Bully-Proof, part 1

 

 

This post has haunted me for some time now. I know the story must be told, and I know the time is now for whatever reason. I share my experience and what I’ve learned from it, hoping it will have some benefit somewhere to someone.

 

 

Sixth grade in 1982 in Las Vegas was a horrible social experiment gone horribly wrong. I know I just used the same word twice in one sentence, but I can’t think of a more fitting word.

 

Suburban kids (like me) were bused to inner-city schools devoted just to the sixth grade, and inner-city kids were bused to suburban schools. I’m not sure what the logic was, but it cost a lot in time and school bus gas money. It also created an interesting social situation; an entire school of nothing but sixth-graders. With no other grade levels to establish a pecking order, popularity was power to an even greater degree.

 

I was popular.

 

I had popular friends from elementary school and we did popular things, like eat lunch together, pick the best seats on the bus, go to the skating rink on weekends, and have sleep-overs.

 

Then, one day, I wasn’t popular anymore.

 

I carried my lunch tray to “our” table, like every other day. I was greeted with sneers and looks of disgust from my “friends.”

 

“You can’t sit here…ever! In fact, we don’t want to have anything to do with you. Ever!”

 

I laughed. I thought they were kidding. They weren’t. Stunned, I frantically searched the lunchroom for someone, anyone, to sit with. There was no one, because I had put all of my eggs in the popular basket, and someone dumped it out. I found an unobtrusive spot and picked at my lunch, blinking back the tears. I ate my lunch alone every day for what seemed like forever.

 

These former friends of mine then began an assault campaign on me that was mean, hateful, and relentless. There were awful notes slipped into my locker on a daily basis, making fun of my body, my hair, and my clothes. They followed me in the halls and put food on my backpack and clothes, taunted me, and pushed me all the way to classes. I can’t even begin to describe the Hell of the long bus rides to and from school.

 

I cried every day for months. My mother was beside herself but I forbid my parents from stepping in because I was afraid it would get worse.

 

Then, one day, when I was searching for a place to hide and eat, I was approached by two girls I vaguely recognized. A little scarred, I braced myself for impact.

 

“Do you want to sit with us?”

 

I froze. What should I do? What if this was a set-up, and at some point I would end up being laughed at, teased even more, shunned again? Something inside of me whispered, “Go. It will be ok.” It was better than ok. Jenny and Laura had no idea they had just performed an epic rescue.

 

Another day, after a particularly treacherous walk to class, my teacher Mrs. Miller noticed my tears. She called me to her desk, told me she knew something had been going on, and wanted to know what it was. I told her, and she got a mama bear look on her face and sent me to the principal. The principal chose the courtyard, right in front of the open classroom door of those girls, to talk to me about it. That, I am sure, was not a coincidence, but I wanted to crawl in a hole and die.

 

Somehow I started to gain the confidence to fight back, which consisted of holding my head a little higher, throwing the notes away without even looking at them, demanding that they stop pushing, even turning around and staring them down and repeatedly telling them to SHUT UP. My new friends helped and rallied around me. The fact that my teacher was looking out for me helped. The expensive new outfit my mom bought me in desperation helped. (from the Mall!) The bullying finally stopped, and mercifully the school year ended.

 

I have thought about this time in my life many times over the years, and especially lately as I see public anti-bullying campaigns and the tragic stories of kids who couldn’t survive it. I know the stories of others who were deeply and profoundly wounded by bullies and have worked their whole lives to heal. I’ve wondered what made the difference for me; how I managed to come out of the experience relatively unscathed and actually better for it.

 

While I agree that we need to teach kids to be kind, to reject any tendency to bully someone else, I also think we can do more to inoculate kids to become more resilient, more resistant to bullies. I know that everyone has different personalities, processes experiences differently, and has varying levels of emotional tolerance. There are some constants, however, that can be established in our lives and in our children’s lives that may help offset the negative that comes from others who feel the need to degrade and destroy.

 

In my next post, I’ll share what I’ve learned about becoming bully-proof.

 

 

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