In between my massive shopping spree at Victoria’s Secret, I spent my day studying on and off for final exams. After placing my huge order at 3AM, I checked my email for a confirmation and ran across my childhood friend’s Xanga post: Someone Called Me a Chink. I was then so traumatized by his description of his high school years that I suddenly felt sick.

…with a single phrase, my words of mediation turned into, “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY? YOU ARE FUCKING DEAD. CALL ME A CHINK AGAIN. SAY IT TO MY FACE. I AM GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU. KILL YOU!”

Sure, kids are brutal to one another. But when it comes down to it, I have to admit that I don’t really recall being picked on. The subject even came up in a conversation just last week.

“Did they ever make fun of you, call you any names?” he asked after sharing his amusing high school stories.

“I went to a nerd school. We didn’t really make fun of each other. We did, however, have horrible math jokes like, ‘I’ll take your mom to the limit,’ ” I laughed.

When I think about it, yeah, maybe it’s a bit odd. I spent so many of my formative years in the Midwest, yet I have so few memories involving serious racism of any kind directed towards me. Maybe I was just lucky to have left at the right time and to have returned to a school with a 35% Asian population. Or maybe I really was, and still am, just that oblivious.

They say that ignorance is bliss. I don’t know who they are, but today, after having read that, and after trying to understand, I think they might be right.