Memories of a boy

When I was eight years old my family moved for a few years to Germany. At that time I couldn't speak any German, but I was to enter right away into a regular German primary school. Before my first day of school I memorized just one sentence: “Entschuldigung, wo ist die Toilette?”, which means: “sorry, where is the toilet?”.
I do not remember much from that time, but I remember distinctly one incident: one day after school, when I was on my way home, a little boy from another class followed me, and when nobody could see us he pushed me so that I fell. I turned to face him and for a brief second I looked in his eyes, and then he run away.
I told my parents about what happened, my parents told the teacher, and the teacher scolded the little boy. The boy approached me never again, but during breake-time he would always glare at me.
My parents explained to me that the little boy was in love with me, and that all little boys are a bit awkward about expressing their affections and so he pushed me - you know, something like pulling a girl's hair. Of course I didn't believe them - I was eight, but not dumb. There has never been any love in his eyes. I was sure that the boy pushed me because I was different, because whenever I tried to speak German strange sounds would come out of my mouth.
We were too young to understand what racism means, however, isn't racism exactly this – hating somebody because he or she is different and we cannot completely understand them?