Old-School Diary / 80s Style

Dear Diary,

They pulled me out of my regular class again today. Reading class. I didn’t want to go. The boys stare at me too much. The teacher doesn’t stop them. She looks scared too.

I wore big clothes today so they won’t look at me. But they still touched me. Whispered in my ear. Pulled on my hair. Their girlfriends hit me when I say something.

I feel dirty. I feel alone. I don’t want mom and dad to know. I feel ashamed.

Tonight the phone rang. Granny said we had to go to the police station. They said I’m not safe. They said some boys were arrested. They said there might be more.

Tomorrow a police officer has to walk me to class.

Diary… I just want to feel safe again.

When School Became a War Zone

I walked into that reading class not knowing I was being placed in the middle of a gang.
Literally — in the middle of them.

I didn’t know who they were at first, but I learned fast.
They made my life hell every day.
Touching me when I wore a dress.
Rubbing my leg.
Whispering things in my ear.
Touching my hair, my ears, my legs.
Playing mind games to make their girlfriends jealous so they could start on me too.

And my teacher…
She was weak, scared of them just like I was.
She let them run her class, so that meant they ran me.

I didn’t know where to turn.
I felt dirty… wrong… ashamed.
Like it was some horrible secret I had to carry on my own.

So I learned to dress myself down.
No dresses.
Nothing that showed skin.
Nothing that might “attract attention.”
I quit raising my hand.
I quit reporting what they did.
I just tried to survive each day and prayed to God to carry me through.

When They Followed Me Outside the Classroom

It didn’t stay inside that room.
They started harassing me outside of class — in the mornings before school, circling me, blocking my path, intimidating me.
A circle of them.
A trap.

I felt alone and invisible at the same time.

My teacher was scared.
So I became scared too.

And because she had no control over them, they felt even more powerful.

I felt like there was nowhere to go.
Nowhere safe.
No adult strong enough to help me.

So I stayed quiet.
I hid inside myself.
And I never told my parents — not because they wouldn’t care, but because shame makes you believe you’re the problem.

When God Stepped In

I kept praying.

Even feeling small, dirty, broken down — I knew God saw me.
I knew His hands were over me even when nothing made sense.

I held on to Him because He was the only place I felt safe.

And then one night, everything changed.

The Night Everything Came to Light

I was doing homework on my bed, listening to my music tapes, just trying to be a normal 8th-grade girl…
when the house phone rang.

My granny was on the line.
Her voice was urgent, almost shaking.
She told me I needed to leave the house immediately and go to the police station — for my own safety.

A friend of a friend — someone with pull in the community — had gotten word that police had arrested part of that gang near my home.

And they had gotten another tip that I had a hit out on my life.

For a child.
For a young girl.
For a kid just trying to survive school.

I didn’t even want to believe it… but I had no choice.

We went to the police station.
I had to talk to an officer I used to babysit his kids for.
My parents were shocked — because I had told absolutely no one except my teacher.

But it was all real.

The Cop Who Protected Me

The next morning, the school had to assign me a police escort.

Back in the 80s, you didn’t see officers in schools unless someone did something very wrong — so everyone looked, everyone whispered.

And I couldn’t explain a thing, because they were still trying to find the rest of the group responsible for the hit.

But that officer…
I will never forget him.

He was professional.
He didn’t embarrass me.
He kept his distance just enough so I could still feel human — but close enough to let me feel safe for the first time in months.

He protected me silently.
Tenderly.
With respect.

And to this day, I keep him in my heart.
Because when a child is drowning in fear, one safe adult can feel like a lifeline.

And Then… Silence

Once the investigation ended, everything was swept under the rug.

I was pulled out of the reading class.
Put back into regular classes.
Told to move on.
Be quiet.
Be a “good little soldier.”

No one asked how I felt.
No one asked what I had gone through.
No one talked about it ever again.

But I carried it.
In my body.
In my mind.
In my story.

Why This Story Matters

Because this happened because I had dyslexia.
Because the school didn’t know what to do with kids who learned differently.
Because the system rushed to “fix my reading level” without caring about the environment they threw me into.

Educational decisions are safety decisions.

Placing a vulnerable child in the wrong class can be dangerous.
It nearly cost me my life.

This is why I speak.
Why I write.
Why I fight for kids like me.
Why I tell my story even when it hurts.

Children with learning differences deserve:

• Safe classrooms
• Trained teachers
• Protection
• Respect
• Support
• And environments that lift them up — not destroy them

My Final Thoughts

God was with me before I even understood what protection meant.

When I was placed in that dangerous reading class, I felt fear I didn’t have the words for. I felt violated, ashamed, and alone. But even in the middle of what I lived through, I felt something greater holding me together.

God.

I prayed.
I cried silently.
I asked Him to get me through another day.

And He did.

He sent protection the night my grandmother called with the warning — the night everything came out. He placed a police officer in my path who became a shield around me. A man who treated me with dignity, who didn’t make me feel embarrassed, who stood close enough for safety but far enough for respect.