Bullying Painfully Remembered; Still

           I was small as a child. In the fifth grade, I weighed 45 pounds. In the seventh grade, junior high, I was up to 55 pounds. Because of my size, I was a target. I was the kid with the "Kick Me Hard" sign on his back, and many did, and often.

            In elementary school, it wasn't too bad. I got teased, and pushed around, but I was seldom in fights. In the 6th grade that changed. Boys my age were outgrowing me, and were flexing their muscles. The bullying escalated. I hated recess, and that was the only subject at which I was any good. Walking home was worse. I could always count on a fight, or having to run from one.

            I took my bullying problem to my parents. Their solution was, "Tough it out. Stand up for yourself."

            This was not what I needed.                                                         

            My father said, "Avoid fighting if you can, but if you're pushed or hit, fight back.  You have to defend yourself, and if you do, and get in trouble at school, you won't be in trouble at home. We'll back you, but we, nor your teachers, can fight your fights." 

           I would eventually recognize the wisdom of  those words, but at the moment, I was feeling abandoned.

           "Look," my mother added, "I'm tired of you coming home whining and crying about being roughed up. Next time, the blood on your clothes, had better not be yours."

           "Yes ma'am." You didn't argue with Mama when she got that look in her eye. I knew how to fight, but being small, I didn't. It hurt, but facing my mother would hurt much more.

            She continued, "Anyone who picks on someone because they're smaller, or different, is a bully, and bullies are cowards. Cowards are afraid to be hurt, and if you fight back, you will hurt them, then the bully won't mess with you. When they come at you, and you have to fight, go at them like a banshee from hell, and don't stop until they can't fight.  I promise, you won't be picked on any more."

            I had no idea what a "banshee from hell" was, but I assumed it wasn't any worse than facing Mom when she was mad, so I resolved to stand up to the bullies, and dish out what they served me.

            The chief bully in my life accosted me on the way home from school. I tolerated his knocking my books out of my hands, and the name-calling, but when he kicked me, I turned and charged with fists and feet flailing. He got in a punch or two, but when I kept coming at him, he turned and ran. He ran from little me!

            I was proud, and had some blood on me too.  I thought Mom would be pleased, but when I got in the house, beaming with triumph, she sat me at the kitchen table, and said, "If you ever bully anyone, know that I will be the one doing the beating on you." I had discovered a strength, and was being taught to use it correctly.

            I wasn't bullied anymore that year, and had no fights, but junior high, the next year, was where the problem got out of hand. 

            Over the summer, it seemed that everyone but me grew. On the first day of school, I knew how Jack of beanstalk fame felt in the presence of a giant, except he had only one to deal with. I had hundreds. The older kids looked like grown-ups, and one was. His name was Mike. He was the monster in my nightmare.

            Mike had failed the 9th grade so many times that he was old enough to drive to school. He was what we called a "hood". He was my first encounter with a bad man. He was a bully, and I was his pet hate. Up until now, the bullies in my life had been peers. Mike was no peer. He was a grown man. I was a pre-pubescent boy.

            The abuse at his hands graduated from name-calling, to pushing and punching, to beatings.  It went on for months, and in that time, I lived in terror. I could not make my parents understand that what I was dealing with was not the same as before. Their answer to my pleadings was the same, "Tough it out.  Fight back." How do you fight a monster? I was soon to learn.

            His abuse came to a head one day in the boys' locker room where he accosted me threatening to do horrible things. He had maneuvered me into part of the room that was little used, where my cries for help would go unheard. He backed me into a rack of heavy, wire baskets used to store our clothes. He reached for me, and something snapped. A rage rose in me that I did not know existed. Reaching over my head, I pulled out one of the empty baskets and used it as a weapon.  What I did to him wasn't pretty.

            It happened on a Thursday. Mike didn't come to school on Friday, but he was there on Monday telling all who would listen that he had been in a car wreck. Some believed him, but the truth spread faster, and I wasn't bothered again for a long, long time.

            I was thirteen when that happened, and today, over fifty years later, I am still hurting, not physically, but mentally.  The memories are vivid. 

           If you are in a position to stop, or prevent bullying, do it.  Don't let it go thinking it will resolve itself, or "it's just kids". Bullying leaves wounds that hurt...still.