I mentioned yesterday that I was bullied in elementary school. In my limited perspective at the time, I thought it was as bad as it could get. In reality, it was just a little public mockery and ostracism. Since becoming a teacher over ten years ago, I’ve heard some true stories of bullying. Every time I assign a personal narrative, with the parameters that the event shaped in you in some profound way, the stories of school yard harassment spew forth. Even if it was twenty-years prior, the wounds were easily sliced open with the typing of each syllable and recounting of every excruciating moment.
Sometimes it feels like everyone has their story and I could go on all night about whether or not “it’s just what kids do.” (Do you hear yourself, moron? Seriously?) I’ve heard all the arguments that it builds compassion and character, so I don’t want to get into that right now. Instead, I think my purpose for writing this is more therapeutic than anything else. Really, it is something that every victim of bullying must address head on at some point. You can be a successful thirty-four year old woman, happily married, with a beautiful child and home, dear friends, and a strong faith, but still hear that tiny voice voice from somewhere within. “Why don’t they like me?”
Ode to Mr. Mozzarelli—Beloved Gym Teacher
Can I just say how much I detested you? I hated you for making me want to knock down and tear the hair from the learning disabled kids because they would get picked before me. Always picked before me, the new girl. They weren’t even allowed in the real classrooms—a dented silver trailer parked behind the dumpsters for everything except gym class—but they still got picked before me. With your whistle of woe and humiliation, clipboard, and shiny black mustache, you were the Stalin of dodge ball, the Hitler of scooter hockey, and I hated you.
Was it necessary to have captains? To pick teams? As if those with names like Faith and Dustin didn’t already possess the power to drive the Marys and Phils of the fourth grade into the lifelong therapy plan. You removed any doubt.
Today we will be dividing you into teams, first and last, the worthy and the worthless, the Z. Cavaricci clad and the K-mart blue light specials. It won’t be decided by your ability to crabwalk across the gym with Olympic speed or how high you can climb without rope burn. You’d better hope your Ogilvie home perm hasn’t begun to grow out, that you didn’t raise your hand too many times in math last week, or that no one saw your reduced lunch card as it was stamped by the cafeteria lady.
In those moments, teacher, you thrust us into the enveloping world of elitism and the cruelty of classism. Lesson learned, but that wasn’t your objective. You wanted to feel mighty for a moment, all five foot four of you. Didn’t you see me shrinking in the corner? Trying to burn a hole in linoleum of the stage steps with the power of my mind, a hole big enough to swallow me into oblivion or into a land where I was captain, so I could pick you last.
******
I know now that this wasn’t entirely fair to my former gym teacher. He was just doing his job, and probably wasn’t aware of all the underlying dynamics of the class. (Maybe he should have known?) In writing it though, I really did powerful. At last, I was able to say all the things I couldn’t say to him and to my classmates. If you’ve ever felt powerless in this way, it’s definitely something you need!
As an adult, I’ve accepted that the bullies are most often the bullied. Maybe Mr. Mozzarelli was bullied as kid, who knows? With a name like that, haha, there’s a very good chance. But before I dealt with these wounds, I wouldn’t allow for that reality.
Every time I sat down to write about those moments, the ones that left me crying in the bathroom stall, scabby knees pulled up to my chin, tears flowing beneath my Sally Jessie Raphael red glasses, each bully became flatastical villains. A medusa, Lord Voldemort , or a Cruella DeVilled boogie monster beneath my bed.
I didn’t want to admit that they were probably only a half blood vampire, if that kind of thing is possible. A part-time werewolf or maybe the Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde would be more accurate? I couldn’t acknowledge this possibility. I didn’t want to set them free from blame in that way. I was willing to accept that anything that I wrote would be a half truth. It was my way of being the one in control. I get to pick the teams. I get to aim the cootie spray.
Well, if I wasn’t after truth, what did that leave me with? I wrote this way out of pain, and at the time, I wanted others to hate my bullies. I wanted them to wish they could slip through the pages and the years with comfort and assurances. Life doesn’t end in the fourth grade. They’ll peak in high school. You can sit at our table in the cafeteria. You don’t have to be the new girl pretending to be consumed with the up and down of chewing your bologna and Velveeta slices on wheat, the way the brown paper crinkles under your fingertips, and the syrup stain in the corner of the cafeteria table. I’ll be your friend.
But if comfort was what I was seeking, it wouldn’t come from those early scribbles. Instead, readers would worry and wonder if I had a “to kill” list written in blood on my bedroom wall. And of course, I did, but it wasn’t on the wall. It was inked with purple pen in my diary, which was exactly where my early attempts at bully memoir belonged.
But I had to wonder: who was I spending so much energy hating, the grown up or the fourth grader? How can I hate someone that no longer exists? Can I transfer those feelings of loathing to the thirty year old bully? If I bumped into them on the street today, would I still want to cut their head up into tiny little pieces and serve it over the retched school lunch barquito? A concoction so nasty that it doesn’t even exist outside the walls of Kirkmere Elementary School. Probably not, but I would find some satisfaction if they weren’t aging well :)
I just want to say that I lift up every victim, and hope you find peace. For me, in addition to lots of praying, talking and writing about it over the years has really helped. So this was a hodge podge of what I have to say—past mixed with present. Most of my wounds have healed, Praise God! I still have the occasional “why don’t they like me?” moment, but overall, I am pleased with the woman that I’ve become. I’ve also learned that if everyone likes you, you are probably doing something wrong.
Sometimes it feels like everyone has their story and I could go on all night about whether or not “it’s just what kids do.” (Do you hear yourself, moron? Seriously?) I’ve heard all the arguments that it builds compassion and character, so I don’t want to get into that right now. Instead, I think my purpose for writing this is more therapeutic than anything else. Really, it is something that every victim of bullying must address head on at some point. You can be a successful thirty-four year old woman, happily married, with a beautiful child and home, dear friends, and a strong faith, but still hear that tiny voice voice from somewhere within. “Why don’t they like me?”
Ode to Mr. Mozzarelli—Beloved Gym Teacher
Can I just say how much I detested you? I hated you for making me want to knock down and tear the hair from the learning disabled kids because they would get picked before me. Always picked before me, the new girl. They weren’t even allowed in the real classrooms—a dented silver trailer parked behind the dumpsters for everything except gym class—but they still got picked before me. With your whistle of woe and humiliation, clipboard, and shiny black mustache, you were the Stalin of dodge ball, the Hitler of scooter hockey, and I hated you.
Was it necessary to have captains? To pick teams? As if those with names like Faith and Dustin didn’t already possess the power to drive the Marys and Phils of the fourth grade into the lifelong therapy plan. You removed any doubt.
Today we will be dividing you into teams, first and last, the worthy and the worthless, the Z. Cavaricci clad and the K-mart blue light specials. It won’t be decided by your ability to crabwalk across the gym with Olympic speed or how high you can climb without rope burn. You’d better hope your Ogilvie home perm hasn’t begun to grow out, that you didn’t raise your hand too many times in math last week, or that no one saw your reduced lunch card as it was stamped by the cafeteria lady.
In those moments, teacher, you thrust us into the enveloping world of elitism and the cruelty of classism. Lesson learned, but that wasn’t your objective. You wanted to feel mighty for a moment, all five foot four of you. Didn’t you see me shrinking in the corner? Trying to burn a hole in linoleum of the stage steps with the power of my mind, a hole big enough to swallow me into oblivion or into a land where I was captain, so I could pick you last.
******
I know now that this wasn’t entirely fair to my former gym teacher. He was just doing his job, and probably wasn’t aware of all the underlying dynamics of the class. (Maybe he should have known?) In writing it though, I really did powerful. At last, I was able to say all the things I couldn’t say to him and to my classmates. If you’ve ever felt powerless in this way, it’s definitely something you need!
As an adult, I’ve accepted that the bullies are most often the bullied. Maybe Mr. Mozzarelli was bullied as kid, who knows? With a name like that, haha, there’s a very good chance. But before I dealt with these wounds, I wouldn’t allow for that reality.
Every time I sat down to write about those moments, the ones that left me crying in the bathroom stall, scabby knees pulled up to my chin, tears flowing beneath my Sally Jessie Raphael red glasses, each bully became flatastical villains. A medusa, Lord Voldemort , or a Cruella DeVilled boogie monster beneath my bed.
I didn’t want to admit that they were probably only a half blood vampire, if that kind of thing is possible. A part-time werewolf or maybe the Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde would be more accurate? I couldn’t acknowledge this possibility. I didn’t want to set them free from blame in that way. I was willing to accept that anything that I wrote would be a half truth. It was my way of being the one in control. I get to pick the teams. I get to aim the cootie spray.
Well, if I wasn’t after truth, what did that leave me with? I wrote this way out of pain, and at the time, I wanted others to hate my bullies. I wanted them to wish they could slip through the pages and the years with comfort and assurances. Life doesn’t end in the fourth grade. They’ll peak in high school. You can sit at our table in the cafeteria. You don’t have to be the new girl pretending to be consumed with the up and down of chewing your bologna and Velveeta slices on wheat, the way the brown paper crinkles under your fingertips, and the syrup stain in the corner of the cafeteria table. I’ll be your friend.
But if comfort was what I was seeking, it wouldn’t come from those early scribbles. Instead, readers would worry and wonder if I had a “to kill” list written in blood on my bedroom wall. And of course, I did, but it wasn’t on the wall. It was inked with purple pen in my diary, which was exactly where my early attempts at bully memoir belonged.
But I had to wonder: who was I spending so much energy hating, the grown up or the fourth grader? How can I hate someone that no longer exists? Can I transfer those feelings of loathing to the thirty year old bully? If I bumped into them on the street today, would I still want to cut their head up into tiny little pieces and serve it over the retched school lunch barquito? A concoction so nasty that it doesn’t even exist outside the walls of Kirkmere Elementary School. Probably not, but I would find some satisfaction if they weren’t aging well :)
I just want to say that I lift up every victim, and hope you find peace. For me, in addition to lots of praying, talking and writing about it over the years has really helped. So this was a hodge podge of what I have to say—past mixed with present. Most of my wounds have healed, Praise God! I still have the occasional “why don’t they like me?” moment, but overall, I am pleased with the woman that I’ve become. I’ve also learned that if everyone likes you, you are probably doing something wrong.