Of all the kids in special ed, Herman was easily the scariest. He wore a hockey helmet because he would beat his own head against the wall if left unattended. The helmet also helped keep him from pulling his own hair out, which was another thing he unfortunately did. But the thing about Herman was his last name: Chase. His name was Herman Chase, but he was no relation to me.

Everyone assumed that he was my brother or maybe my cousin. And every now and then someone would ask me something about him. "I don't know him," I'd say, truthfully. If the person asking me was a girl, or if a girl or (worse yet) group of girls overheard the conversation, they'd get pissed off at this point.

"That's really mean," they'd say. "Pretending you don't know your own brother just because he's mental." That's the word everyone used: "mental."

And at that point, there was nothing I could do to convince these girls that I wasn't lying, that I was not, in fact, related to Herman Chase, and that I did not know anything about him. The more I tried, the more they looked at me with bitter disgust.

In this regard, I was the Ray Ramono of 4th grade.