I was six years old in 1988, just starting grade one, and already knew I was different. At that time, 90% of my body was covered with psoriasis. People looked at me strangely, and even at such a young age, I noticed.

On the first day of school, I walked in feeling pretty good. I wore a neon pink bodysuit with black leggings, knee-high neon green socks, and my hair crimped into a side ponytail—after all, it was the ’80s. But by lunchtime, that confidence was gone.

The psoriasis on my face was impossible to hide. Red and flaky, it left behind what I called “crumbs” everywhere I went. I chose a seat beside a girl who seemed friendly at first, but after a quick glance, she shifted uncomfortably and then moved to another desk. The boy who sat down next to me complained loudly about having to sit there—though, in truth, he wasn’t exactly a prize himself, considering he ate glue.

At recess, as I reached for my coat at the hooks, I heard it for the first time: “Rice Krispy eyes.” At first, I didn’t realize they were talking about me. Innocently, I asked what it meant. The kids screamed “YOU!” and ran off laughing.

That moment marked the beginning of something much larger—years of teasing, isolation, and shame that would follow me throughout my school career.

Fiction- however based on real lived events.