“Hammerhead, Hammerhead, Hammerhead…” On and on it went. Endless teasing from two of my second grade classmates in the halls and on the blacktop playground at Neshaminy Elementary school in Langhorne, PA.

I played with the boys at recess. The girls jumped rope. I joined games of tag. The occasional fall landed me in the nurse’s office where I got a bandaid plus a scolding about not “being like the other little girls.” I replied that I thought jump rope was dumb, straightened my socks so the knit pattern was aligned and dashed back out to rejoin the fun. (Once, in exasperation, the nurse told me that she wouldn’t give me any more bandaids. But, the next time I showed up, she simply shook her head and was her usual gentle self addressing my bare knees.)

The “Hammerhead” chant grew beyond my two classmates to other boys playing tag. I’d had enough. The next day, I found my friends on the playground and said, with hands behind my back, “I have a hammerhead shark.” “No, you don’t!” “Yes, I do. It’s a baby and really, really small. Come over here and I’ll show you.” They followed me to a spot away from the other kids. I held my cupped hands in front of me. As they leaned down to look, I reached up, grabbed them each by the back of their shirt collars and smacked their heads together. “Don’t ever call me Hammerhead, again!” They never did.

FB 4/29/22