In another week or so, children all over the US will return to schools, and teens and young adults will be returning to college. The purpose of school is to gain an education. Unfortunately, it is also a place where some have to build defensive shields to protect themselves from the brutal onslaught of bullying. As a target of bullies from grade four through grade 10, my empathy for the victims of bullying is strong. And, for a long time, my hatred of the bullies was intense.
Thankfully, I was targeted in a time before cyber bullying was possible. Instead, I had objects thrown at me in geometry; I had clothespins tacked to my pigtails in 6th grade science; I was listed as second least attractive on a poll conducted by my 5th grade elementary school class, and I was tormented by neighbors and supposed friends on the school bus from 6th through 10th grades.
By 10th grade my bullies had me convinced I was ugly, poor, stupid and unlovable. I was different from my classmates, but not THAT different. I grew up more slowly. I stayed interested in childhood pursuits much longer, and my naiveté was evident by some of the taunts thrown at me. When I was 11, two girls asked me if I was a virgin. I had never heard of the word, so I figured they meant allergic (remember, I was only 11). I said no, as I had no allergies, and the two girls tilted their heads together and cackled. I knew I had given the wrong answer.
When I told my mom about being called names, she did not seem to grasp the severity of the situation (nor did she know how cruel some kids could be… as she and dad had both been ‘cool’ kids in their hometowns). The first time I shared one of the more brutal comments, my mom raged with anger and called the mother of the boys who had told me that “the best part of you ran down your father’s leg.” I know the mother of the boys cried (because Mom told me), but that did not end the torment. It intensified it. The next day on the school bus, I was vilified by the rest of the kids for tattling.
So, I learned to keep my mouth shut and suck it up. Like many young girls, I was going through a caterpillar stage, and every change puberty threw at me made me look that much more different. The braces and the pimples compounded my stick straight scrawny figure. No curves, no hips, no breasts. I really wondered if I could get any uglier. By 10th grade, my skin was tough, my shell nearly impenetrable. I developed a caustic and sarcastic wit that could lacerate those who dared insult me. And, as a natural observer (if you were quiet, you didn’t draw as much attention to yourself), I had ammo that stunned my enemies. Cross me at your own peril.
One comment, though, really got under my skin… but I was growing up enough to analyze what was said to me. A semi-popular classmate asked me if I were a farmer (because of the outfit I wore to school that day… a matching knit short set I borrowed from my mom. Obviously, the outfit was not agricultural, but this was her way of asking if I were poor.). I was puzzled. I mean, yes, I lived in the country, and we had a lot of land, and we had cattle and pets. But, we weren’t poor. I was pretty sure of that.
So, I asked Mom. That was the day of the shopping spree. And the day I found out we were wealthy. If I could frame a memory, I would place that one in a large gilt rectangle and hang it over the fireplace in my living room. Mom told me to get my butt in the van, and we drove into town, and we shopped. And shopped. And shopped. From that moment on, I was covered in Izods, Levi’s, Sasson, Jordache, and Calvin Klein… if it were an 80s name brand, I had it. In one afternoon, Mom had removed one of the rings of the bull’s eye I had been carrying for six years.
Puberty removed the rest. I grew into my looks. My figure blossomed, my features sharpened, and I grew my hair out. Boys started asking me out. And I started saying no.
Why? Because I was still hurting inside. The weapons were removed, but the wounds lingered. I had an immense level of anger inside of me, a righteous anger that often exploded and frightened people. I finished the last two years of high school without any tormentors, but I had become a cold and non-trusting person. Overtures of friendship were viewed with rampant suspicion. And I had become mean. Snide. Cruel. And I did not like myself for a whole new set of reasons. In the mirror, I began to resemble my bullies. Change was essential.
College helped. Starting over at a new school with new faces and no history meant a complete do-over. And shock of all shocks, I was considered beautiful, smart, and popular. I kept waiting for the chair to be pulled out from under me, but it didn’t happen. And I started to soften and trust. When chosen by the English Graduate Society to be our representative for the ECU Homecoming Court, I accepted… as I knew it wasn’t some set up to a brutal joke.
Over the years, I have forgiven those who bullied me. I’ve even begun to forget some of the events (only to be reminded because of old journals). I despise the act of bullying, though and I will be the first to step in if I see it enacted. Over the years, my classrooms (when I taught K-12) were a haven for what my fellow educators called the “Island of Misfit Students”. I really didn’t care what the hell my classroom was labeled, as long as students knew it was a safe place to be and to learn.
Today, I am enjoying my last week off before I have to ready myself for the fall college semester. I don’t see as much bullying at this level, though it does still happen, and I do still read the riot act when necessary. If someone tried to pick on me or insult me or torment me in anyway today, I would sit down and laugh until tears ran from my eyes. Then I would hand them a box of diapers and wet wipes and tell them to come back when they were grown up enough to act like an adult.
So, why this long and personal diatribe? Because, some kids don’t have a Super Mom like me… or the good friends I did have to buffer the pain… or the little brother who looked up to them… or any of the other coping mechanisms and luck sprinkled across my path. So, for these kids, I ask of you a favor. Don’t assume your kids are not bullied just because they don’t talk to you about it. Pay attention to their behavior. Are they suddenly quieter? Do they often avoid certain classes or activities? Does the former A student begin to hate school?
Finally, don’t assume your kids cannot be bullies. You’d be shocked at who can actually be a bully. I know I was.
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