Last year a friend from middle school sent me a copy of the end-of-year 8th grade school paper that a handful of friends and I largely wrote. I was horrified. Honest to god, I have no idea how the adults in that school administration allowed something so full of meanness to be printed. And I had written a good third of it.
Reading this Jezebel.com article by a woman who was horribly bullied as a 6th grader, I started looking back and navel gazing. In light of the media spotlight on bullying after 15-year-old Phoebe Prince ended her life in response to schoolyard treatment that followed her home, I have begun to wonder how I would have fared had my own tormentors had 24 hour access to me via the internet? Or, how would my victims have fared had I access to the internet back then?
I recall seeing that paper as a way to get back at the kids who made fun of me, called me Dictionary Breath and Thesaurus Head, and who bullied and threatened me in gym class. I already had a chip on my shoulder, coming out of the worst year of my entire academic life, running from an all girl school where I had been so bullied that the school counselor suggested I was being driven insane. My drama teacher agreed. She said I was likely already insane–creative types usually were. She actually asked me if I saw spots, and compared me to Sylvia Plath. What kind of moron compares a 12 year old to Sylvia Plath? Apparently, I brought a little something extra crazy to the role of Mrs. Lovett.
Then there was the incident. I walked into music class one day, and headed to a desk. A binder slammed down on the top of it. “Saved,” said Tiffany. I turned to the one beside it. Another binder slammed down on top of it. “Saved,” said Mary. This happened three more times, until I was standing in front of the classroom looking for a seat, feeling a hot panic rising.
At this school I had been spit on, held down on the playground while dirt was poured on my head, refused seating at lunch, and made constant fun of for being new, being middle class (which meant poor to these girls), and for having a strange accent. It all came to a head right there in the last six weeks of school.
In front of the entire class, I took a deep breath and then shouted at the top of my lungs. And what do you think I shouted? Oh, I was such an egghead. I paraphrased a whole segment from the Merchant of Venice, howling that if I was cut, did I not bleed?!
Then, I ran out of the classroom to a bathroom in the upper school. I learned three things from that outburst: If your classmates believe they have actually broken you, they might apologize. If you hide somewhere that no one can find you, you can’t be comforted (so I switched bathrooms and let two girls find me.) It is entirely possible to go AWOL from a class without getting into trouble.
You know, I’m still not entirely over that year? I have frequent occasion to be reminded of one of my main tormentors, and I still want to tell people, “That girl made my life hell!” But, in the wake of that year and in the rock quarry that was me trying to prove myself in 7th grade, I think I turned just as mean as she was. If that 8th grade paper is any evidence, I did.
6th grade turned me mean.
Looking back, I can see how vicious I was. At the time, it felt like survival, all that wild slashing around. I felt lost and alone, couldn’t make a lasting friendship because I changed schools every year or two, and I was keenly aware of how the new girl is a sitting duck. After 6th grade, I was determined to get before I was gotten. I was still a little soft in 7th grade, but a couple of other girls at the new school took care of that. By high school, I was pretty hard.
I wonder how my life would have been different, if instead of telling me I needed to develop a thicker skin, the school administrators had told my 6th grade peers that they needed to develop a conscience? Or if their parents had cared? Or if my parents had taken a more active stand?
I wonder how Phoebe Prince’s life might have been different.
Look, I’ve been bullied, and I’ve been a bully. Neither is very satisfying, but either could be shut down by firm adult intervention. If your child is a bully, take care of it. If your child is being bullied, take action against it–whatever you have to do, short of cutting brake cables. If you see it happening, stop it. Children need to be taught compassion and mercy.
No child should ever feel compelled to quote Shylock.
The Outside Lane 