Chapter 4
Ten Years of Bullying: Lonely Birthdays
The drinking age was eighteen when I was a senior in high school. Therefore starting in early 1977, one by one our rite of passage carried us into the discos of southern New Hampshire. Of course most of us had started before the official date. My first time was at the drive-in theater in the summer of 1976. I was with my brother and two mutual friends. Paul was already a veteran as a member of the athletic in crowd. I had three beers, Colt-45’s and I was wasted. Paul got me into the house and attempted to get me into the bedroom without waking our parents. In hindsight I’m sure they were quite aware and knew everything that was going on.
It was now May 6th, 1977 and it was my birthday. This was the night that I could go out and do as adults do. I was affixed to habits of survival and escape. Thoughts of me were equivocated with dirt. Connections with peers followed a sad pattern. Two friends remained in my court although barely playing. Alex and David had hung in there with me but Alex was near the end. We had become quick friends, and spent a lot of time together. However, the “poor me” rhetoric had grown old for Alex just as it had done for so many other short-term friends.
We had talked during the week at school about going out Saturday night to celebrate my birthday just as we had done to mark Alex’s big day. The saddest sight looking in from the outside had to be looking at me in my family room on Friday night. There I was sitting watching TV alone as I had done on so many Friday nights during those high school years. Every few seconds I would glance at the phone. For years, I was convinced that my life would change and that better things would happen. After so many weeks, months and years of unbearable loneliness, I still could convince myself that someone would call and invite me to be part of something…anything. So I kept picturing that Alex or David would be heading to the phone to give me the call. As time passed into the later evening, I just sighed, lay back on the couch and daydreamed of “Being someone”.
Saturday was my birthday and my mom had already announced that we would celebrate as a family at Sunday dinner. This was great as I still looked excitingly at going to a club on this night. Desperation was setting in as I had not heard from Alex or David. So I did as I had done so many times before, I called them working all my neurons towards sounding relaxed and nonchalant. David’s mother answered and got David to the phone. “Hey David”, I sputtered. We are going out tonight, right? Quite coldly he explained that he was doing things with his family and would not be able to go out. One down and only one left. That empty, yet desperate feeling was building. How could I possibly spend my birthday alone and doing nothing? My mind was moving into high anxious gear.
I dialed Alex. As I mentioned we had spent a lot of time together, but I had come to realize that we always did what Alex wanted to do. His dad picked up the phone and we talked for a few seconds. Alex picked up the other receiver, “I’ve got it dad”, he said. Hey Alex, are we all set for tonight I stated with as much faith as I could muster. Alex, my friend who knew it was my birthday, said I don’t think I’ll go out tonight, I’ve got to work on my car. At this point, the phone just fell on my shoulder as I tried to locate some inner energy to continue the conversation. I should have said good bye and hung up the phone. Instead I groveled; I kept the possibility going…until Alex said well maybe if I can get this car issue fixed up. Alex said he would call me as soon as he was done with the car. Five pm passed with no call followed by six and then seven. So I picked that phone up and called Alex. No one answered. I dialed several times with the same result. In 1977, not only were there no cell phones, but most families did not even own a phone machine.
Here I sat, a young man, a product of ten years of bullying, diminished by the verbosity and physicality, scraping for the tiniest morsel of worth. Feeling numb and sensing nothing around me, I got into my dad’s car and drove to Alex’s house. There he was his head buried under the hood of his car. I walked up and said, “Hey, how’s it coming?” Alex looked out and said, “It’s giving me trouble”. He kept working. I handed him tools. It got dark. The work on the car was finished about 9:00. We went inside and had a beer. I said, “Let’s go out for a few.” Alex looked in a hall mirror and said it would just take too long to get ready. I put the beer can down, got in my car and drove home. As I had done so many other nights during my teenage years, I went into the family room, turned on the television. Slouching into the sofa, I grabbed the clicker, and set my station on “Escape”. Eventually the world in my head got quiet and I fell asleep.
The goal of this blog is to share ideas supporting an effective anti-bullying national program. I also passionately believe that our ability to provide quality education to kids cannot happen until the pillars of Respect, Discipline and Courage have been restalished in our public schools. Educators, parents, and community leaders must all come together and stand strong to attain a nourishing, safe and thriving school community.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
Bullied: Freshman Year: Day Dreams & Nightmares
Another snippet from my upcoming book, Bullied.
Every few days I'll post an overview of another chapter. Appreciate any feedback.
Chapter 3
Freshman Year: Daydreams and Nightmares
The daily routine from hell was back in session. It was mid-March, as I glanced at the clock and prepared myself for another journey through panic, fear and anxiety. I worked really hard, as I did every day, to look positive until we got through lunch. My smile had worked well that morning and my practiced masculine “How ya doing”? elicited three responses before lunch. After that, it was about preparation and survival. The last period of the day always dragged as my mind waffled between absorbing the teacher’s information and designing the strategic stealth plan. I was up on the second floor, a good distance from my locker. I knew that I would have to think quick, move smart and keep my head down as usual.
In one swooping motion, the hands of the clock hit 2:20, the teacher’s voice trailed with assignment reminders as I rocketed from the chair. I hit the door quick beating out the majority of the freshmen and made a clean turn to the right dodging the onslaught of my peers. My eyes focused, the legs fired, and I cleared the stairs without a hint of stumbling. The lobby and main staircase at Bishop Guertin High School resounded with historical perspective, philosophy and the ornate points of view of the Catholic faith. There was no time to embrace these spectacles now as I darted down the stairs towards the locker room. My goal had to be achieved; getting to the bus before anyone else.
As I approached the bottom of the main staircase, I turned sharply to the left and faced the most challenging piece of my daily flight. Ahead lay the narrow, sharply descending stairs cluttered with bodies of numerous pubescent boys. Not all were faced with my dilemma. Many of the guys were relaxed, laughing and taking their sweet time rambling down the stairs. Today was more stagnant than normal from both a kinetic and aromatic perspective. I wanted to scream, “Get out of my way, let me breathe and allow me some peace”. Finally when it seemed like the bottleneck would not cease, I spilled out into the cafeteria framed by khaki green cement blocks.
Seconds were cerebrally interpreted as minutes as I sprinted towards the left back corner of the café. Woven within the cement blocks, 700 lockers lay in waiting. In one deliberate motion, the right hand hit the combination lock as my left arm hurdled out of my corduroy sport coat. Three muscle memory turns, and the locker creaked open as my right arm cleared the confines of my coat. The nylon blue paisley tie, absurdly wide in width, was removed in a fraction of a moment and tossed on the hook. It shared time with the brown and yellow striper and the mega-sectional red, white and blue edition. I grabbed my so seventies winter jacket, brown with the fox fur collar, leather gloves and psychedelic stocking hat and booked it for the exit.
The intensity of attaining my immediate objective had to maintain balance with the long range goal of looking cool and calm at all times. I caught myself as I passed through the doors leading to the parking lot and shifted into a calculated and brutally contained cantor. I was struggling to breathe and could feel my heart pounding. Ahead of me, spread out over a large parking lot was a cornucopia of transport vehicles. Standing tall and gleaming brightly among the sedans, (SUV’s and minivans waited twenty years in the future) the yellow chariot called my name. Picking up speed, I galloped towards the bus and hit the stairs hard and fast.
I swept around the corner and slid heavily into the first seat on the right. Finally, I gave myself a chance to take a breath of air and experience a second of relaxation. Phase one of the afternoon obstacle course was complete. Several seconds passed before the next student jumped on the bus. This gave the bus driver, John, a moment to say hello. John always called me John because he said that I looked like John Lennon. As the kids pushed and stumbled onto the bus, I prepared myself for the fifty minute phase two of the journey. The tension again built up in my shoulders and stomach as I placed myself in the position. It was a tremendous struggle every day to become invisible. As the bus began to traverse forward I opened my book, focused all cerebral neurons on my hearing, and deadened my eyes.
In a corner of my brain I held on to the hope that after three months out of site, the focus on terror would have ceased. The possibilities swirled. Would it include being pulled to the back and getting beaten up, igniting my books on fire, having cigarette ashes dumped on my head, or having my personal belongings destroyed? Therefore, you can see why every trip was a dangerous and panic laden trek for me. As I deadened my eyes my saving grace, daydreaming, took hold. On this day, my dream carried me to my dentist’s office. I was sitting in the chair enjoying a conversation with the dental hygienist, Doreen.
We traveled without incident along our route from southern New Hampshire through several northeastern Massachusetts towns. At each stop another bully would prepare to exit. Maintaining my place in dream world, my breathing would come to a halt. As the antagonist meandered down the stairs, a sigh of relief would be accompanied by the thought that one less idea of torture existed on this particular ride. The return home was going as well as could be expected, until the rumbling began. I came out of my dream state when I heard the meshing of words that included “Big Bird”, “faggot”, “runt” and, “spit”. Eventually the words blended into the sentence, “Let’s spit on Big Bird when he gets off the bus”. Anxiety, anger, embarrassment, assessment and preparation all became entangled in my thought process. My stop was approaching and now it was clear what the plan was. There were ten kids still on the bus. Two were leading the charge, three others followed without blinking, two jumped aboard to protect their reputations and three sat and looked away. John, the bus driver heard everything and did nothing.
John enjoyed stopping the bus on a dime and we were jolted forward by the quick pump of the brakes. I grabbed my bag, barely able to breathe as I initiated my launch to safety. I figured that if I jumped from the bottom step of the bus I could take two quick leaps and be out of spittoon range. Unfortunately, it had been raining and the snow banks were slushy and soft. My first jump landed me in a foot of water causing me to slip and bend backwards. I pushed forward hoping to hit the top of the bank and roll to the other side. As I hit the crest of the bank, I could hear the interfacing of gears as the bus moved forward. I also heard the taunting and the laughing as the cruel action took place. When my foot impacted the wet snow, I sunk to my knee in slush. My momentum carried me over the wet mound of snow and I rolled into a bitterly cold puddle on the other side.
I stood, slowly, as my ears and nose still captured soft laughter and diesel fuel dancing on waves of sound and smell. I felt numb, not from the frigid environment but from the internal humiliation. I knew that I had been hit and I also knew there was nothing I could do about it. I checked and found that one lugee had caught me in the back and the other was disgustingly seeping into the cotton fibers of my hat. Picking up my soaked school bag, I turned to walk home with a sad grin protruding from my face. I quickly headed into my house, dumped my wet clothes, went into my room, and traveled back to my safe haven. My day dream continued until mom and dad got home. Small talk ensued, but I expressed nothing to suggest that bullying was part of my daily life.
Every few days I'll post an overview of another chapter. Appreciate any feedback.
Chapter 3
Freshman Year: Daydreams and Nightmares
The daily routine from hell was back in session. It was mid-March, as I glanced at the clock and prepared myself for another journey through panic, fear and anxiety. I worked really hard, as I did every day, to look positive until we got through lunch. My smile had worked well that morning and my practiced masculine “How ya doing”? elicited three responses before lunch. After that, it was about preparation and survival. The last period of the day always dragged as my mind waffled between absorbing the teacher’s information and designing the strategic stealth plan. I was up on the second floor, a good distance from my locker. I knew that I would have to think quick, move smart and keep my head down as usual.
In one swooping motion, the hands of the clock hit 2:20, the teacher’s voice trailed with assignment reminders as I rocketed from the chair. I hit the door quick beating out the majority of the freshmen and made a clean turn to the right dodging the onslaught of my peers. My eyes focused, the legs fired, and I cleared the stairs without a hint of stumbling. The lobby and main staircase at Bishop Guertin High School resounded with historical perspective, philosophy and the ornate points of view of the Catholic faith. There was no time to embrace these spectacles now as I darted down the stairs towards the locker room. My goal had to be achieved; getting to the bus before anyone else.
As I approached the bottom of the main staircase, I turned sharply to the left and faced the most challenging piece of my daily flight. Ahead lay the narrow, sharply descending stairs cluttered with bodies of numerous pubescent boys. Not all were faced with my dilemma. Many of the guys were relaxed, laughing and taking their sweet time rambling down the stairs. Today was more stagnant than normal from both a kinetic and aromatic perspective. I wanted to scream, “Get out of my way, let me breathe and allow me some peace”. Finally when it seemed like the bottleneck would not cease, I spilled out into the cafeteria framed by khaki green cement blocks.
Seconds were cerebrally interpreted as minutes as I sprinted towards the left back corner of the café. Woven within the cement blocks, 700 lockers lay in waiting. In one deliberate motion, the right hand hit the combination lock as my left arm hurdled out of my corduroy sport coat. Three muscle memory turns, and the locker creaked open as my right arm cleared the confines of my coat. The nylon blue paisley tie, absurdly wide in width, was removed in a fraction of a moment and tossed on the hook. It shared time with the brown and yellow striper and the mega-sectional red, white and blue edition. I grabbed my so seventies winter jacket, brown with the fox fur collar, leather gloves and psychedelic stocking hat and booked it for the exit.
The intensity of attaining my immediate objective had to maintain balance with the long range goal of looking cool and calm at all times. I caught myself as I passed through the doors leading to the parking lot and shifted into a calculated and brutally contained cantor. I was struggling to breathe and could feel my heart pounding. Ahead of me, spread out over a large parking lot was a cornucopia of transport vehicles. Standing tall and gleaming brightly among the sedans, (SUV’s and minivans waited twenty years in the future) the yellow chariot called my name. Picking up speed, I galloped towards the bus and hit the stairs hard and fast.
I swept around the corner and slid heavily into the first seat on the right. Finally, I gave myself a chance to take a breath of air and experience a second of relaxation. Phase one of the afternoon obstacle course was complete. Several seconds passed before the next student jumped on the bus. This gave the bus driver, John, a moment to say hello. John always called me John because he said that I looked like John Lennon. As the kids pushed and stumbled onto the bus, I prepared myself for the fifty minute phase two of the journey. The tension again built up in my shoulders and stomach as I placed myself in the position. It was a tremendous struggle every day to become invisible. As the bus began to traverse forward I opened my book, focused all cerebral neurons on my hearing, and deadened my eyes.
In a corner of my brain I held on to the hope that after three months out of site, the focus on terror would have ceased. The possibilities swirled. Would it include being pulled to the back and getting beaten up, igniting my books on fire, having cigarette ashes dumped on my head, or having my personal belongings destroyed? Therefore, you can see why every trip was a dangerous and panic laden trek for me. As I deadened my eyes my saving grace, daydreaming, took hold. On this day, my dream carried me to my dentist’s office. I was sitting in the chair enjoying a conversation with the dental hygienist, Doreen.
We traveled without incident along our route from southern New Hampshire through several northeastern Massachusetts towns. At each stop another bully would prepare to exit. Maintaining my place in dream world, my breathing would come to a halt. As the antagonist meandered down the stairs, a sigh of relief would be accompanied by the thought that one less idea of torture existed on this particular ride. The return home was going as well as could be expected, until the rumbling began. I came out of my dream state when I heard the meshing of words that included “Big Bird”, “faggot”, “runt” and, “spit”. Eventually the words blended into the sentence, “Let’s spit on Big Bird when he gets off the bus”. Anxiety, anger, embarrassment, assessment and preparation all became entangled in my thought process. My stop was approaching and now it was clear what the plan was. There were ten kids still on the bus. Two were leading the charge, three others followed without blinking, two jumped aboard to protect their reputations and three sat and looked away. John, the bus driver heard everything and did nothing.
John enjoyed stopping the bus on a dime and we were jolted forward by the quick pump of the brakes. I grabbed my bag, barely able to breathe as I initiated my launch to safety. I figured that if I jumped from the bottom step of the bus I could take two quick leaps and be out of spittoon range. Unfortunately, it had been raining and the snow banks were slushy and soft. My first jump landed me in a foot of water causing me to slip and bend backwards. I pushed forward hoping to hit the top of the bank and roll to the other side. As I hit the crest of the bank, I could hear the interfacing of gears as the bus moved forward. I also heard the taunting and the laughing as the cruel action took place. When my foot impacted the wet snow, I sunk to my knee in slush. My momentum carried me over the wet mound of snow and I rolled into a bitterly cold puddle on the other side.
I stood, slowly, as my ears and nose still captured soft laughter and diesel fuel dancing on waves of sound and smell. I felt numb, not from the frigid environment but from the internal humiliation. I knew that I had been hit and I also knew there was nothing I could do about it. I checked and found that one lugee had caught me in the back and the other was disgustingly seeping into the cotton fibers of my hat. Picking up my soaked school bag, I turned to walk home with a sad grin protruding from my face. I quickly headed into my house, dumped my wet clothes, went into my room, and traveled back to my safe haven. My day dream continued until mom and dad got home. Small talk ensued, but I expressed nothing to suggest that bullying was part of my daily life.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Bullied: Middle School Years
Chapter 2:
Middle School: Tormented Tradition
It was the summer of 1972 and we had just settled into our rental in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire. I had just come off a miserable seventh grade where puberty had exponentially compounded my bullying experiences.
It was mid-July and I had survived three weeks of constant verbal and physical pounding. I woke up that morning really excited as my best friend from school, Paul, was arriving today to spend a week. I lied in bed thinking of how it would be so nice to spend the next seven days not worried about trying to fit in. Paul didn’t tease me and we always spent lots of time talking, reading and sharing ideas. It was a Monday and Paul was expected to arrive later in the afternoon. As the norm for every sunny day, we spent the morning at the beach. Walking towards the sand, all the scenarios bounced through me head. Would I be allowed to play in the games? Would the kids all head to the jetty and not ask me to come along? Would Andy and his band of friends start calling me “Nose”?
Within minutes, everyone scattered and I found myself alone on the blanket organizing my prized baseball cards. I found solace in this time losing myself in the world of major league baseball. I would arrange the cards in numerous ways by team, statistic or position. Then I could spend hours reading every statistic of each player. To this day, I can rattle off stats in great detail of baseball significance from 1968 through 1972.
Knowing that Paul was arriving soon kept me focused and relaxed. As noon approached the kids reappeared at the blanket. Andy, Ricky and even my brother, Paul started in with the barbed digs. “Four-eyes” was still a popular line among bullies in the early seventies and I got called it often. I was blind as a bat by the time I was six and I wore those dreadful thick black glasses. Since I had to wear them for all activities they were always beat up, crooked and patched with tape. Andy grabbed them from my face and threw them around to Bobby, Dick, Joey and Johnny. David didn’t join in. He was the only one strong enough to not be swayed by the peer pressure. As the glasses were being tossed the comments about my being the smart math guy were being passed along. If only I had realized then that they were, in actuality, complimenting me.
On most days, I could work myself into an internal cocoon and remain, at least on the surface, unfazed. Today, with the accelerated angst of the arrival of my friend, my tolerance was low. I told them to “Shut up” and “Get lost”. This only egged them on and the barrage heightened. We headed off the beach as we did every day for lunch. Today was a little unusual because my grandmother was not back at the cottage. She ran things during the week and my mom and other relatives would come for the weekends. The cottages were very close together and Mrs. G. was watching us today. By the time Mrs. G. had prepared us some spaghetti, most of the kids were already on our porch preparing for the afternoon shift on the beach.
I couldn’t muster the energy to absorb any more teasing so I sat inside to eat. The boys were still caught up in their verbal taunts and they just called out one name after another at me. I told them to stop. I asked them to stop. I raised my voice and insisted that they stop. Finally, I had reached my breaking point. Picking up my plate of spaghetti, I screamed louder than I thought possible, and fired that plate at the window. Exhaling at the peak of my lung capacity I screamed, “Shut up”, “Get out”, and “Leave me alone”. The porch grew immediately silent and you could hear the spaghetti and plate squeaking as it slid down the window. I walked into the front bedroom and covered my head with a pillow. As I drifted off into a daydream, I heard comments such as, “We were just kidding”, and “Your brother takes this too seriously. As I wandered off to sleep, the boys’ conversation faded from my conscientious, as I shifted towards a safe place.
Middle School: Tormented Tradition
It was the summer of 1972 and we had just settled into our rental in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire. I had just come off a miserable seventh grade where puberty had exponentially compounded my bullying experiences.
It was mid-July and I had survived three weeks of constant verbal and physical pounding. I woke up that morning really excited as my best friend from school, Paul, was arriving today to spend a week. I lied in bed thinking of how it would be so nice to spend the next seven days not worried about trying to fit in. Paul didn’t tease me and we always spent lots of time talking, reading and sharing ideas. It was a Monday and Paul was expected to arrive later in the afternoon. As the norm for every sunny day, we spent the morning at the beach. Walking towards the sand, all the scenarios bounced through me head. Would I be allowed to play in the games? Would the kids all head to the jetty and not ask me to come along? Would Andy and his band of friends start calling me “Nose”?
Within minutes, everyone scattered and I found myself alone on the blanket organizing my prized baseball cards. I found solace in this time losing myself in the world of major league baseball. I would arrange the cards in numerous ways by team, statistic or position. Then I could spend hours reading every statistic of each player. To this day, I can rattle off stats in great detail of baseball significance from 1968 through 1972.
Knowing that Paul was arriving soon kept me focused and relaxed. As noon approached the kids reappeared at the blanket. Andy, Ricky and even my brother, Paul started in with the barbed digs. “Four-eyes” was still a popular line among bullies in the early seventies and I got called it often. I was blind as a bat by the time I was six and I wore those dreadful thick black glasses. Since I had to wear them for all activities they were always beat up, crooked and patched with tape. Andy grabbed them from my face and threw them around to Bobby, Dick, Joey and Johnny. David didn’t join in. He was the only one strong enough to not be swayed by the peer pressure. As the glasses were being tossed the comments about my being the smart math guy were being passed along. If only I had realized then that they were, in actuality, complimenting me.
On most days, I could work myself into an internal cocoon and remain, at least on the surface, unfazed. Today, with the accelerated angst of the arrival of my friend, my tolerance was low. I told them to “Shut up” and “Get lost”. This only egged them on and the barrage heightened. We headed off the beach as we did every day for lunch. Today was a little unusual because my grandmother was not back at the cottage. She ran things during the week and my mom and other relatives would come for the weekends. The cottages were very close together and Mrs. G. was watching us today. By the time Mrs. G. had prepared us some spaghetti, most of the kids were already on our porch preparing for the afternoon shift on the beach.
I couldn’t muster the energy to absorb any more teasing so I sat inside to eat. The boys were still caught up in their verbal taunts and they just called out one name after another at me. I told them to stop. I asked them to stop. I raised my voice and insisted that they stop. Finally, I had reached my breaking point. Picking up my plate of spaghetti, I screamed louder than I thought possible, and fired that plate at the window. Exhaling at the peak of my lung capacity I screamed, “Shut up”, “Get out”, and “Leave me alone”. The porch grew immediately silent and you could hear the spaghetti and plate squeaking as it slid down the window. I walked into the front bedroom and covered my head with a pillow. As I drifted off into a daydream, I heard comments such as, “We were just kidding”, and “Your brother takes this too seriously. As I wandered off to sleep, the boys’ conversation faded from my conscientious, as I shifted towards a safe place.
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