They walk to class every day with your children, at least they do if you allow your children to brave these unhallowed halls. They smile and charm and seem so beguilingly normal. But danger is lurking for the unaware, for these fine young barbarians are armed with the weapons of hauteur and disdain, sharpened and at the ready. They will not hesitate to use them.

So just let your innocent child drop a positive comment about the Bible Study he attended Wednesday night. The fine young barbarian will produce a distinctly audible sniff. Your child will somehow, well, forget to mention Bible Study next week. He may even forget to go.

Your sweet young thing wears a modest, but fashionable, outfit to school. The nearest fine young barbarian masquerading as one of the mean girls will make a devastating comment on sweet young thing’s lack of style. Next thing you know, sweet young thing is tugging the neckline of her shirt down lower after she leaves the house, and harboring fantasies of getting a tattoo “right there”, maybe a flower or a bird, even a cross. She might try out a come-hither look in front of the bathroom mirror. Only when the door is locked, of course.

No one talks about disdain as being a weapon, but it is. It is lightweight, requires no concealed-carry license, and is handy to take out and use at any time. It requires no wit or intellect, just a desire to make someone else feel smaller than they are. Especially someone whose beliefs don’t fall in line with the mainstream, no matter how twisted that mainstream is.

And when disdain is not strong enough a weapon, a truly fine young barbarian can always rely on selective destruction or acquisition of personal property. That nice pen, the $25 one with the soft middle that makes writing more comfy for your little guy? The one he swore he wouldn’t lose when he tucked it in his backpack this morning? Let him leave the classroom to visit the restroom and it will magically spirit itself out of the zipper pocket he carefully put it in. And no one will know where it went. Lips will be stuck together as tight as Velcro when the teacher tries to I.D. the perpetrator.

The iPod you reluctantly allowed your teen to bring to school vanishes when left on the desk. The new cell phone, the one that you gave her to replace the last one she “lost” or “broke”? Gone, silently and swiftly.

The silent shrug of the fine young barbarian, that delicately lifted and dropped shoulder, will keep the Other, your child, from pressing the point of his suspicion, even if he or she knows that punishment awaits at home for losing that expensive toy. He’d rather endure daddy’s spanking, yes, even at fourteen years of age, than endure that shrug and the sniggers the other kids exude. He knows he’s been had. He also knows that he will always be the Other, on the outside looking in. The fine young barbarians recognize each other, and recognize the Other. They recognize their prey.

It gets even worse when your family’s beliefs don’t run to the multi-culti norm these days. The first time Little Sam or Little Miss avoids the crowd fawning on the athlete with the permanent tan, someone’s going to notice, and that someone is most likely a fine young barbarian. “What’s the matter, Sam? You jealous or something?” The pretty girl hanging off the tan guy’s arm is White, and she squeals with obvious pleasure when he pulls her closer and plants one on her. After all, didn’t he make the most number of points in the last game?

Seeing her kiss his thick, dark lips turns Sam’s stomach, but if he gives the slightest hint of what he’s feeling, someone will notice, someone will say something, someone might call him a…a bad name.

So he doesn’t flinch. He smiles, and tries to fit in. “Hey, Maurice, great game!” He exclaims, and wonders why he really wants to cry.

Two weeks later he’s over it.

Two weeks later he might be walking to the movie theater with Maurice and his date, a nice girl really, once you got to know her. After all, it certainly doesn’t matter what color a guy’s skin is, what matters is his personality, his ethics, his…

He might be wondering why he can’t get the sour taste out of his mouth each time he sees Maurice plant one on Lisa’s pale cheek or painted lips.

He might be wondering why he can’t forget his daddy’s advice to leave those people to their own kind, to not meddle in the business of other races.

He might be wondering what that pretty girl sees in Maurice, how she could possibly find him attractive.

But he won’t say anything.

Someone might call him a bad name.

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