The only Ukrainian in an Irish Catholic high school,
my father suffered at the ignorant hands
of beasts who called him stupid Slav and Uki Redneck.

Years later, in rural West Virginia, I, too, suffer at the hands of ignorant beasts–boys and girls alike–
on the playground in sixth grade.
It’s winter, and you have a tan, the teasers say, and your last name is weird. I hang my head, my dark hair falling over my dark eyes,
tears sliding down my cheeks’ Slavic slant.
It’s not weird, I defend, my cheeks flaring with anger. It’s Ukrainian.
Ew, what’s that? they ask disgustedly. You’re a spy! You’re a Russian spy!
How dare they call me a spy? How dare they call me a Russian spy? On a global map they could never identify Russia.
Nor do they know that the Russians wanted to exterminate my great-grandfather, my grandfather, my father, me–all for
being Ukrainian.
I’m not Russian; I’m half-Ukrainian, I say, balling my fists, wanting to hit them, wanting to spit on them, wondering why I
have to defend myself to this ethnically challenged crowd, wondering if this is how my father felt 40 years ago in high school
when his peers pounded him not only with fists but also with slurs.