her locker open!”

“Next time go to the girl’s locker room, faggot!”
 
I finally open my locker, put my baggy shorts on over my still-wet speedo, pull my shirt over my wet torso, stick my wet feet into my shoes, and throw my socks and towel into my backpack. With a group of boys still laughing and mocking me I run out of the locker room, out of the building, and all the way home, crying.

When I arrive Mother is still at work and Jesse is out playing with her friends, thankfully. I remove all my wet clothes and manage to get everything dried before anyone can ask any questions.

That night at dinner Mother asks how swimming class went. I’m torn between not wanting to admit how humiliating and demeaning it was, partly so that my sister doesn’t make fun of me for it, and breaking down sobbing in the hopes that I can convince her to just let me wear swimming shorts.

“Fine,” I say, and eat my food, managing not to cry.
 

[NickTwisp]

This is a very good story and interesting to read. I especially like the realism and poignant cultural references regarding adjusting to life in another country and learning the language.

[Miguel85]

AMERICAN HUMILIATIONS - PART 1 - CHAPTER 4

PARTY POOPER

The very next day is my sister’s birthday, her first birthday in America. Her life seems to be going great, we’ve been here less than 3 months and she already has 5 friends at her little birthday party. All I have is a potential bully at school, and another dreaded day of swimming class tomorrow.

I’m so jealous of Jesse’s normal life. Why did Mother have to sign me up for swim class and not her? Why does she get a break, doesn’t she get enough breaks already?? I walk around the house like a ghost, shell-shocked and dazed from yesterday’s ordeal. I’m twitchy and nervous, still feeling nauseous, angry at Mother for being unreasonable, angry at Jesse just for existing, and angry at myself for allowing this to happen. But most of all I just feel so, so stupid and embarrassed.

Mother brings out a modest cake with 11 candles on it, and places it on our small, round living room table. Jesse wants all her friends to blow the candles out at the same time.

There is one Peruvian boy (Hector), his younger sister (Laina), one blonde white girl (Krista), one redheaded freckly girl (Courtney), and one skinny, pig-tailed Asian girl (Annie) in pointy glasses. They are all around Jesse’s age, except the little Peruvian girl. I stay in the kitchen playing my GameBoy, my most prized possession I brought with me from Argentina. I duck into the living room to eat whatever food comes out, and generally avoid everyone.

My very mature attitude is this: I’m not even gonna attempt to hang out with these dumb little kids who are friends of my dumb little sister because they are all lame and what’s the point!! OK, so I was pretty lame myself at that age. Throughout the party I keep catching the little Asian girl glancing over at me and sometimes laughing, or whispering to my sister. It happens a handful of times, but I keep ignoring her.

The cake and the singing happens, everyone but me is having a great time. I head back into the kitchen and lean across the table to grab a paper plate to fill with chips. I hear laughter.

I turn to see the skinny Asian girl standing in our kitchen, holding a big blue plastic cup, sucking on the straw.

She’s looking me right in the eyes, then her gaze travels down my body, back up to my face, and she laughs again. Softly, like she’s trying to cover it up, but she’s definitely laughing.

Still stinging from yesterday’s pool humiliation, I am extra sensitive about my body. She keeps staring, and giggling. I start feeling hot.

“WHAT!?” I snap, throwing both hands in the air.

“Ha!” She half chortles and chokes on her soda for a moment. “Nothing,” she wipes her mouth with her arm, “just that, when you were leaning over, I noticed that, you have, like, a girl butt, you know,” she says in short, rapid-fire bursts.

“W-w-w-w-wuhhhhh…” I am so surprised by what just came out of her mouth I turn into a stuttering nerd, during which time she once again barks out a “Hah!”

I realize I’m wearing gray sweatpants and that they are, admittedly, a little tight. Around my plump butt, anyways. “W-what did you say??” I ask dumbly.

“You heard me, you have a girl butt,” she says in an annoyed tone, like she’s upset she has to repeat herself, and takes another sip from her soda.

I am 12 and a half years old, and a random little girl is actually picking on me.

“Well, sh-- Shut up!” I struggle to assert myself.

“Oh sorry, I thought you knew,” she shrugs, mockingly.

“Well, keep it to yourself!” I continue my sad attempt at being a macho, assertive, older boy, while acting way too offended.

“The thing is, with your girl butt, plus the fact that you’re wearing eyeliner, I wasn’t sure if you were, like, Jesse’s little brother, or her little sister!” she shoots off rapidly. I already hate her stuck-up face.

My jaw actually drops. “WHAT?!” is all I can think to start with. “I’m her little brother, stupid! Uh I-I mean, her big brother!!”

She laughs at my stupidity. “Oh, well, honest mistak--”

“And! AND!” I stall for time. “And, I-I-I’m not wuh-wearing eyeliner! I juh-just have big eyelashes, big deal!”

“Clearly I struck a nerve with you,” she says like she’s a little adult and rolls her eyes. Did she hear that somewhere? Don’t assume anything about my nerves, you stupid little girl! My response is something I immediately regret.

“Oh!? Well you… Y-y- you have a…a boy butt!”

She takes three quick steps in my direction and gets to within a foot of me. I recoil slightly. “Don’t look at my butt, you pervert!” she growls.

I flush brightly, my palms sweaty. I’m sure the others must have overheard that. But no, everyone else is just laughing and chatting in the living room.

“Haha just kidding!” she smiles and turns on her heel, heading back to the group. “Later, geek! Enjoy your big girl butt!”

I’m left in the kitchen, stunned, standing dumbly for I don’t know how long. What the hell just happened? Did a little girl just bully me? This week is not going well. I walk to my room on wobbly legs and stay in there until the party is over.


HOLDING MY BREATH

It’s like I can’t breathe, like I’m drowning. The anxiety of knowing there’s another pool class coming is making me feel faint.

The doorbell rings, it’s Cesar, who Mother has arranged to walk to school with me on the days of swim class. My heart is beating like crazy. I go downstairs.

“Hey Ariel. How’s uh, how’s it going?” His hair is perfectly parted on the side like I remember.

I feel so retarded. “I dunno,” I mumble. “You know… uh…”

Awkward silence. He’s not looking me in the eye.

“The other day uh…” he continues. More silence. “Man, why are you wearing that thing anyway?” he says it like he’s disappointed, or thinks I’m a giant idiot trying to purposely ruin my life in a new school.

“My mom is making me!!” I whine, almost on the verge of tears. “I hate it! I HAAATE the speedo, I hate it so muuuuuch!! I hate her so much! I dunno what to dooo!”

He sucks in some air through clenched-teeth.

“Yeah man, it’s pretty bad. Can’t you just like, wear something else?”

“I… I don’t knooow..” I mope. “I feel like I’d get… caught, somehow she’d know, and then it’d be worse.”

Not much else is said. I walk in misery.

----------------------------

The smell of chlorine makes me want to vomit. Cesar is already out there. Like last time I tug my speedos on over my plump thighs, wrap myself in my towel, and force myself out into the pool for what I now realize is my bi-weekly humiliation session.

There is thankfully no on-land, prolonged presentation of my body for the enjoyment of my peers this time, but it’ll prove to be another awful time, its effects spilling into my future school life.
 
This time there are 8 kids just hanging around, watching me expectantly, waiting for me to hang up my towel. The attention makes me feel like I’m on fire.  
 
What else can I do? I shamefully open the towel and present my scantily clad body to my peers, my muffin top spilling out of my little speedo, my plump buttocks ballooning out of their tight harness. A catcall from behind me, then giggles, then laughter. This time the Little Mermaid references come non-stop.
 
“Oh no Ariel! You lost your seashell bra!”
 
“Hey Ariel, where’s Sebastian? And Flounder?”
 
“Look Little Mermaid, you have legs, your wish came true!”

“She looks like she’s gonna cry! Ariel, you should call Prince Eric, he’ll make you feel better!”

“I never noticed before that the Little Mermaid had such a big butt!!”

"Look at his front, there’s not even a little lump! He really is a girl!"
 
I hate them so much. I’m holding back the tears already, keeping my head down, my face blushing brick red. I must look so miserable.
 
The coach comes out and we gather around him.  
 
He explains that today we’ll be practicing holding our breath underwater. We put on our swimming goggles and break into two groups, 11 kids in each. Cesar is not in my group, thankfully. Each group will form into a big circle in the shallow side of the pool, and every time the coach blows his whistle, we’re to submerge, and hold our breath as long as we can. The last one up from each group will be the winner.
 
Oh great, so I can’t even hide my body underwater this time. I will be in clear sight of 10 other kids my age, formed into a circle around me. Of course this seemingly innocuous exercise will turn into the synchronized-swimming version of tormenting me.
 
Most boys jump into the pool, splashing all over, the way boys do. Me, I gently lower myself to the side of the pool, then slowly dip into it, immediately feeling embarrassed about my girly way of entering the water. Two boys start singing Under The Sea at me, Jamaican accent and all.

I recognize one as Buzz-cut, the boy who made fun of me last time, the one who pointed and laughed right in my face.

“Undah da sea! Undah da sea!" they sing. "Dahling is bettah down where you’re wettah, take it from me!” Some other kids join in for a moment before Coach finally tells them to settle down.

He blows his whistle, and we all dip under the water. As soon as we’re submerged, Buzz-cut points right at me and does an exaggerated pantomime of uproarious laughter: shoulders shaking, hand over mouth, head bobbing, rocking back and forth. Soon the boy next to him starts doing it, and then the next boy.
 
Kids start going up for air. I do too. Buzz-cut is the last one up for air. His two buddies cheer him on when he comes out.
 
The whistle blows again. We go under. Buzz-cut keeps repeating exaggerated laughing and pointing. This time half the kids start doing it, including two girls. I keep awkwardly covering my crotch area with my hands and forearms, half bent over, then realize that if I successfully cover up the whole speedo, it’s going to make it seem like I’m naked, and that’s even worse! I cross my arms instead and keep my head mostly down.
 
By the fourth dip every single one of the 4 boys and 6 girls in my group points right at me, and laughs exaggeratedly. Like this is a silly children’s game. Like it’s not making me feel so incredibly small and pathetic.
 
I don’t know what to do with myself, all these eyes on me, nowhere to turn to and no escape. I don’t know where to look. I wish I could hide the anguish on my face.
 
I’m the first one up for air almost every time, I can’t concentrate on sporting activities in this state. I can see every face clearly through my goggles. Every one pointing at me and laughing. I want to drown.

After the breath-holding there is another free swim period, and like last time, by this point I’m nearly out of my body with embarrassment. The kids break into their little cliques and mostly leave me be, stewing in my mortification, splashing in a corner of the pool all by myself, a loser in a tiny speedo trying to act normal.

I notice Cesar glancing at me from afar. As soon as he sees me, he looks away and continues chatting and laughing with his friend. After just two swim classes I realize I’m already a social reject, and I know what he’s thinking: that I’m contagious. I can't really blame him.

[NickTwisp]

Wearing a speedo in a teenage pool environment in the United States today would certainly draw attention, but not necessarily abject ridicule. If you look at high school swim team images from say 30-40 years ago, they were mostly all wearing speedos. Basically, it's a cultural shift where guys don't want to show off that much of their body. I'm told even back then guys were very self-conscious in speedos, however, they were the norm for competition, so the lack of swimsuit modesty was accepted. Not much was left to the imagination from what I've seen in vintage swimteam images.

Continuing great story!

[Miguel85]

AMERICAN HUMILIATIONS - PART 1 - CHAPTER 5

TENSIONS AND FLASHBACKS

The days go by slowly. I frequently bring up to Mother the possibility of maybe, just maybe buying some swimming shorts, just as an option. I try every angle possible, but she never budges. She seems constantly annoyed with me.

“Oh Dios mio!” she exclaims, her hand on her chest. “If I have to hear about this one more time I’ll make you walk to swimming class tomorrow in nothing but your speedo!”

When I’m not ready for bed on time: "you better be in bed in 30 seconds or I’m taking you to work with me tomorrow, in your speedo!"

When I don’t clean my plate: “I’m gonna lock you outside the apartment in your speedo if you don’t finish your food!”

Sometimes she laughs as she says these things, to the point where I can’t tell if she’s being playful and teasing me in some way, but one thing is clear: she simply can’t comprehend how terrible the speedo situation is for me, and no amount of tears will change her mind.

Even worse, these sort of threats start coming more frequently.

While at the laundromat one afternoon Jesse and I are so annoyed at each other we’re throwing elbows. Mother grabs me, just me, by the arm, and nearly yells: “If you don’t stop bothering your sister I’m gonna take your shorts off and leave you in nothing but your underwear, right here, right now, do you understand?!"

A handful of bystanders turn to look. I flush bright red and apologize, hang my head, and stay quiet.

It all starts to feel familiar. A core memory begins to unlock.

In Argentina, we grew up with the occasional spanking over the knee, sometimes administered bare-bottomed.  It's pretty common in South America to spank kids, all my cousins got spanked, it was never really that big of a deal.  My sister got it sometimes, but it was mostly for me, maybe because I was the oldest, so whenever me and Jesse fought, Mother tended to assume I was the instigator.

I'd scream and cry, 10 smacks and it would be over, I'd walk away sniffling, pulling my pants up, rubbing my bottom.  They were embarrassing and they stung like hell, but thankfully were always done in the privacy of our own home.

As I grew older, from a toddler to a little kid, another form of punishment and ‘behavior control’ started being used, one that was worse than a spanking. I haven’t tought much about this in years but sitting quietly in the laundromat that day under the threat of being stripped to my underwear gave me time to reminisce.

When I was about 6 or 7 years old we were in a grocery store in Argentina, and I was being too loud or too annoying, doing whatever it is kids do to drive their parents crazy. Mother had Jesse in her arms, and after telling me to be quiet multiple times, she simply set Jesse down, and before I knew what was happening she had removed my shorts, even lifting each of my feet up to slide them completely off. I was shocked -- in a moment I went from a laughing, loud, annoying kid to a frightned little boy in my underwear -- in public, at the grocery store.

I remember the confusion, the feeling of betrayal, how hot my face got, but mostly the embarrassment of having kids my own age looking at me in my underwear as I started to silently cry. I stayed quiet... I behaved... my only concern became not calling any extra attention to myself. I put my head down and followed Mother around obediently -- exactly what she wanted. 

I realized then that I’d rather take a 30-hit spanking than to be stripped down in public. I guess Mother realized that too, because the spankings pretty much stopped, and the threats of public humiliation came more frequently.

Often I would hear "if you're not outside in 2 minutes I’m sending you to school in your underwear!!!" or "if you keep on bothering your sister I'm gonna put you in the elevator butt naked and press the buttons for every floor!"  She talked a big game, but since the grocery store incident, never actually did any of that stuff, as the threat was enough to keep me in line.

It seems like years since I had heard that type of talk from her. Now, in a new country, with so much change happening all around us, those threats would be used more and more to control the boy she thought was being "corrupted by American life," all becuase he didn’t want to wear a speedo to swimming class.

THE CAGE

My sister and I were already often at each other’s throats, but the speedo situation made me grumpier and meaner every day, until I was constantly snapping at her, and we were nearly always engaged in some kind of combat. I guess whatever bullying I was experiencing in school I would take out on her, as victims of bullying tend to do.

“You’re retarded!” I shout. Hey, it was the 90s.

“Shut up, don’t call me retarded!”

“’tard!”

My favorite names to call my sister were: retard, stup’, dumbass, twerp, mongoloid. I couldn’t help it, I was a jerky tween boy under a lot of stress.

Our yelling escalates until she gets in my face. I put my hand on her forehead and push her backwards (gently!). She takes an exaggerated fall. “MOOOOMMMM Ariel pushed meee!” she yelps. Mother does not like that. She stomps in the room.

“You need a time out!” I think she’s talking to both of us, but she grabs my arm and tugs. “But Moooom, Jesse is being a pain in the as--”

“Don’t say that word!” Mother yells as she drags me to the front door, yanks it open, and pushes me outside.

“I don’t want you in this apartment, you disobedient boy, now you stay here and think about how mean you are to your sister!” She locks the front door. Since the metal security door is locked, I am officially, for the first time ever, trapped in The Cage.

Anyone who walks up or down the stairs in our apartment building can see me through the bars. I don’t even bother knocking on the door or pleading. This isn’t bad, for a punishment. This is less bad than swimming class at least. I have my clothes on. This is mostly private. I can do this.

But boy is it boring. I stand, I sit, I hang my arms out the bars of the security door. After what feels like an hour I hear the apartment door unlocking. Is it finally over? It opens slowly. It’s Jesse, peeking her head through. “Ha ha, you’re in big trouble Ariel!” she laughs, then shuts the door again. “You’re in jail! You’re locked in the cage, haha!” She laughs from the other side of the door.

I’m finally let in at 8pm. My dinner is on the table, cold. I run to the bathroom and pee. I know that I went in during Ducktales, so somewhere between 5:00 and 5:30. My first Cage lockup lasts nearly 3 hours. Or, in kid time, one million years.

If I knew that was to be one of the last times I’d be locked in the cage with the privilege of keeping all my clothes, I wouldn’t have been so upset. Things can always get worse.

MEET (NOT) CUTE

Saturday arrives. Three more days until my next pool humiliation.

At around noon the doorbell rings and Jesse runs to the door shouting, “Annie’s here!” She buzzes the buzzer, then goes outside to open to metal security door.

After a minute she comes back in, followed by the sharp-faced, sharp-elbowed little Asian girl who said I had a girl’s butt at Jesse’s birthday party. She’s wearing high-waisted, loose-fitting denim shorts and a Hello Kitty t-shirt. I immediately start getting sweaty.

“Ugh, Mom said you could have her over?” I grumble.

“Yes she did! Ariel, this is my best friend Annie, I don’t think you were properly introduced,” she says with a polite curtsy as she gestures to Annie.

Annie sticks her hand out like a little adult and straightens her posture.

“Hi Ariel, I’m Annie! It’s nice to officially meet you.” She keeps her arm up and a goofy smile on her face. To get her to stop, I shake her hand, barely looking at her. “Uh-huh,” I say.

“I should apologize, because, I think, the last time, you thought I was laughing at you,” she starts speaking rapid-fire, “but I wasn’t laughing at you, I was just, thinking of like, something else, that was really funny!” That idiotic grin is still on her face.

My eyes squint. She’s not even trying to lie, that doesn’t even make any sense. I want to argue but I mostly just want to avoid any future interaction with her. I know I have reddened. I feel the wave of heat and find I can’t look Annie in the face. I turn back to the TV.

“Hey, we’re both A names!” she continues unabated. “I think your name is prettier than mine though, haha! Were you named after the Disney princess?” she asks, expectantly.

“No, dummy,” I scoff, “I’m 12 and a half years old, that movie came out like 5 years ago, how could I possibly be named after her?!?”

“I’m 12 and a half years ooold,” Annie mimics in a mocking voice. I can’t help but flinch back a little at this childish move. I don’t say anything.

“12 and a half, huh.” she continues. “So you’re probably pretty mature, huh?”

“So what?!” I bark.

“Oh gosh, ok, Mister Mature, you must have, like, so many pubes already!”

What. The. Hell.

“Oh, go away, both of you!” I whine.

“Is your brother always such a geek?” Annie asks Jesse in mock exasperation. My sister responds with an enthusiastic “YESS!!”

“You’re the geek, you’re the one with glasses!” I sneer.

“Hey Ariel,” Annie pronounces it just like in the little mermaid. “What size dress do you wear?”

“Shut uuuuup!” I whine, exasperated.

She just keeps on going. “Now that your wish came true, and you have legs, we should get you a nice dress, one to show off your big girl butt, you know?”

“SHUT UP!” I retort cleverly.

She then turns to Jesse and speaks to her as if I’m not even there. If that was an attempt to make me feel small and stupid, it works. “It really strikes a nerve with him,” she points to me, a snooty, dismissive look on her face, “talking about his BIG GIRL BUTT!” she shouts the last three words.

There it is again, “strikes a nerve.” What the hell.

“Stop talking about my NERVES!” I yell back. “My nerves are fine, you’re not striking anything, ok, now shut up!”

“Shut up!” she mimics.

“Jesse, shut your little friend up!”

“Come on, lets go play,” Jesse pulls Annie by the arm and into our room, thankfully putting an end to this little meeting. I realize my armpits are completely sweaty.

“I’m just kidding, Ariel!” Annie concludes. “Later, geek!”

My hatred for her simmers.

HE KNOWS MY NAME

On Monday I’m back at ESL class. My English keeps improving, although with each passing day I seem to have a harder time concentrating.

Somehow, even though no students from swimming class are actually in my ESL classes, stories start to spread, as stories do. On Monday a boy I’ve never even seen before teases me before class, “Hey Little Mermaid, where are your panties??” he grins. On Wednesday two more boys I have never talked to start calling me Little Mermaid.

Later as I’m walking out of school I hear a high pitched, mocking voice calling from behind me: “Oh Arieeeel!” I know I shouldn’t even turn, but I do. It’s Ryan. He jogs up to me. I get a nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“So now I know your name! No wander you didn’t want to tell me, remember, when I asked you before? Heh.” He chuckles to himself idiotically.

I don’t respond, I just look down, flushing red. He continues.

“Heh, Josh told me there was some sissy wearing swimming panties to the pool, and before he even said who it was, I just knew it had to be you.”

Who is Josh? I visibly wince. I gotta get out of here.

“He said you looked SO retarded up there, pretending to swim, heh!” he laughs while mimicking swimming arm motions. Then, grinning, he looks me dead in the eye: “It’s too bad I wasn’t there to see it, heh!”

I swallow a mouthful of sand and scurry out of there. Great. Now my aspiring school bully knows my name.

MY SMALLEST SECRET

After brushing my teeth that night I grab the little hand-held mirror we keep in the bathroom, and strip off all my clothes. I turn my backside to the full-length mirror that came nailed to the inside of our bathroom door.

Ugh, I hate my reflection. I hate my body. My butt is so big. I bounce a little bit, on my tippy toes, and my butt just jiggles like jell-o. Above my butt I have what can only be described as love handles, a term I first heard on an episode of Dream On on HBO. But that’s not even my widest point. Just below my butt, my thighs jut out even more… it’s like… my thighs have thighs. My narrow shoulders only help to highlight all my non-narrow parts.

I have to face facts: I’m a tall, lanky, skinny, awkward boy who happens to be pear-shaped. A boy that even a random little girl at my sister’s birthday party will make fun of.

When I’m standing normally my knees nearly touch, making my body taper down, causing my thighs to seem even bigger. My feet naturally point in a little bit, giving me a pigeon-toed, anime-schoolgirl stance, making me look like I always have to pee.

And all of that -- all of those embarrassing imperfections -- are now on display for a whole group of kids my own age to laugh at, twice a week, for the foreseeable future, until I convince Mother to be reasonable, or until I manage to think my way out of this awful situation.

I turn again to look at my front side in the mirror. I put my hands behind me, palms flat on my buttocks, and push out. Oh my god. Pushing my thighs out from the back makes them look twice as big. I look so… womanly. This is what it’ll look like if I ever sit down anywhere while wearing the speedo. I hate my life.

As if all of that wasn’t bad enough, it gets even worse, for in between my plump, jiggly thighs sits my actual biggest -- or smallest -- secret… my penis. What can I say about it? I’ve been measuring it since I was about 8 years old, when I first realized that was a thing people cared about … and it has not grown since then.

I remember being a little kid, when we were still living with my father, seeing him walk out of the shower… and being practically traumatized by what I saw. His was like a thick snake, hanging down and heavy, slapping against his thigh.

Mine is like a cruel joke by comparison, jutting straight out, lacking any real mass or girth to weigh it down, and it’s pointy, too, since I’m not circumcised. If my father had a cucumber between his legs, then I have a baby carrot.

2 inches. That’s exactly how big it is, to this day, measured from its base at my testicles to its pointy foreskin end. 2 pathetic inches. If I pulled my foreskin back -- which actually really hurts to do, so I never really do it -- I bet it would be even smaller.

I’ve never had an erection, so I don’t know if I’m a “grower, not a show-er,” another term I first heard on Dream On. (HBO in the early 90s was great learning tool for a curious young boy!)

I know I’m still developing, and I know any day now it could sprout. That’s what I tell myself, anyways.

Needless to say, for years I’ve been doing everything possible to avoid anyone seeing my penis. Other than my mother, my sister, and occasionally my cousin Cesar, who I was sometimes forced to shower with as a very young child (it’s a South American thing), nobody had seen my penis in years. Even I try to avoid looking at it any more than necessary.

And now not only do I have to change in a locker room, twice a week, with other boys my own age, but you never know when Mother might just snap and actually go through with some of her threats. The speedo is bad enough, but the possibility for true humiliation -- of someone discovering my smallest secret -- is just too close for comfort.

[Miguel85]

AMERICAN HUMILIATIONS - PART 1 - CHAPTER 6

THE SCHEME
 
It was the last week in June, and it was hot.

For a month I had endured swimming classes, eight sessions of public humiliation at the hands of my peers, six total hours (45 minutes per class) of being forced to wear a ridiculous speedo in public. Six hours of kids my own age mocking me nonstop.

Every week, the teasing and laughing seemed to escalate. While my cousin Cesar continued walking with me to school, we talked less and less—I just felt too awkward, and I assumed he did too.

Once we got to school, he would distance himself from me, embarrassed to be seen with me, or maybe just embarrassed for me. We didn’t talk about the speedo anymore; it was too shameful. My face told the entire story. I was losing sleep, losing whatever dignity I still possessed, losing my mind. I needed a way out. I had to fix this before school actually started.
 
It was the last Saturday of the month and we were going to the mall. My sister Jesse’s rude, bespectacled little Asian friend, Annie, tagged along.

I hadn’t had much interaction with Annie over the last couple of weeks, thank goodness. 
 
She and Jesse were being obnoxious the entire drive, constantly whispering and giggling, but I had something more pressing on my mind: a scheme to end my speedo humiliations once and for all.

We head into the mall, get McDonald’s for lunch, and scarf it down like hungry little monsters.
 
“Ok kids, I’m gonna use the restroom, don’t go anywhere!” Mother announces and walks off.

The girls keep giggling to themselves, and Annie has not stopped staring at me since we got out of the car. I finally snap: “Ok, WHAT is your problem?!”  
 
“So it is you, right? It's you?!” she jumps up excitedly, spilling some Sprite on her loose, green Camp Chippowa shirt. “You’re the boy in the swimming panties, of course you are!!”  
 
Oh no.
 
“My brother, he was telling me about it, he’s in your class, Benny Chan, the really Chinese kid? I can’t believe it, of course it’s you, that’s soooo funny!” she says in short bursts.

“Oh yeah, Ariel hates his speedo,” Jesse offers up. “He cries about it all the time.”
 
"Shut up, I don’t cry!" I lie, and start turning red. They are ganging up on me, and Annie is being loud as usual. I’m afraid to escalate this and just hope she’ll run out of ammo. “Leave me alone!” I try to shush them.
 
“Benny said that, every class, you wear little panties, and that you always look SOOO stupid, and everyone laughs at you, and that you always turn sooo red, haha! Just like you are now!” she points at me and continues needling.

There’s a hypnotic quality to her stilted, rapid fire manner of speaking and her earnest expression, the way in which her eyes widen and remain fixed on mine with intense scrutiny. I have to shake her loose with an almost physical force. I turn back to my what’s left of my soda, humbled.

“They’re not panties, they’re.. speedos…” I mumble as a sad defence, but she keeps going.

“...and Benny said that everybody was laughing, and calling you Little Mermaid!” She claps her hands happily. “So I guess you are named after her, huh,” she says dumbly.
 
“Shut up!” I whine, almost yelling. “That didn’t happen at all like that,” I lie again. Great, she has managed to engage me in an argument.
 
“As a matter of fact, I wear them because I like them,” I continue pathetically trying to save face in front of this dumb kid I hardly know. “Speedos are the European way,” I pull that fact out of my ass. God what an idiot.

“He’s lying!” my sister interjects. “He’s always complaining about the speedos..”

"Shut up, Jesse!"
 
“Speedos are the European waaaaay,” Annie mimics. “OK OK, I believe you… NOT!”
 
“Ugh get away!” I throw my arms up in frustration and walk away from the girls in a huff. If they don’t leave me alone I’ll never be able to pull off my plan.

"I bet everyone can really see your big GIRL BUTT through your little panties!" Annie shouts, shutting me up for good, and the girls giggle to themselves while I stew.
 
I see Mother walking back towards us. The girls start whining that they want to go to Claires’s. Mother wants to go to SEARS, and I say I want to go to Hot Topic. We agree to meet back in front of the food court in 45 minutes. Finally, sweet freedom.
 
A few week’s worth of meager allowance money in pocket (Mother would often give us maybe $5 a week for doing chores around the house, or to order a pizza while she was out. Jesse and I would often buy very little pizza, and hoard the money) I break into a speedy walk and head to Hot Topic. I quickly purchase a Beavis and Butthead t-shirt, and they give me one of those sturdy, tall bags with handles and a flat bottom made of thin cardboard, perfect for hiding… something else in there. 

So far so good!
 
Then I run over to my actual destination: the Sports Authority next door! I ask for the swimming section, quickly find some shorts my size, grab a black pair, and head to the checkout. A cute blonde girl a couple of years older than me is at the register. “Hi there, did you find everything ok?”
 
“Oh yes, yes, very good,” I say like a dork, and hand over the swimming trunks. “Just.. getting ready for swimming class, uh, starting next week. I’m uhhh… I’m a uh.. a big swimmer!”
 
“Oh yeah, do you go to V.B.H.?”

“The… what? The school?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I uh, I will in September!”
 
She tells me that she’ll be a sophomore there this year. I nod and smile as I finish paying. I see her name tag: Heather. She hands me the shorts. What a glorious moment!
 
“Well then, I’ll see you around, big swimmer,” Heather smiles.
 
“See you around, uh, Heather!” I smile.
 
I bounce off with a pep in my step. I don’t mean to toot my own horn but I think she liked me! It was almost like she was flirting with me!!
 
I fold the shorts flat at the bottom of the Hot Topic bag, and put my Beavis and Butthead shirt on top. I even show it off to my family: “hey look at my cool Beavis and Butthead shirt!”  The girls take one look and sneer: “Beavis and Butthead are stupid!”

As if I care what they think, for the first time in a month I will not be an object of mockery, just a piece of meat to be laughed at.  Annie’s teasing and the girls’ giggles just bounce off me like it’s nothing. 
 
THE JOY OF SHORTS
 
Tuesday afternoon I pack my speedo into my backpack as usual, and hidden at the very bottom of everything, my newly acquired ticket to not feeling like a giant loser all the time: my new swimming shorts.

The doorbell rings. I head down to meet Cesar, and open the door unable to hide my smile.

“Uh, what’s wrong now?” he asks.

“Nothing is wrong. Everything is right,” I respond.

“Huh?”

“Just wait until you see me in class today, I think I may have solved all my problems…”

“What, is your mom gonna let you stop wearing that little thing??” he asks

I frown at him, as if he doesn’t know how in control of my own destiny I am! Then I whisper, even though we are alone, walking down the sidewalk: “She doesn’t actually know.” I grin. He opens his mouth in a conspiratorial shocked smile. “I have the speedo here,” I tap my backpack, “but I have shorts too. So I’m gonna try them today and we’ll see!”

“Dude, that’s awesome!”

“Yeah! Don’t tell my mom, of course!” I add, just because.

“Geez no of course not!” he responds quickly. “Thank god, just in time too, before school starts at least!”

“Yeah, maybe…” I say whimsically. “It was just a few classes, maybe everyone uh…” I start to doubt it as I say it. “maybe everyone will forget about the speedos by then.”

“Yeah I’m sure.” Cesar echoes, sounding just as unsure.

We walk in silence for a moment.

Yes. My shorts. They’re gonna fix everything.
 
Big and black and baggy, oh how beautiful they are. And since they are shorts that look like shorts, I don’t even have to change in the dressing room. When we get to school I head into a proper bathroom, get into a stall, change from my current jean shorts into my swimming trunks, and head right into the pool dressing room. Now I have nothing to put on, just my shirt and shoes and socks to remove.

And that’s it, I’m done. I walk right out there, towel over my shoulder, every embarrassing part of my body well-hidden under my new shorts.

“Where are your panties, Ariel?”

“Oh no, Ariel’s wearing shorts now!”

Everyone still teases me, all acting disappointed at my new look, but I don’t care. I’m finally free. God, for once I don’t feel nauseous in swim class.

“Hey Ariel, where’s your little bikini?”

“Who’d you steal those shorts from, Ariel?”

Who cares, what matters now is I’m not exposed! I can blend in! 

I see Cesar with another group a few feet away, he gives me a thumbs up. Thumbs up right back to you, cousin!

Maybe by September the whole speedo fiasco will be forgotten about. Maybe the name-calling will die down. Maybe I can just fade into the background and be a normal kid again. Maybe!
 
THE AGONY OF ANNIE

It’s Thursday night. I’m still on cloud 9 after a successful week of my sneaky swimming shorts scheme, but Annie is once again aiming to knock me down a few pegs. 

 I am officially pretty sick of her whole act. At first she was just annoying, but at the mall she was actively trying to embarrass me, in public, about the speedo, and she again brought up my so-called girl butt.

It sounds silly for a near-teenage boy to admit, but this 11 year old girl is making me uncomfortable. All I wanna do is watch some TV and as usual Annie and Jesse are chattering away, being annoying.

“Hey Ariel, I know you love your European style speedo,” Annie says that last part in a snooty accent aimed at mocking me, unaware that the speedos are now a thing of the past, “but when you’re not wearing it, do you wear boys underwear or do you wear panties?” 

“Shut uuuuup.”

“Hey Ariel, do you like any boys at school, do any of them think you’re cute?”

“Shut UP!”

“Hey Ariel, how many pubes do you have? I bet it’s... 4!”

Oh my god, her and this pube talk! The two of them giggle wildly. While Jesse almost never instigates, she always quickly falls in line behind Annie. 

“Leave me alone, you friggin’ weirdo!”

“Weave me awone, you fweakin’ weirwo!” she repeats in a whiny voice. 

Oh Mylanta, I’ve had enough. “Stop! Talking! To me!” I finally scream at her.

“Fine, I’ll just talk to Jesse instead!” she declares. “Hey Jesse, does your brother have a little peepee, or a teeny tiny little peepee?” She laughs at her own joke.

“Tiny,” my sister answers matter-of-fact.

“Shut up! And I don’t have a peepee, you immature baby--”

“Oh, you have a weewee then?" Annie interrupts smugly. "That’s a vagina, you know. I suspected that.”

“No, idiot, I mean, I have a penis, obviously, only babies would call it a peepee, you’re so immatur--”

“Hey Jesse, has your brother ever been out on a date?”

“Hehe, no waaay!”

“Hey Jesse, has your brother ever kissed a girl?”

Jesse laughs, “I doubt it!”

“Shut up, you little brats, grow up!” I whine, high on my high horse.

“Not even on the cheek?” Annie continues.

“No waaay!” Jesse retorts as they fall over laughing, looking right at me. I blush, sigh a deep, exaggerated sigh and stomp out of the room. I’m fuming.

Then I stomp back in. “And I did kiss a girl, I did!” I lie.

“Your mom doesn’t count,” Annie hits back, not missing a beat. A wounded look briefly crosses my face as she cracks up. I poker-face it as best I can and close the door again, a lot less vigor in me now