He waits for me after school every day in seventh grade to begin the torment. “Where’s your raghead mom?” he asks. I ignore him. “You all should go back to where you came from,” he adds. My chest tightens. My breathing feels shallow. When my mother arrives in her minivan, he notices. “Raghead. There’s your raghead mom.” He taunted me day after day, week after week. I didn’t dare breathe a word of it to my immigrant parents, already doing too much to survive in our nearly all-white Houston suburb.