We had no programs to stop bullying when I was a kid. Well,
those of us constantly in the sites of bullies had our own program, a system
really. Stay the hell out of sight. Make no eye contact with the
goons—sorry, I’m sure I meant “bullies.”
I am told that the prevailing anti-bullying schemes include
“tell an adult.” Are you crazy? What’s one of the fastest ways to get a serious
ass kicking? Yeah, this gem of wisdom that tells me to report to an adult the
kid who needs no excuse to want to kick my ass. Who’s the idiot who thought up
this plan?
You’ve no doubt already noticed that this section of the
tale is quite short. If you saw the title above and thought, “Now he’ll tell us
stories of bullying and how it made him stronger; tell us about the time that
the bullying got so bad that he could no longer be scared. That’s how this
ends, with a punch in the nose for one of those damn bullies.” It’s probably
not good business practice to insult your customer/reader/patron but, how stupid
are you? Life isn't “Disney’s The Kid,” “Back to the Future,” or any of the
countless other ridiculous pop culture resolutions. When you get sick of the
bully, absolutely go in swinging. Just know that the ass kicking you've worked
so hard to avoid all these years is about to come down on you like an anvil
dropping on Wile E. Coyote’s head.
This is all you get: the last fight I was in, I lost spectacularly.
I had at least a foot of height on him. All he did was to try to kick me in a
part of my body for which I had big plans. Finally, he tried one last time to
kick me, which is when I finally caught his foot. Great. I've got him, yeah? My
reach was much longer than his. I could have punched him like Bandura’s famous
Bobo Doll. I never even took a swing. Next thing I know I am on my back with
this punk on my chest and punching me. My dad pulled him off and sent him home.
Everyone watching (and who didn't hate me) asked why I
didn't hit him. I had no answer—then. Here’s the thing: I've never punched
anyone. Like many a boy back in the late 60’s/early 70’s, I had my share of
“fights” and altercations. I remember a lot about some of those happy times but
the one thing I can’t remember is ever once making contact with my opponent.
(The good news is that my opponents rarely landed a punch either.) Because I
never won a fight nor even inflict discomfort of any kind, I concluded that I
was a coward. Eight years old and carrying that label around is not what Maslow
had in mind whilst making his cute little triangle. It was like having a large
“C” attached to me. Not like Hester Prynne with an “A” sewn on her dress. My
scarlet letter felt more as if it had been sown directly to my skin. Or maybe
it was tattooed on my forehead.
Many years and successful sessions later, I realize that I
have never been violent. I hate it. It is the shittiest and shallowest strategy
for dealing with disagreement. I once heard a lady say, “I just can’t
understand how violence can be an appropriate response to another human being.”
That’s who I've always tried to be—a person of peace. I would have proudly worn a
scarlet “P.” No one told me it was an option.
Here endeth the lesson.
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