I’ve never gone to my high school class reunion. Never been invited. I know there’s been at least one reunion, but they couldn’t find my address even though I lived at the same address I did when I graduated. There’s a part of me that thinks I might be missing out one something. On the other hand, everyone always said you needed to go to your High School Prom or you would regret it. I went…and regretted going.
I’m incredibly introverted which makes most social situations a bit intimidating for me. As an adult I discovered things are easier if I have some sort of social buffer. More often than not this is my husband and I emphatically urge him not to leave me alone before we even leave the house. As a child I wasn’t so lucky and found myself facing the world alone. There’s only so much a parent can do once they drop their child off at school.
I can split my childhood years in chunks. There’s the first half – elementary school – which brings a number of fond memories to mind. The earliest of those years I remember feeling like I was one of the group. I was invited to birthday parties for a number of people including those who would one day be deemed “popular.” At some point, one that I can’t quite put my finger on, everything started to change. Is this universal? The natural winnowing of social groups wherein the “cream” so to speak rises to the top leaving the rest of us behind?
Upon arriving at middle school it all goes down hill with my arrival at the first day of gym class, that quintessential field of conflict, the central setting for any number of angst soaked mythological tales that so permeate our society. In our school, you changed in the locker room and entered the cavernous gymnasium where you were to take your space on the line in alphabetical order. The lines were painted on the floor, running the length of the cavernous room. This in my mind is the worst kind of social situation. You have no choice in where you sit and anyone you may know in class is likely half-way across the room in the Ns. I didn’t see it coming. Two girls whose names I no longer remember decided that day to call me “crotchy” and taunt me for the rest of class and every day for the rest of my sixth grade year. Before that day I felt safe in class. Ever year thereafter only illuminated how very unsafe being in class can be.
Seventh grade came and I could see the tiniest glimmer of light on the horizon. The two girls who bullied me so relentlessly? They went off to eighth grade and I never saw them again. My hopes for peace were dashed when Angie quickly stepped in to take their place. She began by letting me know that she knew what her friends did the year before. It makes me wonder – do bullies coordinate their efforts? Is there some sort of trade organization or conference that takes place where victims are identified and tactics shared? In the end, what Angie lacked in creativity, she made up for in persistence. She was steadfast in her pursuit of making my life a living hell.
I don’t remember what she said, but I do know she would bully me in class, on the bus, in the hallway, and outside. No one came to my aid – not the bus driver or the teacher. They either genuinely didn’t see what happened or they chose not to see it – ignoring the taunts and leaving me to fend for myself. None of my friends came to my aid either and the rest of my classmates laughed right along with her. This used to perplex me to no end. Then, a few months ago I read through Robert Cormier’s “The Chocolate War” as part of Banned Books Week. From the perspective of one of his characters, a bully, Cormier writes:
He found that the world was full of willing victims, especially kids his own age. He had discovered a truth early in life, in the fourth grade, in fact. Nobody wanted trouble, nobody wanted to make trouble, nobody wanted a showdown. The knowledge was a revelation. It opened doors. You could take a kid’s lunch or even his lunch money and nothing usually happened because most kids wanted peace at any price. (emphasis)
Reading it was one of those moments in your life where your breath catches slightly in your throat and your chest fills with a sort of warmth from the dawning realization that some portion of life finally makes sense and someone else “gets” it right along with you. It wouldn’t have mattered what I did or said. Protesting only encouraged her. What mattered was what the other people around me chose to do and they sure as hell weren’t going to stick their necks out for me. Her moving away at the end of the year was the only thing that saved me.
From that point life gets a bit easier. I became more or less invisible except for a few moments here and there – usually in class and sometimes exacerbated by a teacher who it seemed was on a mission to make me stick out as much as possible. My parents remember more here than I do and I’m appreciative that they made attempts to advocate for me. The fact that I remember little is probably a testament to their efforts. You would think that I would have sought their help in middle school, but I don’t believe that I did. Too embarrassed? Hard to say.
The last episode from my school years I classified as bullying until very recently when it dawned on me that if it were to occur in the workplace it would be considered sexual harassment. He was the son of my boss at a local business in the accounting department. His father was a friend of my Grandmother and in stark contrast with his son given his genuine concern for his employees and joviality. His son was in my accounting class and sat somewhere near me in class.
He took a number of opportunities to tell me all about his p*nis. In class with the rest of my classmates laughing right along with him. He’d insist that it was large enough to travel down one leg of his pants and up the other. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. I didn’t tell anyone. Why bother? The accounting teacher wasn’t in the room. She’d leave the classroom while we were to work on our journal entries, balance sheets, or pretend checkbooks. And his father? Can you imagine the conversation. ”Sir, this has nothing to do with work, but could you please tell your son to keep this thoughts about his p*nis to himself?”
No one wants to rock the boat. This I know deeply. People will turn a blind eye to most kinds of abuse – institutional or personal – as if it’s none of their concern. We’re adept at distancing ourselves from others by denying their humanity and assigning them very little worth. The very least of us are that way because we allow it. We ignore our society’s steady march crushing the poor and powerless in its gears to our own peril and it remains a lesson we have yet to learn.
As for the grand need for public schools to socialize our children? Hmmm…yeah. My husband maintains that I’d probably have been better off without their help on that one.
