Bullied (15 page)

The weekend routine with family is always the same. Daytime activities are lunch and dinner, followed by an adult only meeting on the front porch in the summer months or in the family room during the winter months. When these meetings occur, children have to go to another part of the house, usually upstairs. The adults would sit, and everyone would take their turn talking about family issues in the past and present. I am always interested in hearing everything I can during these meetings. During the summer months, I might hide in the bushes that surround the porch in order to listen. In the winter months, I had a special hiding place in the living room just off the family room. Before their meeting, I would go past the living room couch and hide on the left end of it, in the corner where no one could see me.

It seems like there are many events in the family history that no one ever talks about when children are around. The subject of my father's death comes up frequently and there were many other details discussed about it that I do not understand. After the adults finish their general conversation, some of the adults start to leave for home. After each person leaves, the entire group talks about that person. The topics include many negative subjects. A few family members do get an overall positive rating by the group but most of the time the discussion and final rating is negative.

The people who stay the longest do so because they do not want to be the subject of discussion by the remaining family members. Elaine and Ernie are usually the ones that stay the longest and talk the loudest. In addition, they always have a lot to say about every family member, usually in a demeaning way. I never can figure out why they all get so much pleasure out of doing this. It seems to be contrary to the image that every family member fervently projects. The contrast is obvious even to this seven-year-old child. Is life really about pretending you are one thing when you are really another? Is it that important what the group thinks and says about you? At my young age, I dislike this human pack mentality. I am beginning to feel that I would rather be alone than a topic for any family group discussion. I did not know that I was to feel this way about family for the rest of my life.

There seems to be a similarity between this group activity in entertaining themselves by demeaning others and the actions of my bullies on the playground. All these people are primarily concerned with their image and ranking among a group. Just like the bullies on the street, family members seem to achieve some sort of personal pride and power from this activity. As far as I can see, their actions are very similar. Beating up someone or verbally demeaning him or her leads to the same objective. The main result is that they feel superior. These are strange thoughts for me, a seven-year-old child, and I do not like them because they scare me about the unknown years ahead.

Third-grade, at my age of seven and turning eight in January, is a school year full of personal adjustments due to past interactions with other kids. I have so many things to think about and try to figure out. First, I still cannot understand why I still feel so strange when I am in a large group of people such as my classroom of 50 kids. However, the major conflict and puzzle that I have to figure out is what to do about the increasing bullying by other boys. I know I will grow bigger eventually but I cannot go on without figuring out some strategies to stop weekly beatings. In every consecutive year of school, the bullying and name-calling seems to increase.

In thinking about personal strategies for dealing with it, I like several stories that we read about in our school textbooks. My favorite ones are the stories of Julius Caesar and his battles as a gladiator in the Coliseum in Rome. The one that seemed the most relevant to my situation was the story of how Caesar fought three opposing gladiators at one time and ended up winning. I often have the challenge of how to deal with three or more bullies on the street, so I paid close attention to this tale wondering if I could also use some of the same tactics. The one problem about these stories is that they are in Latin, and the only way I can read them is by learning how to read this language. Much to the great surprise of my teachers who always consider me lazy, I became somewhat proficient in Latin.

Knowing that it was impossible to win a fight against three combatants at the same time, Caesar would run away from the three Gladiators until only one of them was close to him. He would then, with the use of his sword, turn and “slay” him. Then he would keep running away from the remaining two fighters until another Gladiator, alone, was close. Turning around to fight the second combatant, he killed him, too. After he killed two out of the three gladiators, he engaged the third in combat and won.

From my personal experiences so far, I agree with Caesar about it being impossible to fight against three at one time. This story sounds great, I thought, but I cannot run very fast. When the bullies catch up to me, they do so because they all run faster than I do. Can I get a sword somewhere? Can I make some variation of this strategy work for me? I had to conclude that I the answer unfortunately was no. As for the sword, maybe I will get one, or at least a knife, some day. Whenever in school and listening to stories, I always looked for an idea I could use to deal with my increasing terror from the bullies.

The weekly drama of encountering name-calling, punching, and other violent painful situations was what I hated most about life. I woke up every day knowing that there was a good chance that I will have to deal with another big person in about an hour that wants to hurt me. I knew I was somewhat safe, for the most part, once I got inside the school classroom, except for when I was in the hallway, near the locker area, or in the boys’ bathroom when there were no teachers present.

Many times when in the bathroom at a urinal relieving myself, someone would come by and hit me on the head or back. It did not happen every time I had to pee, but it was often enough to put me on my guard whenever I entered the boys rest room. Except for the men’s room and locker area encounters, most of the other kids would not hit, shove, or push me when Sisters were present. If they were not around, that was a different story. I began to notice and analyze these contacts in detail.

“Hey, Creep,” Donald said.

“What are you up to today, Shorty?” As he said this, his eyes would move left and right and I knew he was looking to see if there were any Sisters around so he could hit me. Donald was one of the popular kids and was always calling me names and frequently punching me. He was usually with his friends like Barry, Rick and little Ernie. Barry was the only one of the group with him this time.

As Donald’s’ eyes were moving, he started to clench his hands into fists.

“Leave me alone,” I said. Slamming my locker closed, I turned and walked away rapidly in the opposite direction from my classroom. When I got about twenty feet from Donald, Sister Honorine appeared in the hallway in front of me and said,

“Where are you going, Patrick? Your classroom is back there. Hurry or you will be late.”

“Thank you Sister”, I said as I turned around and walked back toward my class. Donald and Barry were still standing there but I knew Donald would not hit me with Sister Honorine in the hallway watching us.

“Fag,” Donald said.

“Weirdo,” Barry exclaimed.

“Bastards,” I whispered. I had recently learned this new word of unknown meaning.

“Children, get into your classroom, right now,” Sister Honorine yelled from behind me.

Donald and Barry walked into the classroom ahead of me. I followed; looking cautiously around the entrance to be sure, one of them was not nearby. Our Teacher was sitting at her desk front and center of the room so I knew I would be OK during this class. Donald, the leader of his group, disliked me the most. He was a lot taller and had longer arms so he would always call me names and hit me whenever he could just for the fun of it. As one of my constant bullies, I was also developing ideas of how to beat him up some day. I hate him.

At the end of June, third-grade is over, I am now eight years old and it is my favorite time of year. The warm summer months are very pleasant and brief compared to the six-month long cold dreary winters with grey skies. My spirits are so much better during the summer that it is very noticeable. I always feel so sad when the skies are gray and full of rain, sleet or snow and especially when I have to deal with routinely unpleasant events.

During this summer, I know I will have fun and fewer opportunities to run into the people that inflict pain on me. The bullies are still there during the summer but only a few of them live in my neighborhood. Maybe I will go to the Boys Club more often where I can play baseball and other games. The Boys Club also has a library where I can borrow some great books to read, like the Hardy Boys series. Even when playing summer baseball there, some of the bully brother gangs would come by but, if with friends, they would not bother me.

One afternoon, after a baseball game, I entered the Boys Club to use the rest room and departed by the front door. Looking diagonally up the lot toward Broad Street and Main, I saw the most terrifying sight in my life. My Sister, Lauren, metal polio braces from ankles to thighs, was standing in the lot with a willow stick in her hand surrounded by eight boys, four of whom were the Browns. They were walking around her, and she was standing there with a determined look on her face trying to hit them with the stick. This sight scared me because I had no choice but to get Lauren out of this fracas. The trouble she gets me into, again! I thought as I walked reluctantly toward the crowd of kids feeling that pain of fear in my center.

As I walked toward them, I checked out who was there. The tallest boy in the group was Freddy, the leader of the Brown gang. He was bigger but younger than I was, so I watched him closely as I approached the group. I could see a red mark on his face and a few angry tears. “Hey, leave my Sister alone”, I yelled. Freddy turned and raised his fist but I hit him in the face. “Run!” I yelled to Lauren, so she moved as fast as she could in her awkward way toward home, about a block and a half away. The rest of the boys started pummeling me. After what felt like fifty punches, I managed to get away and ran as fast as I could up the street. I felt like every part of me hurt. Why did I need a Sister to get me into more violence? Summers are usually peaceful, but not today.

Sometimes during the summer, I run into bullies at the public swimming pool and they call me names, but there are lifeguards and the Park has strict rules about conduct, even though this did not prevent that young child from drowning. Walking around anywhere, I might see a gang coming toward me so I cross the street. Many times, the gang crossed the street as well so they could punch or shove me as we passed. I would always go out of my way to avoid this conflict, but I wish I did not have to.

Still, summers are the best time except for frequent spankings from Mom, Grandma, Elaine and Ernie. The ones received from Aunt Elaine and Uncle Ernie hurt the worst and usually results from minor infractions or facial expressions that they do not like. It will be great some day when I am old enough not to have anything to do with people in my family that take pleasure in hurting me. Unfortunately, that freedom is still a very long way off. As my Grandpa says, “Time moves on, sometimes quicker than you think”, but never fast enough for me. Even at my age of eight, I have had three years of almost daily bullying and increasing fear. I still have ten years to go before I can leave all this, if I am still alive. Somehow, I doubt that I will live that long.

Walking, fishing pole in hand, along the Susquehanna River with its heavy growth of high grass, I watch the winding and worn path for the snakes that I see here occasionally. Whenever the high grass is lower to my right, I look out on the river that is moving along at a peaceful rate on this chilly overcast day. The forest here is exciting to explore, even for a fourteen-year-old boy, and I look at the trees, their bark and different shapes of leaves. There are birch trees and oaks growing to my left where the forest deepens. I feel safe because I frequently go fishing here.

Suddenly, I hear a crunching sound to my left and behind me. I look around but I cannot see what is making that noise, but it scares me so I walk faster. It should be safe here because it is only a few blocks from home. I hear a different noise that sounds like something moving through the high grass, this time directly behind me. Looking at the grass behind me, I can see a large shape still hidden from my view. Whatever it is, it is watching me.

I start to run but my legs do not move very fast for some reason and I can hear something running behind me. Turning my head to the left, I see it. It is a big lion chasing me. I feel sudden rage. I turn and punch the lion several times; and he falls down. Possessed by my anger, I continue to punch him. With every punch, I enjoy the sound and the warm feel of the impact of my fists against his nose, head or body and the sight of his blood from the punches. Finally, he stops moving and is dead.

Suddenly, I wake up in a rage and look out the window next to my bed. The sky is still dark and I can feel the cool breeze on my face from the partially open window. This nightmare is a different version of the same one I have had for years. Usually, the lion eats me alive as I scream, then I wake up, usually cold, sweating and shivering in my bed. From now on, when I have it, I would run away from the lion until he got very close, then I turn in a fit of anger, and kill him with my bare hands, and it feels good to do so.

As I recently turned 14 years old, I am still in the ninth grade, my first year in high school but really in the same school since the age of four. I still wake up with that pain in my center and knowledge of what is ahead that day. Just as I do in the dream, I try to avoid violence any way I can, but when I cannot, then I have to kill the lion, whoever he is. As I recently learned, man is born with a survival instinct that is a normal part of being human. I know I am struggling to survive, without regard to where I stand socially or worrying about something as trivial as popularity or “fitting in”. This surprising new feeling of determined rage when attacked tells me that I am getting close to applying the same remedies in life as I now do with the lion in my dreams. Regarding my survival from encounters with my enemies, it should be OK to hurt or kill them too.