I was eleven in 1981. I am dyslexic.
Plywood propped atop cinder blocks provided a ramp for us to jump our BMX bikes over. Taking turns, we would lay down in the path as bikes hopped over us. Tying a rope to the bike seat made a towline and keeping balance on a skateboard was near impossible when the bike jerked to a start.
“Come on retard,” yelled Dickey, holding the rope when I was on the bike. There was a new girl there that I didn’t know. When Dickey was on the skateboard, calling me retard, I felt my face flush. Telling him to stop calling me that would just make it last longer. I peddled slowly, then with a burst of energy, I yanked him off the skateboard and he fell, cutting up his arms.
“You fucking retard. I should have known better than to let a stupid fucking retard pull me,” he said, walking off in the direction of his home. I didn’t care. It felt good hurting him.
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