The Muse (22 page)

“Most people would’ve.”

“I would never expect you to do something foolish like that. The boys could’ve hurt you, too.”

“That’s sexist.” I pointed my fork at him and squinted, then remembered the wrinkles I needed to avoid now.

“You’re not exactly martial arts material. I’m a black belt, remember?”

“He pleaded with me to help him, and I just looked away.” I couldn’t even look Larry in the eye with this confession.

“So because you didn’t step in, you’re just as guilty?”

“Without a doubt. Growing up teachers and other people I relied on turned their backs on me getting punched, stepped on, kicked, pelted. They witnessed the torturing and turned to talk to a fellow teacher ignoring my pleading eyes for them to step in and help. I hate those teachers to this day. If I saw them, I’d probably walk up to them and kick them and ask how they liked the pain sizzling through their veins. If that boy walked up to me now and kicked me, I’d understand and take on the punishment. I would deserve it. I am against bullying, yet I allowed it to happen right in front of me. I’m no different than a bully.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself. I only interfered because I have training. I deal with these types of kids at the center and at my church. I know their limits. I know mine.”

“Compassion doesn’t require training, Larry.” I spooned another piece in my mouth. “I’m really useless.”

He pondered this over another bite. He nodded his head, deep in thought. I could see the wheels cranking in his brain. Like a kid waiting on the carnival game that spit out toys, I waited for Larry to spit out his advice. “Being physical isn’t the only way to stand up to bullies.”

“Go on.” I moved in closer waiting for the magic to spur from his mouth.

“What are you great at?”

“Don’t force me to play this self-confidence game. Not tonight.”

“Okay, well besides your newest talent of flirting with cuties on Twitter of course.”

I laughed. “Comic relief. Fantastic.” I punched his arm. “Okay, well dare I say writing?”

“Bingo. Get cracking. I challenge you to write an article for my LGBT group about bullying.”

“And say what?”

“Tell a story,” he said, slowly, sternly.

“But, what—”

He stood up. “—just tell a story.” He patted my head and walked out of my condo’s door leaving me with countless permutations of stories I could tell.

Chapter Eleven

A blank screen is as scary and intimidating to a writer as an expansive desert with no sign of life or water is to a thirsty, lost traveler. It sucked any productive, lucid thought from the mind and rendered the person useless, the edges of her creativity tattered, shriveled, curled up, and unable to produce much of anything but crap.

Crap. Yup, that pretty much summed up my writing so far that night. I typed a sentence with no meat to it. I erased said sentence only to falter at the sight of the blank screen again. So, I typed a few more words that pretty much sat there tormenting me, like a bully sticking her tongue out at me, mocking me for my useless attempt to create something uplifting and positive out of my faulty personality.

Writer’s block sucked. Did all writers suffer? How did these bestselling novelists who shot off a book every three months do it? Were they just born with lucky writers’ brains chock-full of brilliant ideas that they could tap into at any given time? Did they sit at their computers and instantly fill the blank screen with words that people would want to read? Did the ideas spill out of their brains like a waterfall, deliberate, focused, and purposeful?

I stuck out my tongue to the blank screen, angry at it for tormenting me so. I had no story to tell. Why would a bunch of bullied teenagers want to read my words, my thoughts, my advice to them on how to live their best life while someone pounded on their hearts with mean, hurtful, vicious attack?

The longer I stared, the whiter the screen glowed. So, I did what any writer probably did when faced with such devilish torment. I turned to the Internet for distraction.

I ventured onto Twitter and read Eva’s newest message to me.

“Missing me or not, honey?”

My heart swelled and formed a light, breezy melody that frolicked around, tickling me, kissing me, warming the coldest regions that up until that moment had never allowed in the sunshine. I loved this girl.

I wanted her to see me in my best light, always. I wanted to stand before her and watch her face grow into a smile that streamed light and love from her pure heart. I wanted her eyes to drip with admiration for me, the girl I really was, the girl she loved back. I wanted to have a moment with her where the two of us stood facing one another on a mountain top surrounded by blue skies and puffy white clouds and birds flying ahead singing their song, and have her caress me with her loving eyes. I wanted to be that girl she believed me to be—strong, intelligent, insightful, full of promise and intrigue, and romance.

I wanted to be that girl who could stir a person’s soul with her words, touching people with viewpoints that changed the world. I wanted to be that girl who inspired, encouraged, and enriched lives through careful reasoning, bringing up questions others were too afraid to ask, too afraid to ponder. I wanted to dissect social injustice and lay it out on the line for people to see the real deal. I yearned to expose the raw emotions that erupted when idiots threw their fists into the faces of innocent people just trying to get by in the world, just trying to blend in and be a part of society like every other person had a right to do. I wanted to take the bullied by the hand and show them they didn’t have to stand for the abuse. They could rise up above the chaos and shed their light onto the world instead of snuffing it out in the dark corners of their abused minds. They didn’t have to hide in the shadows of people who didn’t have a clue about compassion, people who would rather trip a girl then lend a hand in helping her back to her feet, who would rather laugh at the unfortunate humiliation of another instead of standing up for that person and laughing with her instead. I wanted to give voice to these bullied victims who lied down with their heads buried in the sand, choking on grit, burning up under the scorching firestorms, suffering the consequences of that first lashing, that first scarring, that first public humiliation that turned a potential bright star into fizzled-out stardust at the hands of the most incapable, most destructive, most lethal form of human beings on the planet—bullies.

Bullies were just fearful individuals, too, full of poison fed to them by bullies before them. I knew this to be true. I had been one. I shelled out the hurt and caused permanent damage to not only the victims, but their families, their would-be lovers, would-be friends, would-be constituents, would-be colleagues.

My anger superseded any fear I had of white space at the moment. I started typing out a four beat rhythm with my fingertips, slashing the consequences of fear with my words, and building up a safe place, a refuge for the injured. This safe place contained greenery that filtered the toxins from their lungs, reenergized their skin cells, and restored them to their precious state of pre-bully days. This oasis for the victims shined with sunlight twenty-four seven and sprinkled mist to soften and replenish their spirits, leaving rainbows to remind these people that hope lived, hope flourished, and the promise of coming out of this hell storm alive and unscathed as a productive member of society was still possible. The answer to dealing with bullies was not bowing down to their attacks and allowing them to steal their souls, their light source, that special thing that raised them up on their unique pedestal. No, the answer was not to fight back. That only antagonized. The answer was to dig deep, find power from within, find their special gifts, and shine that sucker on their bullies so brightly that all not willing to see its beauty would simply be stilled by it.

This process of realization needed to take place long before the rocks pelted, before the feet tripped, before the laughter escaped the bully’s mouth. Every person had a life source, and along the way this life source was either kicked to the furthest recesses of her body and covered up in the shroud of doubts, despair, and fear, or it sprang forth and powered the person to move forth in the world proudly, acknowledging her gift and sharing it with the world. Someone would cherish the gift. And even if one person cherished it, wasn’t that enough?

I kept typing. The words just flew out of my brain and onto the keyboard. I imagined Eva reading it, her lips curling up into a smile at the honesty and integrity behind the words. She’d be my proud cheerleader, hoping one day I’d create something just as beautiful for her. I wanted her to admire me for this gift that was all mine and not CarefreeJanie’s. She — my muse, my saving grace — sat front row to my words.

I continued typing feverishly, my soul unleashing itself onto the computer screen. Tears ran down my cheeks. I landed in a zone. I thought of that young boy being bullied and wondered about his life source. Maybe he was an artist who painted meaning onto a canvas and one day that painting would touch someone so profoundly. The ripple effect would touch the lives of many, maybe even save a life or two or more. Or what if he was fantastic at pitching a baseball and could be that boy who brought a group of twenty kids to the playoffs giving hope to not only the team, but the parents, the siblings, the community. Or maybe that kid was really good at seeing the best in others and would one day counsel someone on the verge of a nervous breakdown and save that person through his brilliant ability to pull out of him his magical healing gift.

We need solutions
, I wrote.

Bullies will always exist. A society cannot spray bullies down and wipe out their inclinations to torment like we can do to cockroaches. They might move out of one life, but assuredly, they’ll find a way to move into another life before long. They will always exist. So, where are we, as a society, to better face our focus? If we can’t eradicate the behavior, what then?

If we can’t change them, who do we change?
I asked.

If we can’t control their actions, whose do we control?

We can’t control others, but we can control the way we react to others.

So, this boy, getting laughed at and passed around like a hot potato couldn’t control the others, but he could’ve controlled how he reacted to them. Fear and insecurity no doubt swelled in his chest as his heart pounded, his flesh clammed up and his scared mind envisioned his fatal demise right there on the sidewalk at the hands of derelicts who controlled his world at that moment in time. What was a kid to do under such dire circumstances? Put up his fists and fight off four others who stood taller, and had the comfort and security of numbers on their side? Certainly the boy grew up playing video games and not practicing martial arts, so to fight back would be irresponsible advice.

I sat back, stumped, with no clue where to go from here. How could’ve this scrawny kid turned the situation around? Best reaction? Duck, roll, and run? Feasible? Hardly when cornered by this swarm of idiots. Toss out a comedic phrase and hope they latch on and laugh like the kid’s the funniest thing since Robin Williams? Hardly. The kid could barely breathe let alone conjure up witty words to escape his mouth.

What fueled a bully? What fueled a fire? Kindling. Fear disguised itself as just another form of kindling. Toss fear into an escalating situation and it exploded into something grander than it had to be. Its flames would shoot up to the tops of trees if stoked enough. Extinguish the fear, extinguish the flame, and end the torture, the burning, and the smoldering. What was left? Ash. The brilliant thing about ash was that it could be swept away by a gentle breeze. All the fear that once created the flames that produced the ash weren’t so heavy and powerful anymore when a gentle breeze could come and blow it away into nonexistence.

Squash the fear, end the victimization.

Everyone came equipped with different resources. My way of squashing fear would be far different than Eva’s way or Larry’s way or this boy’s way. We owed it to ourselves to dig deep and find out what tools we had in our disposal to crush the shit out of our fears so we could get on living our best days. Those who helped guide others to find and lend their tools would reap rewards far too powerful for any bully to come in and swipe them away. The leverage in digging deeper, in serving others, offered power. When a person came outside of this shell to protect another, he helped erase fear and replace it with a light so powerful no one could extinguish it.