When I was a child, going to the library was always an exciting excursion. I loved filling my arms with dozens of hard-cover story books and plopping down in one of the big cozy chairs in the library’s loft to read them.

But one time something terrible happened at the library.

I was about five years old, walking down one of the book aisles, when I saw a pair of little native kids, one girl and one boy, about my age and they gave me the evil eye. I shrugged it off and carried on with my literary selections. But then they passed me again, whispering mean nothings in each other’s ears, glaring at me all the while. I didn’t know what to make of their sharp stares or rude whispers, so I just gathered my books and went to sit on a big chair to read them. I had just flipped the second page of my book when all of a sudden I looked up and there were the two kids standing right over me. The little boy grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me out of the chair and threw me on the ground. The little girl hit me and punched me. I was so shocked that I didn’t even think to cry out. My scalp burned as the little jerk pulled on my hair. After a few minutes of the brutality, they just stopped and walked away and left me in a shuddering heap on the floor, my books scattered everywhere.

I remember straigtening my hair and wiping my tear stained eyes, then silently gathering my load of books before I walked downstairs to meet my dad and go home.

I didn’t tell my dad what had happened.

I didn’t tell another soul for about a decade after.

I was afraid they would find out that I tattled and they would come and kill me.