Bullies

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I wrote an essay here on my blog a long while back called Nobody Wins.  It is a small part of the story of the bullying I endured from elementary school through my early teenage years.  My friend CW shared a call for stories on the topic of Justice and Mercy in a literary publication called Segullah and this essay immediately came to mind.  On a whim I decided to submit it for consideration.  I cut and pasted it from my blog, made a few adjustments and sent it in.  I had forgotten about it when I received an email from Segullah letting me know that my essay was accepted as a part of their Spring/Summer 2012 issue.

I was speechless.  Having something I wrote published somewhere besides my blog was a dream come true!  I worked with a great editor who asked me lots of tough questions and brought out more detail in the big picture of the story.  There were times that I wanted to quit writing because the memories of being bullied were terrible to endure again.  However - if you know me, you'll know I'm not a quitter.  And I don't like to do things halfway.  And I didn't want the bullies to win. 

So, here's my story - all of it.  I hope that no one I know has ever had to endure such pain.  If you take the time to read the whole thing, I'd love to hear what you think.

Many, many thanks to Segullah for helping me with the editing process and making one of my dreams come true.

***
Remembering


I stood at the sink watching my kids play flag football withthe neighborhood kids.  It was a warmsummer day, and a welcome breeze wafted through the kitchen window along withthe kids’ banter.  My enjoyment of thescene suddenly turned to shock, however, when one boy yelled at my oldest son,Allen, “You’re such a STUPID sissy! You can’t even catch a ball!  We don’t want you on our team.”  He pushed my son and shouted, “LEAVE, you bigIDIOT!”  Allen made it to our back stepsbefore he let the tears come. 
I couldn’t breathe. My head clouded and my heart ached as painful memories bombarded me,overwhelming me with almost-forgotten sadness, hurt and anger.  I stormed out my back door and yelled at theboy, “What right do YOU have to kick Allen out of the game?  You are playing in his yard!  I will nottolerate any form of bullying orname-calling here.  You are never welcome to set foot in our yardagain!  YOU leave!”  The boycontinued to stand there and look at me with a smirk on his face.  
This added fuel to my already burning fire. “If you do notremove yourself from our property NOW then I will call the police and have themremove you!  LEAVE!”  It was not my proudest moment.  But the boy did finally leave, while all ofthe neighborhood kids stared at me in amazement—or was it fear?  Feeling my own tears coming, I quicklyescaped into the house and locked myself in my room.  What was wrong with me?  Why couldn’t I just clear the events of thepast from my mind?  It disturbed me thatthese memories still evoked such strong emotions, tethering me to theinsecurities of my younger self.   
***
When I was in the sixth grade a small group of girls foundme in my reading corner during lunch. "You better look out after school,Helicopter Head," they taunted me, using the cruel nickname they gifted meon the first day of school, mocking the braided ponytails I wore soproudly.  I will never forget the words one of them spoke. "Haddas is going to wail on you for bagging on her." 
Haddas?  The two of ushad never even spoken to each other.  Shewas a tall, gangly girl with the kind of hair and face that left you wonderingabout her gender.  Like me, she was quietand kept to herself.  I hadn’t evernoticed her until a few months earlier when I watched the bullies targether.  I was sitting on a corner of thebleachers by the baseball fields when I saw her enter the schoolyard gate.  A light fog still lingered over the grass.  She was carrying a plastic bag in one handand a backpack over her shoulders.  Thegroup of girls who liked to torment me stopped twirling on the bars and walkedtowards her.  She tried to change hercourse but it was too late.  
The ringleader tore the plastic bag from Haddas’ hands andthrew it on the ground.  I could heartheir laughter.  Haddas looked past themas they jeered.  Taller than most ofthem, she stared right over their heads as if they didn’t exist.  I wondered if this tactic was effective andwished I knew how to help, but I remained frozen in place.  The girls continued to taunt and laugh untilthey became bored by her lack of reaction. Haddas picked up her plastic bag, shoved it into her backpack, andheaded toward the school.  I saw theywere comingin my direction and scrambled into one of my standard hiding places beneath thebleachers.  I caught snatches of theirconversation as they walked past—“only losers shop at Kmart.” I never noticedHaddas again until the day that we were pitted against each other.
I had never been in a fight before. I had often heard thewhispers throughout the day or the chanting of "fight, fight, fight"when one erupted, but I had never imagined myself in such a predicament. Ilived to be invisible.  How had thishappened?

By the time the school bell signaled the end of the day, I had formulated aplan. Rather than walking my usual route home through the baseball fields, Iwas going to take a longer route, one which kept me in neighborhoods withplenty of homes, where traffic was busy. I stayed in my classroom as long aspossible and then made my way towards the front of the school.

To my dismay, it had started to rain. People would not be out in their yardstoday.

Still, avoiding the fields seemed to be the best plan. I held on to the hopethat the drizzle had deterred the crowd and prayed silently as I made my waythrough the neighborhoods.  Rounding thecorner just a half block from the middle school campus, I heard the footstepsbehind me. They were deliberate, coming fast. 
My tormentors corralled me back around the block, into thewaiting crowd. A wide circle formed around me and Haddas, and I noticedsomething familiar in her eyes—fear. "I don't want to fight you," Itold her. Everyone laughed as if I had just made a joke. For a moment I thoughtthat she might agree with me, call the whole thing off and let me leave. Butinstead, she stepped forward and pushed me to the wet grass.

I felt heat rising over my face. Eyes on the ground, I tried to keep myshoulders steadyas I cried silently, knowing I could not escape my fate. "Get up!"the crowd yelled at me.  But I justsat.  Already an outcast, I could notbear the thought of being known as a crybaby too.

"Get up!" the crowd chanted as I looked to Haddas. Her eyes stillreflected fear. I decided my best option was to run. I grabbed my backpack,stood, and quickly turned just as someone shoved her toward me. We both fell,face forward. The crowd cheered, but I jumped to my feet and ran.

I dreaded going to school the next day. I fretted all night. I debated fakingsick but knew that would only buy me a day, maybe two. I determined that mybest option was to follow my normal routine and do my best to remain invisible.
I tentatively walked toward my middle school that morning,alone as usual, and frightened.  I haddressed in neutral colors, hoping to blend in with the walls. At first Ithought it was working. But eventually I realized that, actually, no one cared.The excitement was over, the whole thing forgotten.
But I didn't forget. I cannot forget every time they threw my lunch onto the school roof andlaughed as they dared me to tattletale. I cannot forget being reluctantly chosen last for every kickballgame.  I cannot forget how I changed theway I dressed, the route I walked to school, even my posture—all in an attemptto make myself less noticeable.  Iremember every name of every bully, every malicious wordand cruel action targeted at me.
I’ve heard that forgiving and forgetting go hand in hand,but forgetting has not been easy. Years after junior high, as I sat in mylocked bedroom after throwing my son's bully out of our yard, I realized I hadnot yet forgiven or forgotten.***
I guess that’s why, a couple ofyears later, I put so much thought and time into finding the right outfit andhairstyle for my ten-year high school reunion. I don’t know why I was so nervous. Unlike middle school, high school held some great memories for me.   
My husband and I walked into the hotel, and I searched forfamiliar faces.  I visited with oldfriends from choir, drama, and cross country. But as the music grew too loud for my taste and the dancing started toget crazy, my husband and I drifted out to a grouping of loveseats near thebar.  That’s where I saw her—my middleschool tormentor, the ringleaderwhenever I was bullied.  She was with herold high school boyfriend.  Neither worea wedding ring.  Their slurred speech andexaggerated movements suggested too much alcohol.  
She wore the same cocky smirk, and just one glimpse of itmade my stomach turn.  Her laugh instantlytransported me back to sixth grade.  Thefear I had tried to forget for so long quickly resurfaced.  I grasped my husband’s hand tighter.  He wouldn’t let anything happen to me.  Then I got angry. 
Look at me! I wanted to shout.  I’m happilymarried, have a beautiful family and a wonderful life.  But you? You’re still stuck in the same old rut. You’re the same person you were in high school!  What a sad life. 
I felt embarrassed even as I thought it. How could she stillhave this power over me?  Why does shestill make me so angry? Had she even thought about me since those horrible daysso many years ago?  I distracted myself by sitting down to visit with anotherclassmate.  While he and my husband talked,I said a silent prayer.  Please, Heavenly Father, I prayed, help me push these thoughts from mymind.  Help me get past these feelings ofanger and hate.   I dared to look again over to the place whereshe stood near the bar.  
My thoughts began to change direction.  Why was she still with her high schoolboyfriend?  I wondered. Maybe she neverhad the confidence to move on.  Or maybehe was the only man she ever felt loved her. Perhaps she didn’t grow up in a loving home.  Maybe the way she had treated me reflectedchildhood pain of her own.  
A quoteI’d read somewhere ran through my mind, “A human being is nothing but a storywith skin around it.” For the first time, I began to see her as a real person,with her own struggles and sorrows. Her life may look nothing like I imaginedthat night, but opening myself to the possibility that she had challenges ofher own changed things for me.  In thatmoment, the slightest feeling of forgiveness moved into my heart.   I never spoke to her that night.  I don’t think I could have if I tried.  But those junior high memories, while stillvivid, did begin to lose a little of their power over me.
***
Over time, more portions of forgiveness have come.  I have found that the only way to make roomin my heart for forgiveness is to release some of the anger and hatred.   Memories can make that hard to do.  Sometimes I wish I could forget, but I’m notsure I ever will.  I have hope that thosememories will continue to lose their power, that their ability to hurt me willkeep fading.  In the meantime, my hearthas made progress in other ways: it’s become very soft toward others who don’tquite fit in.
My kids have inherited that softened heart.  Allen, once called a football “sissy,” grewinto a young man who notices and stands up for underdogs.  When he was in the sixth grade, his teachercalled me to tell me about something that had happened at school.  Some of the kids were making fun of a boy whomentioned that he wanted to be a paleontologist when he grew up.  They joked that he would never be friendswith anyone but the dinosaurs.  My sonpiped up and said, “Knock it off, guys. Joey is my friend.  And somedayyou’re all going to wish you were nicer to him when he’s your boss.”  The teacher thought my son had all butcommitted social suicide but was amazed to watch how, over time, some of theother boys brought Joey into their circle. They learned to appreciate his quirkiness because Allen stood up for himthat day.  These are the kind of storiesthat bring me happiness and even healing. These are the stories that I love to remember.