DATE: Sunday, July 6, 1997                  TAG: 9707040079

SECTION: DAILY BREAK             PAGE: E7   EDITION: FINAL 

COLUMN: IMPERFECT NAVIGATOR

SOURCE: ALEXANDRIA BERGER

                                            LENGTH:   64 lines

TAUNTS CAN DISABLE CHILDREN EMOTIONALLY

AT AGE 9, I lost my innocence to the realities of society's prejudice. We had just moved to the country. I was starting the fifth grade.

Farm kids in overalls carrying dome-shaped pails took their seats in the classroom. The girls wore pigtails tied at the ends with bows. The boys smelled as if they didn't bathe. My kinky Shirley Temple locks frizzed in the morning heat, exploding into what looked like an atomic cotton candy mushroom cloud.

Hanging on the wall was an enormous American flag.

An old man with white hair and a cane wrote his name on the blackboard: ``Bosley.'' His left leg was wooden. As he spoke, he cracked his cane against his leg, then thumped around the room. Thump . . . thump . . . thump . . .

``Last names,'' he demanded.

Smith. Jones. White. Byers. Sommes. It was my turn. ``Goldstein,'' I said, standing up.

``A JEW!'' Bosley bleated.

``IS THERE ANYONE ELSE IN THE CLASS, WHO'S A JEW?'' he demanded, not waiting for my response.

There was only the sound of silence.

The next day, a smelly boy spit on me, and hissed, ``Jew girl,'' as I stepped off the school bus. Soon, the other kids joined in.

I wiped the spit from my face. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. ``Fat, kinky-headed dumb Jew. My father said you have horns.''

I started to run up the steps. My foot slipped. My chin came crashing down on the concrete step above. I felt a warm wet trickle run down my neck and onto my white blouse. I looked down at the red stain as I groped for the steps.

Two kids blocked the door and giggled, ``Little Jew girl. Show us your horns.''

I could feel the sticky spit in my hair, on my face, on my arms. Then someone grabbed my lunch bag. ``Hey, let's see what little Jew girls eat? Worms. Greasy slimy gopher guts.''

Just then, I heard the thumping sound. ``What's happened here?''

``She fell,'' said the smelly boy.

``We tried to help her,'' said a dimple-cheeked girl.

In between sobs, that night at dinner I told my parents, ashamed. My father put his fork down. ``Remember when you had polio and the other kids were afraid of your leg braces? Don't let those kids' standards dictate who you are.''

We never spoke about it again. Nor did he know that, every day for the rest of the year, I arrived at school only to face the line of kids perched like jackals on the steps waiting to spit on me.

The next year, I was voted class president.

So, please note, this is about the physically healthy child, the perfectly normal kid, whose emotional pain is often ignored, and written off as part of growing up. There is no greater cruelty for children than having their peer group see them as ugly, different or unacceptable. Just ask your kids.

My story happened more than 45 years ago. Across the country today, there are thousands of kids being emotionally abused by their peers. Without parental guidance, they can become emotionally disabled. Whether poor, bused to a wealthy school, unattractive by their peers' standards, biracial, religiously different, it doesn't matter. There is no charity to which one can donate money to give these kids a continued feeling of acceptance and security. But perhaps there should be. Maybe then we'd find a cure for prejudice, and respect the meaning behind the American flag.

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