“That chick’s an [insert explicit language here].”

Really? Did he really just say that about me? I wasn’t meant to hear it, but I guess he didn’t understand the phrase “under your breath.”

I didn’t even know the guy; he was from Mansfield and in my TCC English class. His reason for calling me such a crude name was even worse than him not actually knowing me. I had been joking around with a kid in my group who happened to work with my brother at Studio Movie Grill. He was calling my brother gay, so I told him “The Jerk” was a terrible song and even had a few facts to back up my accusation.

I don’t know why anyone would even care what I thought about “The Jerk.” I personally prefer Folk music and bands like Frighten Rabbit and the gorgeous lyrics of Ray LaMontagne, pretty far from the rap spectrum. But I thought I would give my little group mate (we’ll call him Summit guy) a hard time, I wasn’t trying to offend anyone, and I didn’t think he would care about my opinion. But someone did.

“You can have your own opinion about something, but you still have to respect someone else’s opinion,” Mansfield guy said, talking fast.

Whoa. I just kind of looked at him in a questioning way. I couldn’t tell if he was serious, but his face was a little too close to turning red. I raised my eyebrows and turned to focus my attention back on my group.

After a couple of minutes, Mrs. Quesenbury called our group up to the front for our presentation. Summit guy said something weird, not really making sense.

“Where did you hear that?” Mrs. Quesenbury said.

“Oh, he just kind of says things,” I said, giggling.

“Well I like the things he says,” Mansfield guy said. “So he should keep saying them.”

Then Mansfield guy turned his head and muttered the words he didn’t think I would hear.

“Excuse me? What did you say?”

I despised the word he had just called me, but I found myself even more worried about being “that chick.” He didn’t even know my name. Instead of saying “she” he only said “that chick.”

The rest of the day I tried to figure out what had happened. I tried to link a series of events to this outburst. I came to one conclusion: he was eaves-dropping and heard some things he didn’t understand.

I had been joking with Summit guy, saying things like “I don’t even like you” and “Man, you say some of the strangest, most random things.” Apparently, the country-ish Mansfield dude thought I was being a bully or something, but it’s funny my Summit friend didn’t even realize I had done anything wrong.

When I told him I didn’t mean anything by what I had said. He replied with “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But I had offended the gentleman six feet away.

Throughout the day, this little ordeal bothered me. But then I realized how funny it was and how many places I belong. I was not “that chick” at my school, at church or at work. There were even some really random places where people know my name. So being “that chick” to burly country man I see twice a week shouldn’t make a difference. Chances are I won’t even see him in ten years. Plus the cool guy from Summit wasn’t offended by anything I said. So why worry about something so small?

Later that night I decided to let a couple people know how much I appreciate them and what I love about them. One of my friend responded with, “I love your brain, it’s beautiful and refreshing.” So take that Mansfield boy whose name I don’t know, Priscilla Robledo thinks I have a beautiful brain.