I witnessed bullying in elementary school. A boy named Peter was the target. By changing one letter of his last name, we spoke of him using a derogatory nickname. I remember him as a quiet boy, bigger than most, with eyes cool and blue like a pristine arctic sky. I envision khaki pants and plaid shirts, never tucked in, always a bit sloppy. The same outfit day after day. His hair declared independence from combing by falling in patterns directed by several cowlicks. He spoke softly. In retrospect I wonder if he feared being heard.
I don’t remember who came up with the idea. But someone suggested we put a thumbtack on Peter’s desk seat. After lunch, a group returned early to the classroom and rearranged the bulletin board, liberating a tack from a map, or a drawing, or a vocabulary word. I watched it take position in the center of the polished wooden seat. Metal frames housed fine grained wood with a sloping contour to accommodate the curve of the buttocks. Back then it never occurred to me it might hurt him. His trousers had pockets of thick material over each butt cheek, American made, sturdy, no reason to think something so small would penetrate two layers of fabric.
Students filed into class. Those of us in on the secret made eye contact then faced front. Peter straggled in. Did I smirk or cover my mouth in glee or with relief that it was Peter, not I, about to experience an insidious humiliation? I can’t remember. I suspect I watched with carnivore anticipation until the horror of reality hit. Peter went to sit down knee first. He bent his leg, put his knee on the seat, and curled the leg around until he sat half-Indian style at his desk. No one remembered this habit in the rush to pull off this prank.
If he screamed, I blocked the memory of the sound. I assume the teacher reacted with anger and compassion. I dared not look around at any of my friends.
Peter didn’t jump off a silo to his death. Perhaps he knew “What fools these mortals be!”
But today I read the news with sorrow. A pall of hopelessness for our young people taints the present and future. How have we become a culture where who someone dates in their early teen years result in deadly consequences? Who decides what is a socially acceptable weight, the best outfit, or the prettiest hair? A current phone commercial depicts head butting and deliberate violence by adults in their quest for the best pictures on their phones. What are we teaching our children about the importance of acquiring things and pushing ahead? Who teaches our children the value of being different, having a clearly defined identity, and respect for others’ choices? Who is teaching the basics of right and wrong? How can parents become more vigilant, more sensitive to the fact that what a child believes about him or herself affects behavior and socialization significantly more than what the parents know to be true? It frightens me to observe the disdain some of our young people have for their fellow human beings and for life itself.
I have always felt different. In high school I was athletic before it was chic. While others practiced with the drill team, I went to swimming practice, before school, after school, week-ends. I didn’t have much time to be social. The chemicals in the pool turned my blonde hair green. Lap after lap added two inches to my chest circumference. I envied the curves and bumps of voluptuous friends and compared my upside down triangular body, broad shoulders, flat chest, boyish hips, and flat feet, to them. I felt short changed. I’d never be a cheerleader or a prom queen. I did get to travel every week-end during the swimming season. I met people from around the country and enjoyed a comradeship with my teammates.
At home I enjoyed the freedom of aloneness. I spent time reading and imagining. When I was a child, it was safe to play outside alone. I rode my bike and walked along the railroad track behind our house. I never felt lonely, just solitary.
I don’t know what empowered me not to be destroyed by the cruelty of others. Did people make fun of me because of my androgynous build? Sure. Did I get tired of people wanting to touch my green hair? Yup. Did I gape in shock when an older girl in the shower room slapped me because of my smart, but in her case, deadly accurate mouth? Of course. But I never felt the need to apologize for who I was or to remove myself from the equation known as life. I don’t know who to thank for that. I credit competitive sports and parents who fully supported my participation in them. I also feel my inner life taught me the peace that comes with singularity.
Back to the case of my classmate Peter. Silence and inaction made me an accomplice. Shame and guilt ate away at a childhood innocence I would have preferred to savor a little longer. In elementary school in the 1960s, we called it a prank. In reality we committed a cruel and vicious act that injured someone physically as well as mentally. I witnessed bullying in elementary school. I will never forget the role I played. To be a voyeur is as harmful as being a proactive perpetrator. I am 62 years old. I hope Peter has forgiven me for my part in the travesty. I promise to never act as a passive witness again.
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