In order to respond to this article, I will relate a small anecdote. My story is like a million others, but I will never forget the day I was anointed with the nickname that followed me until I left for college: “Cockroach.”
The person who christened me was an upperclassman woman who had clearly been blessed by puberty, and I was an awkward freshman at middle school. We were supposed to work on a school festival thing, but every single thing I suggest was dismissed with an increasingly annoying tone. I got sick of her attitude and called her out on it.
Her response was unforgettable: “Look kid, you’re disgusting. You’re poor, you’re annoying, you’re fat, and you’re insufferable. You’d do the world a favor if you stepped on the balcony and threw yourself in the pavement. If you’re not doing that, prepare for a life time where the only woman who will ever want you will be out of pity, convenience, or because she went through the good men first. You’re someone’ s second husband at best, and I pity the poor slag who wants you. Even she will see what you are, a cockroach.”
To this day, she has not been wrong. To this day, several years and a national border after, I am still a cockroach. And much like cockroaches, I am far from the only one.