“Baby Bobby! Baby Bobby!” The words stung and Mike knew it—he could read it in my face.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me!” I yelled back.

Mike just laughed; he knew I didn’t believe it. Bolstered by figuring out how to push my buttons, he continued to torment me as I walked home from school.

“Baby Bobby! Baby Bobby!”

The charge had an element of truth because I had cried several times in first grade, but I was now in fifth grade and had long outgrown my fear of school. I recalled the menacing teacher who pounded her paddle on our desks and threatened to spank us if we kept talking in class. She made several kids cry, but I was the one who got the reputation. It wasn’t fair, but four years later I was still ashamed of my crying, and Mike knew it. He continued the harassment.

“Baby Bobby! Baby Bobby!”

He stuck his face right in mine and stated deliberately, “Baby… Bobby!”

 …