Stories of Bullying
Participation, Evolution and Standing Up To Bullies
Dear Readers,
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Thank You.
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WARNING: There are stories of bullying ahead, so please take care of yourself.
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As a child in St. Louis, my brother and I spent the hot summer evenings catching lightning bugs. We carefully housed them within mason jars, making sure the lids had holes in them. Then set them on our bedroom dressers for the night. To our delight, they glow-danced all night long. I fell asleep dreaming of magic, shining fairies and other worlds. In the morning, we set them free. Then that evening, we’d catch more.
Maybe even the same ones, poor things.
A neighbor girl told me, I could squish them and rub the goo on my ears and wrists. Then they’d glow like jewels in the dark. This disturbed me. I didn’t want to kill them. They were portals into Mystery.
So I declined, a defender of the lightning bugs.
We lived in St. Louis for a few years in the late 1960s. Carla and Marla, the twins, were my best friends at school. Their father was a professional basketball player. My first kiss was with the boy who lived across the street, Mark. He, my brother and I played astronaut. I was always the astronaut’s wife, of course. Sometimes we played wedding. My brother was the preacher.
You can guess the rest.
My youngest brother was born in the spring of ‘68. My mother placed him in his carrier and set him on the kitchen side of the sliding glass door. All the neighbor kids came to admire him, smearing the glass with their greasy hands and snotty noses.
He was the neighborhood magnet.
Sometimes we had tornados. One night the siren went off. If you’ve never heard these loud horns before, just know they can activate even the most settled nervous system. I jumped out of bed, scrambling up the grassy knoll behind our house. Wind and rain whipped my nightgown. I was desperate to reach the safety of our neighbor’s basement. We did not have one.
Our house was not safe.
Many things frightened me as a child: tornados, bridges, and even the ocean. I first saw the Pacific Ocean after our move to Oregon. I was ten. I felt awe plus terror, as I witnessed the power of her waves and tides. Horror films, and movies about the supernatural also scared me. Demons and satan, which my mother warned me about often, were my greatest terror, especially at night, alone in bed where I felt undefended from these nebulous evils.
What I couldn’t understand at that time though, was the bully living in our home, my father.
I witnessed his daily emotional and sometimes physical abuse towards my mother and one brother. To me, it felt normal. Perhaps that’s why I once bullied the neighborhood boy whose pants were always too short.
His name was Jeffrey.
When he talked, he made funny gestures with his hands. Movements of excitement. He giggled oddly. Our culture taught us “normal” kids that everyone outside of this so called “normal” was fair game. He became the target of all of us. One afternoon, we were hanging out on that grassy knoll that led up to the tornado safe-house.
Jeffrey was there too, simply desiring to belong.
Kids started taunting him, making fun of the way he held his hands up by his mouth. They mocked his speech. I, for some reason that I can no longer recall, had sharp darts in my hands. The kind you use in a pub. The bully mob energy ignited me. I easily joined in the taunting.
Then to my utter shame, I threw a dart at Jeffrey.
I’ll never forget the sound it made as it punctured his ankle. I can still hear his cry. The look of shock, fear and pain on his face is embedded in my brain. He reached down, pulled it out, and ran home in tears. My body recoiled in horror at what I had just done. In that moment, time stopped. I understood to my very nine year old core just how capable I was of harming another human being.
I wept.
*To Grown Jeffrey,
I am so completely heartbroken over what I did to you when we were children. I have a sense that was probably not the last time you were bullied. But I hope that you have had a good life full of love, joy and peace. I hope you have known what it is to belong. As a momma myself, I am mortified at my young self harming you. There is no excuse for what I did. I am so very sorry.*
When we moved to Oregon in 1970, I was bullied for the first time. Brooke tormented me for every word I said in our classroom at McKinley grade school. My freckles were big and bright, yet they drew her scorn. “They’re Angel Kisses” I’d insist. “Freckled Faced Strawberry!” she’d taunt. I wanted desperately to belong to her group. None of them would be my friend.
It was a lonely year.
I went to Aloha High School from 1975-1979. My freshman year was treacherous, because of two sexually aggressive-boy-bullies. Their perpetrator-mode-of-operating was to stand in front of the lockers in the hallway between classes. Arms crossed, looking cool, they surveyed their prey scurrying down the hallway.
They were full of themselves.
One day as I walked by, one of them jumped out and felt up my breasts. At the same time, the other bully assaulted another girl. I was so shocked. I froze. They laughed, jubilant in their successful attack. Red faced, shaking with fear and anger, I ran away.
That night, I made a plan.
When I saw them hunting in the hallway again, I held my books high in my arms, creating a shield over my breasts. The same boy-bully jumped forward, this time grabbing my crotch. *Does this remind you of anybody?* I was devastated. I felt deep shame.
I seethed.
So the next day, when I once again saw them on the hunt, I couldn’t contain myself. I don’t remember where my books were. I only remember launching myself upon him when his head was turned. I shoved my hands hard into his chest, slamming his upper body against the lockers. Bang! My face inches from his, I shouted, “If you ever touch me again, I will kill you!” My rageful eyes glaring into his ever widening eyes, while his mouth smirked at me.
I backed up and walked away.
He never bothered me again. This was the only way I knew how, at the time, to defend myself. I felt strong.
Empowered.
The following year, when we were sophomores, he impregnated a freshman girl. I’ve since wondered if it was consensual sex or rape. There were two other experiences during those four years, where I stood up and called out sexual-bullies in front of my entire class, as they were actively intimidating other female classmates. I simply wouldn’t stand for it.
I wonder, where were the teachers?
Once I felt the deep pain of what I had done to Jeffrey, I vowed never to bully again. It’s as if it shifted that day to something else. A desire to protect and defend those who are seen as weak or vulnerable. Those who ARE weak and vulnerable. I still have bully energy within me. I recognize it. I feel it whenever I see or hear or read about injustices. It can be persistent and relentless, but it never delights in cruelty, name calling, mocking or causing harm.
It desires Love and Justice, not violence.
The question I ask myself is why was I repulsed by my bullying-violence towards Jeffrey, yet others are not phased by enacting their bully-harm? Their whole lives are spent bullying everyone around them? Do they feed off cruelty? Is it their identity?
A bully is defined as a person who habitually seeks to harm or intimidate those whom they perceive as vulnerable.
Bullies seek power over others in order to feel good about themselves. I’ve learned that it is an enormous risk to be vulnerable around bullies. It’s like throwing raw-red-meat to hungry dogs.
The minute I open my heart they attack. That’s my experience.
We are watching bullies take over our government here in the United States. I’ve listened to and watched enough of them talking, reacting and responding on the news. I know bullying when I see it. I know abuse. I know gaslighting. I know when someone is mocking and laughing at another. I see and hear their deceitful language. I know how malice manifests.
This is what people who lack empathy and compassion act like.
I feel ever humble and grateful for the Grace of awareness of what bullying costs others. If I had ignored my heart with Jeffrey, it would have numbed my compassion and perhaps eventually erased my empathy. Perhaps, what happens to Lifelong Bullies is they ignore the feeling of remorse in their bodies.
They disconnect from themselves, others and Spirit.
Perhaps they tamp all feelings down. Maybe they enjoy the pain they cause. Maybe it’s more rewarding to watch others react in fear rather than reflect on their own selves.
Perhaps they hate themselves so much, that they have to bully and control everyone around them to feel anything at all.
I stood up to the sexual-bullies in my high school. I spoke out. I confronted them. I pushed back. I defended those being harmed. This is what we need to do with all bullies, even if they reside in the White House.
Even if they seemingly hold all the power.
