Bullying

The recent suicide of a 7th Grader at Jackson Memorial Middle School in Stark County, Ohio didn’t get the same coverage that the shooting on Valentine’s Day at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Florida received. Both incidents are tragic. Their families and communities are beyond repair. And that is an understatement.

I believe that SOCIETY is out of control. Society is where these kids are getting these violent plans from. They learn by example. These kids are all hurting. It’s basic child psychology that children act out when they are frustrated with their emotions. It seems so many people have forgotten: these kids have feelings.

The unnamed 7th Grader took his own life in the bathroom of his school. Imagine the pain he must have suffered that morning, knowing he had a gun and was going to kill himself. What must have been taking place in his life the days before, and in the weeks, months, years, leading up to that morning. A child grew so sad, depressed, and then angry, that he lashed inwards at himself. He believed his escape could only be found with a gunshot to his own head. He didn’t even choose somewhere beautiful to commit the act. He chose his Middle School’s bathroom. What on Earth could have happened to that child, to have led him to that point?

My Story:

I was a victim of bullying as a child. I spent a few months every year living with my grandparents. My mother was on the other side of the country, worked, and had personal problems too great to care for me all the time. She would get stressed out, and ship me to her parents, or leave me with one of her siblings. I was actually really lucky considering the lack of forethought on her part with some of the things she did. I grew up fast living with her. But, I also grew up relatively safe.

My mother is white, of Italian, Irish, Finnish, and Native American descent. After five years with my father, she kicked him out of my life when I was two-years-old. He was Creole, a black man from New Orleans. I was light-skinned and had straight hair. I was born with green eyes, which customarily changed to dark brown. I was skinny, and gangly. My dark brown hair would lighten due to the sun. One time, just before I started 4th grade, the seaweed from the lake I swam in was stuck so thick in my hair, my grandmother had to get it chopped off short. I am not kidding when I say that no one could catch me to give me a bath in the summer! I was a tomboy and looked it. I would climb trees, refusing to come down all day.

One time my grandmother hired the son of her hairdresser to tutor me in math. He was older than me, a local kid I knew from sailing class. I was ten-years-old and only in the sailing class for a few days. The Sailing classes were a right of passage I had been waiting for. I was excited to finally be old enough to take them that Summer. For years, I had watched my older cousins and their friends come and go from the local Yacht Club. I would listen to all the fun they talked about having, and I couldn't wait until I was old enough to be a part of it. Within days, my happiness was ruined by the same bullies I had to deal with during the school year.

Along with some other boys my age that I knew from school, the boy hired to tutor me had bullied me about my race so bad, I left the sailing class and refused to go back. He had actually picked me up over his head, threatening to throw me in the water from the boat docks, while the other boys chanted the nasty nickname they had given me, and the new less insulting one: "Aunt Jemima," because I took to wearing a handkerchief on my head that Summer. My cousins and their older friends had been in the Yacht Club building, far out of hearing range, when it happened. You can imagine after that, how unhappy I felt about this brat being inside my grandparents home, my safe haven, to tutor me in Math. I climbed up a tree and refused to come down, taunting back at him that he was too fat to climb. Before he was taken home, he emptied the ink out of a pen in my fish tank, killing all of them. That's a bully for you, and I am sure if given the chance, he would have done something equally physically hurtful to me. He was never forced to apologize for any of his crap, and my grandmother still had his mother do her hair once a week.

Summers were usually always great. I would wake up at dawn and be swimming by the time my grandmother roused herself for her morning coffee. My older cousins only came in the Summer for those classes, and had their own friends who also only came in Summers. There was only one girl my age who came down with her mom's family. A lot like me, she was also not completely white. She was light-skinned and her wavy hair was the color of caramel. We had alot in common, since she also lived with her grandparents.

There were some kids who lived near the bus stop that I tried to befriend. One time, a mother saw me in their pool after a kid invited me to his Summer birthday party. She yelled at me, telling me to get out of her pool, and not to ever come back. Talk about embarrassing! Before long, none of the other kids were allowed to play with me. I guess she had spread the word.

Weekends in Winter were pretty active for me, too. Bundled in my snowsuit, scarf, and gloves, I would spend hours outside in the yard. There were never any kids, so I played alone. I never minded. I built snow forts, explored nature, and still climbed up my favorite tree. I did love my lazy bowls of cereal, early on Saturday mornings in front of the TV I would even be up before my grandfather. He would toss a blanket over me while I lounged on the floor to watch cartoons with my cat, who always got the milk from my cereal. The only drawback to life with them was going to school.

The bus ride was always terrible. Name calling, yelling, spitballs, gum in my hair, and some kids actually spit on me! I was shoved and tripped while I walked up the aisle, you name it, I’d had it done. School was bad enough that no one wanted to sit with me at lunch. There was no choice in Elementary School. The tables were in a row, against a wall, and everyone had to sit down somewhere. Luckily, I was pretty assertive. In Middle School, kids would actually get up and move to other tables, leaving me the only person sitting there. It was obviously because I sat down with them. The bus was more isolated, and enclosed. Probably in about 1st Grade, for that whole school year, a girl who went to the High School sat next to me. She was probably one of the prettiest girls in the school. She was a blond, who had a sincere smile. One of the nicest girls, and very popular, she had some authority. For that one whole school year that she sat next to me, I didn’t get bullied on the bus. Sitting next to me and sticking up for me the way she did caused me to get taunted worse than before. It would start by the boys as soon as I got off the bus. First, because I looked like Hiawatha, I was called a "Lesbo." If I wasn't getting tan in San Diego, I got tan while I swam at my grandparents. My mulatto skin tanned dark, so every September, there I was, one of the darkest "white" kids around.

I was the kid in the class who always got in trouble for swearing at the other kids whenever the teacher left the room. What can I say? I stuck up for myself! Whenever I stuck up for myself, I would get in trouble. Soon, I began to grow depressed. I really think the teacher knew, and would leave the room on purpose, only to return when she could hear me defend myself from the taunting of the other kids. The worst feeling was her hand on my shoulder, after I let a string of obscenities rip. The dread of knowing I just got busted! Yes, I know little kids (especially little GIRLS) shouldn’t be saying those bad words...

When I lived with my mother, I always had a lot of friends out in Southern California. I had to walk back and forth from school, I was rarely ever alone. The boys and girls of various races, cultures, and ages, who were also multilingual, and some who played sports, all stuck together. If one of us had a problem, we talked about it to find out what was wrong. Kids were told to apologize and did it. I'm sure that's not everyone's experience out there, but it was mine. Us girls would argue in school, but at the end of the day, we had to stand in a circle, hold hands and sing a Beatles' song. Can I say it worked? Like magic! We would hug and apologize to each other, our argument forgotten.

When I celebrated a birthday in Cali, my mom would invite all the kids she could think of. Once, a little girl who had locked me in her home, while she stood outside laughing, dangling the key up to the window, came to my birthday. She was a neighbor anyway, and my mother set up a table in the middle of our road, with cake, food, and balloons. The girl apologized and all was good again. I knew her older brother had practically beat her up to get the key back, so he could let me out. If she wasn't sorry, she wouldn't have apologized, and even her brother wouldn't have made her! It was shocking for my mother when in NY for one of my birthdays, I walked out of my bedroom to see all the kids from class who had been bullying me standing in my grandparents' dining room. My mom had invited them, not fully aware of the situation at that school. She stood there so happy with herself. Her homemade cake on the giant oak table looked terrible. It was supposed to be strawberry, so the homemade icing was pink. I had watched her make the cake portion, which had fallen apart, and was uneven. It sat there like a pink pile of puke. I was recovering from being sick, and still wore my pajamas and bathrobe. I was shocked at the sight of everything. I broke out in tears, ran into my bedroom, and refused to come out of my room until they were gone. I knew when I returned to school, I was going to get it! I listened to them get picked up by their parents, imagining all the terrible things they were going to say to me when they got the chance. I knew the teacher wasn't going to stop them, but would even help them terrorize me!

At this country school in New York, I was the little "not white" girl who had a very colorful vocabulary. I made zero apologies, even when told to, since I was just sticking up for myself. The other kids caught on quick. Who knows what the teacher said to them while I was in the Principal’s office? That teacher would tell me, in front of the other kids, that I had no right to say those things back to them; that they were right, I was in the wrong. Punishment for her students was a large refrigerator box she would wrap around the desk. Isolation. That was 2nd Grade in NY until my mother came back from Cali, discovered what was going, and raised a stink. She did it after that birthday party. I never felt so relieved to hear my mother's voice as she pulled the box away from my desk, yelled at the teacher (with her own nice string of obscenities!) and brought me home! After she got the teacher fired (temporarily) she took me back to San Diego.

Sadly, 3rd Grade was a flop in Cali. I was accidentally signed up as a Mexican Immigrant! For an hour or so every day, with headphones on my ears, I sat in front of a monitor learning English translations from Spanish for WEEKS until my mother realized it. Let me point out that the kids in class knew I didn't understand what the hell I was supposed to be doing! They were all nice to me and helped me out. I probably would have passed 3rd Grade with flying colors! In the school's office, my mother yelled at the Principal about how they could have made such a mistake! I had a record there since Kindergarten! They KNEW I wasn't Mexican! She then found another school nearby. Well kinda. It was further north in La Jolla. We moved to an apartment between La Jolla and Chula Vista, with the Bay on one side and the Beach on the other, so her commute to work after dropping me off at school was easier. Not long after 3rd Grade ended, I was back in NY for Summer.

While I went to school in NY, I got in trouble often for day dreaming. I would stare out the window (when I could see it) and wish to not be there. That grew to me not wanting to even be alive. By 5th grade, I felt suicidal. I hid it every day. I knew my family loved me and my grandparents would have been terribly hurt if I committed suicide. I would never want to hurt them like that. I would tell myself that not everyone was like these kids and teachers in this school.

Even in 5th grade in that District, teachers took part in the bullying of the students in class. One teacher sat me next to one of the THE most racist kids I knew. Then while sitting on this boy’s desk, he would trade racist jokes with him before he started class. I would sit there, and try to ignore them. Since every once in awhile the kid would look over at me and I knew he wanted a reaction. I would read "Johnny Tremain" (Keep in mind this was the mid 1980s!) that I had tucked in my textbook. Finally, after he made a joke directly to me, I said something equally nasty back. At that age, I identified myself as half-black and half-Italian. Both were considered low-class in that town. I grew tired of being the whipping post for whatever personal grudges people around there had against blacks and Italians. I was also a girl, so I resented that people thought my sex would make it easier to treat me like crap. I had a brain, a mouth, and a temper, and I used all three frequently in self-defense. After I calmly said what I said to him, he looked shocked and turned around. I think he expected a different response. As far as I'm concerned, he was worthless all around, and I didn't care what his opinion was on the subject of race.

I had the assigned book for that class completely read within the first few days of school. I really enjoyed the book. I had actually started it over, when the teacher caught me reading it. He berated me in front of the whole class. Apparently, he said, I thought I was smarter than everyone else and didn't feel like I needed to stay on the same page as them. I flunked his class completely. I didn’t care about getting good grades in his class, or any other class. Why should I have cared? According to that School District, I was a ‘retarded nigger’. Today, when I look back, I know I was really lucky in that I had exposure to life in Southern California. That was a completely different culture. If it hadn’t been for my life in San Diego, who knows what I would have done in NY. I didn’t believe that the bullying would end until I was out of school. Every day I told myself to just hang on, hang on until I was out of school. Then I could leave and never come back! The relief came in a surprising way.

Halfway through the school year, my grandfather got into an argument with the math teacher after I got a failing math grade. Let me explain. In 2nd grade, the district had slapped a label on me: "Learning Disabled." My grandparents got my IQ tested and it tested pretty high. I was sent home with a college math book to study from. In 2nd Grade! In school, even though my grandparents were assured that it would be my study material, the book was set aside. I was sent home with it completely unopened every day.

My grades were always bad, but I was passed to the next grade every year. School had me so frustrated, that I would rip up my papers, homework, schoolbooks, and I acted out violently. That was how school taught me to react when hurting. Because at that school, I was bullied by not just kids, but the teachers too. It was normal for them to hurt people when they were hurting. I see that now that I'm an adult, but I didn't want to hurt anyone! So I turned my anger inwards and hurt THINGS. My sweet, beautiful grandfather would tape the books back together for me. My step-father, who had married my mother later that year, taught me to fix what I broke. Actions have consequences. People, when broken, are not as easy to fix.

By 5th grade, he decided to help me with my homework. After the incident with that one boy, my grandmother had her teacher friends tutor me with English and Math. But this year, my grandfather gave me his undivided attention. He was an Architect and Professional Engineer, so math was his forte. My grandfather went in to talk to the math teacher when my grades came back with a failing grade. The answers were all correct, the teacher said, but the work to get the answers were wrong. My grandfather flipped. At that moment, he realized that no matter what, I was going to be failed. The label on my permanent school record from that district was never going to change from "Learning disabled," no matter how smart I was. He yanked me from that school and sent me to a Catholic School.

I only went for a year because my mother decided to move back to NY. She moved with me two more times before settling down. The scars of the bullying at that school district followed me. When I turned 14, I began carrying a lighter and a small can of aerosol hairspray, one up each sleeve, while I walked the few blocks to a new middle school. Two girls had begun to harass me and they were both bigger than me. Luckily, practically that same day, I met two nice girls there and am still friends with them today. When I was 16, I moved back to my grandparent's. I had gotten into an extremely abusive relationship and I wanted to avoid both him and my mother, who had become quite abusive to me as well. I dropped out of school, got a job, and started college.

My grandfather expressed his regret for years. He wished he had removed me earlier. I was even accepted into a school for the gifted, but due to my history of documented bad grades, they wanted to wait another year to see if my grades would improve. That particular school for the gifted in the Buffalo Catholic Diocese shut down the year I would have been reevaluated in 7th Grade. It wasn’t my grandfather's fault. My education was not unsalvageable. How was he supposed to know that beginning so young in grade school, I would be racially profiled?

Even today, I am constantly going to college classes and furthering my education. I'm a bit of a nerd. I have always been a bookworm, and I love to learn. Am I compensating for the labels of my childhood? I really don't think so. If none of that had ever happened, I would still be furthering my education. I would still be a bookworm and a bit of nerd. That's just who I am. But, people like to judge, it makes them feel smart!

Today, I live almost an hour away from that small town. I am 41, and a proud, thankful mother of two boys. One is 19 and in college, the other is in 11th grade. I don't believe either were ever "Racially Profiled" like I was, but neither went to that particular school. Neither have been bullies. They know I would be angry, disappointed, and hurt beyond belief. Each of my sons have stood up against bullies, in defense of someone they saw being victimized when they were in Elementary School. Knowing that there IS compassion in my boys (no matter how tough their exterior) makes me proud of them! They both know what I have been through.

Even as an adult, my children have had to witness other adults bullying me. My children also witness my reaction! I'm STILL sticking up for myself! People who were bullied as children, are more likely to suffer being bullied as an adult. I don't know why this is, but it's almost like as I grew up, any person who knew what I went through, saw it as an invitation to mistreat me. They find out wrong. I was raised to defend myself. Defending myself has NOT stopped the bullying in my life. When I hit puberty, I blossomed. My attractiveness became a huge part of what I deal with today. I also became "meaner" as the men who sexually harass me yell out: '"Why are you so MEAN?" It's "mean" to refuse to talk to a stranger who pulls to the side of the road. It's "mean" to refuse to give out my number. It's "mean" to refuse a man's sexual advance. Listen, I'm 41 years old, not 10, and even at 10, that kind of insult would NOT get me to talk to you.

I would die if anything happened to either of my kids. I would also die if I had to subject them to any of the kids of the bullies I grew up with. The anger I will always feel, never goes away. There is no "getting over it." It shocks me that abusive people think they deserve to have forgiveness. I have heard the "Forgive for yourself" phrase before. It doesn't bother me to move on in life and LIVE, without THOSE people around me! Being away from them makes me happy! In my opinion, anyone who expects me to forgive them, who expects anyone to forgive them for that kind of treatment, gets away with what they have done. It doesn't affect me to move on in life and leave terrible people behind me. Only a bully who wants another chance to mistreat me, or the people I love, would want me to forgive them. It affects THEIR life, not mine.

Over the years, I have run into the people who bullied me in school. I kept a distance from them on purpose. I received friend requests from them on Facebook, which I rejected, disgusted that they believe I would even accept them. The bullying didn't end completely when I changed to Catholic School, but it wasn't so many kids, and definitely not the teachers anymore. I even had a few parties with the kids from class invited to my grandparents again. I made friends who don't care about anyone's race. I realized that I was right. Not everyone has that same kind of mindset.

To this day, I won't forget how when my grandfather still had his house down there, I ordered a birthday cake from THEIR grocery store, and my oldest son's name was spelled wrong. It was five letters that I wrote on a piece of paper for them when I ordered it. He was 6. I won't forget the birth announcement that left my oldest son's father completely off, even though he was present and helped me fill it out in the hospital. I won't forget the globs of hair I found in a sub that I ordered from THEIR pizzeria while I was pregnant, which was two doors down from where his father's family lived. People can go ahead and say I overreact. There's no doubt I have PTSD, after not just being bullied as a child, but from everything I have been put through and survived since then. That town is small... in many ways. See what attempting forgiveness gets you? How about saying "It's okay to feel angry, hurt, and sad." Even better, say: "It's okay to move on in life and be happy."

So yes, I can relate to these angry kids. I had a lot of support and help in coping. I will be forever grateful to my family. My grandfather is gone now; both my grandparent's passed away. My father died. I have to keep my mother out of my life. But, I would happily go back, even just for one year, to have those days with my grandparents all over again!

The world changes, yet it remains the same. We are all human. We are all trying to survive the ups and downs of life. We all want to live in a safe environment. We all want our children to get an education in a safe environment.

We all want our children to grow up.

Alive.

Healthy.

Happy?? Some kids really need to be taught HOW to be happy. They either never learn at home or have never had a home to learn from! Let's teach them it's okay to be there for each other! After all, children learn by example!

Suicide is not okay for anyone!! Especially not for a 7th Grader who chose to end his life in the bathroom of his middle school.

https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

OR CALL:

1-800-273-8255