Chapter 5A
Bullying can scar you for life. After graduating from high school my life followed a hypersensitive crumbling path. The next eight years are a medicated blur, and yet, simultaneously, a calculated demonstration of survival tactics. Most of the names are forgotten but not the pummeling pain of existence. Just thinking about those days causes me to be physically debilitated as I try to transmit the daily trauma across these computer keys.
I was living in an apartment with one of many different roommates I would have as I scraped towards a college degree. I awoke on this Tuesday in October of the fall of 1980. My first class was at 8:00 and as usual my intention to be prepared had not come to fruition. I showered and consumed my usual two bowls of Captain Crunch. I chewed on the right because two teeth on the left were hurting bad. I hadn’t made it through a dentist appointment in over four years. Fulfilling the minimum hygienic expectations, I then initiated the survival techniques for the day. The pistachio supply was adequate and positioned in all the key locations; a handful in the two front pockets of my jeans, half a bag in my coat inside pocket, and another bag for backup placed under my passenger seat. This was going to be a distinctly tougher day as I had not been able to get my hands on the yellow pills for quite a few days.
Driving towards school, the radio was set on a golden oldies station as I drifted into my safe world of daydreams. I found some peace while I drove since I was in control and it was a place where I could be the person I always wanted to be. Today, I found solace as an amazing tennis player wowing the world with win after win at Wimbledon. Pulling into the school lot, I longed for that John Denver song to just go on and on so that the crowds would keep cheering. As I headed pass the baseball field towards the campus, I transformed myself and was now invisible. This was the absolute key to surviving for the day. I had given up on directing every neuron and fiber towards the cause of looking cool. I wasn’t anything but a piece of dirt that wandered through each day wondering why was I of such little significance in this world.
I took the usual path working my way through the halls passing hundreds of students. They were not peers since there was no relationship or connection. I glanced at the pretty girls, envied the guys they were talking to, and wished so deeply that I could just be a part of all this. As I passed my class room I glanced in, considered entering for a second and then proceeded on by. Like a ghost, shy of any typical frightening intentions of a ghoul, I slipped quietly into the school library. The girl behind the desk was gorgeous. For days I had worked on fooling my internal guards so that I could say hello to this beauty.
As I approached the desk, it started. The symptoms were always centered on my left side. The muscles around my mouth started quivering as I began to bite down hard on my lips. The corner of my mouth started to twitch. The tongue began pushing against the bottom part of my mouth and then slashed across the inside of my teeth. The elbow flickered and the fingers moved almost uncontrollably. Popping a pistachio I chewed feverishly as I got the next nut under my upper lip. It was too late. I was in overdrive and was escalating out of control. As my mind maneuvered feverishly to control my anatomy, the physiological elements finished me off. Breathing rapidly increased, the left leg was gripped by a vise, and the foot felt heavy. The throat muscles tightened as all parts of my mouth moved incessantly. The panic set in as I emptied my last sources of energy to avoid collapsing. I was now a moment away from dry heaving. At this point, I knew there was no way I was going to move forward. Now my only chance of avoiding total embarrassment was to get out. So I did.
I walked around the perimeter of the campus to avoid as many people as possible. As I hit a quiet stretch, I could feel myself slowly settling down. No one was around which meant there was no one to impress… which meant I could return to my safe point of invisibility. Another day at school had been attempted with a recurring result. No classes were attended, no schoolwork was completed and I headed home elevated in stress and depleted in self-worth.
In order to reset my vitals to a functioning level, I had to separate my mind from reality. I got back to the apartment, slouched onto the sofa and turned on the TV. Cable had not yet come to pass so I had to settle for the soaps on one of the three network stations. After an hour, I was feeling better, but was quite aware that phase-two of surviving the day was soon to arrive.
I worked about five days a week at Sears in the paint and sporting goods department. It was time to now get prepared. The problem with this job was that I had to talk with many people during each shift. The bigger problem was that I was paralyzed with fear that I would dry heave while interacting with co-workers and customers. Over time certain foods seemed to be more effective to help me keep cool. Lately, I found that popsicles had become short-term tranquilizers. It just happened that we had a refrigerator just behind the warehouse doors in my department. So before clocking in I went next door and picked up a box of assorted flavored popsicles. Quickly, I noticed that my body and mind was still ultra-tense. As customers asked questions my symptoms were returning. The throat tightened, the mouth muscles went spastic and my left side stiffened. I was good for about four minute intervals before I had to get to that freezer and take a bite of my popsicle. Think about the level of tension that existed over the four hour shift.
After two hours I was drained. The department manager called me over to discuss inventory paperwork. When I was in this state, I felt like I was choking if I couldn’t get to my relief valve. As Tom spoke to me, I couldn’t decipher a thing that he was saying. My mind was totally zoomed in on avoiding a dry heave. Both legs grew heavier and more painful by the second. My mouth was hyper as I tried to survive and acknowledge Tom’s directions. Finally, exhausted I collapsed to my knees placing my head in my arms. Tom was bewildered and asked what was wrong. Holding back tears, I mumbled that I was fighting a flu. The strangest thing was that whenever I gave up, the pressures would cease and I always felt a few moments of serenity. Tom sympathetically released me and I slowly weaved through the stock room to the punch clock. By the time I got to my car, I was numb in a similar way as the night before and the night before that. When I arrived home, I turned on the TV. Two hours later I began to drift off, sadly aware that I would go through all of this again when the sun rose tomorrow.
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.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Bullied: Life throws Curveballs
Chapter 1: Life throws Curve Balls
I’m not sure when it specifically started; the fear, panic, and doubt. I just always remember myself as an uptight kid that was afraid of everything and most everybody. Some have told me that this wasn’t the case, that I was happy, gregarious and personable. However, my home had been rocked by a meteor when I was only one year old. My dad, Leo, was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease. He struggled with it for four years but passed away in March of 1965 at the age of twenty-seven. I was only five. My only memories of dad were of him being sick. So by the time he did die, I was a nervous wreck. I became obsessed with death at a very young age, always thought my mom would be taken away and dreaded getting too close to people.
Fear ruled my life. I was afraid of storms, heights, fast cars, other kids, walking to school, not being accepted and success. I was a severe hypochondriac and always felt that I would die young just like my father. By the second grade I was a nervous ball of energy that had to win every possible competition in school. You see if I didn’t win, I wouldn’t be liked and nobody would want to talk to me. When we participated in the SRL reading program, I had to read faster and get through each color series faster than the other kids. The reality was that I was smart and could read and comprehend at a high level. However, when the sisters (nuns) brought out the books, my heart would pound and I would fire on all cylinders to be the first to get signed off.
The sad part is that the accomplishments never made me feel any better. I couldn’t figure out at the age of six through 12 that it wasn’t about the achievement; it was about the core feelings inside. Through all these elementary years I just could not relax. My mind always seemed to come up with a weird way to remain uptight. One of the most common daily ventures happened during my walk home from school. As I was walking, I would listen for cars approaching behind me. As they got closer, I would rev my internal engine and play a type of Russian Roulette. If the car passed me before I reached a targeted point, then I would die on the spot. So I would walk faster and faster with my heart pounding and sneak past the point just ahead of the death sentence.
You can imagine how this persona of poor self-image and lackluster confidence set me up as the focal point of teasing and bullying. I dripped with a desire to be accepted and tried every possible venture to acquire acceptance. The more I tried the more I was laughed at and teased. These years were highlighted by being picked last in sports, sitting at home alone while my brother was invited out to play, and constantly being reminded that I was skinny, greasy, and my nose was twice the size of my face.
I’m not sure when it specifically started; the fear, panic, and doubt. I just always remember myself as an uptight kid that was afraid of everything and most everybody. Some have told me that this wasn’t the case, that I was happy, gregarious and personable. However, my home had been rocked by a meteor when I was only one year old. My dad, Leo, was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease. He struggled with it for four years but passed away in March of 1965 at the age of twenty-seven. I was only five. My only memories of dad were of him being sick. So by the time he did die, I was a nervous wreck. I became obsessed with death at a very young age, always thought my mom would be taken away and dreaded getting too close to people.
Fear ruled my life. I was afraid of storms, heights, fast cars, other kids, walking to school, not being accepted and success. I was a severe hypochondriac and always felt that I would die young just like my father. By the second grade I was a nervous ball of energy that had to win every possible competition in school. You see if I didn’t win, I wouldn’t be liked and nobody would want to talk to me. When we participated in the SRL reading program, I had to read faster and get through each color series faster than the other kids. The reality was that I was smart and could read and comprehend at a high level. However, when the sisters (nuns) brought out the books, my heart would pound and I would fire on all cylinders to be the first to get signed off.
The sad part is that the accomplishments never made me feel any better. I couldn’t figure out at the age of six through 12 that it wasn’t about the achievement; it was about the core feelings inside. Through all these elementary years I just could not relax. My mind always seemed to come up with a weird way to remain uptight. One of the most common daily ventures happened during my walk home from school. As I was walking, I would listen for cars approaching behind me. As they got closer, I would rev my internal engine and play a type of Russian Roulette. If the car passed me before I reached a targeted point, then I would die on the spot. So I would walk faster and faster with my heart pounding and sneak past the point just ahead of the death sentence.
You can imagine how this persona of poor self-image and lackluster confidence set me up as the focal point of teasing and bullying. I dripped with a desire to be accepted and tried every possible venture to acquire acceptance. The more I tried the more I was laughed at and teased. These years were highlighted by being picked last in sports, sitting at home alone while my brother was invited out to play, and constantly being reminded that I was skinny, greasy, and my nose was twice the size of my face.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Bullied: Panic Attack
Chapter 5
Panic stricken….
It started midway during the first semester of that freshman year. I had held things together academically and would eventually post a 3.9 GPA. However, I knew that I was losing grip in many ways. Again I had made friends quickly but they slid away as my nightly “Poor me” speeches and over the top efforts to please pushed them away.
On a chilly November morning I headed to my African History class with that anxious, sad, isolated persona that I had grown to accept. Jumping on the campus bus I grabbed a seat and looked around wishing so desperately that I could capture some of the confidence and self-worth that circulated among my fellow passengers. Something was different on this trip. My head was foggy. I couldn’t sit still. Everyone and everything seemed to take up more space as mass and molecules closed in on my space. I noticed my breathing, the pressure upon my chest. I was gasping for air. The muscles in my arms and legs tightened. I felt like I had gained a hundred pounds. “What the hell was going on? I had to get out now! At the next stop I shoved my way by irritated students and jumped off the bus.
The weird feelings continued and seemed to incapacitate me more. Looking around I spotted the signs for the infirmary. I walk/ran trying to look composed as I approached the medical building. Fumbling through the doors, I released all my weight upon the receptionist counter spouting, “I need help…I think I’m having a heart attack”. Nurses responded quickly and got me to the back. They started asking questions calmly as the recorded my vitals. Almost instantly I could feel myself starting to calm down. My head began to clear but my anxiety was still through the roof. After several minutes of questions, a visit from a doctor, they hooked me up to an IV. Almost instantly, I felt better as a peaceful feeling bubbled softly through my veins.
I sat in this room for several minutes really enjoying the peace and quiet. Finally, a woman with a nice smile entered. She pulled up a chair next to mine and introduced herself. I can’t remember her name but she said she was a doctor, a psychiatrist. She asked me how I was doing and then asked me to explain what had happened that led me here on this day. After listening quietly she started to ask questions about how I was feeling about school, life and myself. I was quite comfortable with her and as I started to share my thoughts, I was overwhelmed with emotion…and started to cry, to sob uncontrollably. Everything just came out about my low self worth, anxiety, depression, and fears. This conversation never introduced cause, only affect. Therefore, bullying was never part of our discussion.
The doctor explained to me that I was physically fine but that I had probably experienced a “Panic Attack”. She didn’t get into much detail, but asked that I come in once a week to talk. Then she wrote out and returned with a prescription for Valium. Take one of these little yellow pills whenever you feel anxious, she said. Then she walked out. Twenty minutes later, I left clear-headed with a bottle of pills rattling in my pocket. Little did I know that I would need to hear that rattle for so many years to come.
Panic stricken….
It started midway during the first semester of that freshman year. I had held things together academically and would eventually post a 3.9 GPA. However, I knew that I was losing grip in many ways. Again I had made friends quickly but they slid away as my nightly “Poor me” speeches and over the top efforts to please pushed them away.
On a chilly November morning I headed to my African History class with that anxious, sad, isolated persona that I had grown to accept. Jumping on the campus bus I grabbed a seat and looked around wishing so desperately that I could capture some of the confidence and self-worth that circulated among my fellow passengers. Something was different on this trip. My head was foggy. I couldn’t sit still. Everyone and everything seemed to take up more space as mass and molecules closed in on my space. I noticed my breathing, the pressure upon my chest. I was gasping for air. The muscles in my arms and legs tightened. I felt like I had gained a hundred pounds. “What the hell was going on? I had to get out now! At the next stop I shoved my way by irritated students and jumped off the bus.
The weird feelings continued and seemed to incapacitate me more. Looking around I spotted the signs for the infirmary. I walk/ran trying to look composed as I approached the medical building. Fumbling through the doors, I released all my weight upon the receptionist counter spouting, “I need help…I think I’m having a heart attack”. Nurses responded quickly and got me to the back. They started asking questions calmly as the recorded my vitals. Almost instantly I could feel myself starting to calm down. My head began to clear but my anxiety was still through the roof. After several minutes of questions, a visit from a doctor, they hooked me up to an IV. Almost instantly, I felt better as a peaceful feeling bubbled softly through my veins.
I sat in this room for several minutes really enjoying the peace and quiet. Finally, a woman with a nice smile entered. She pulled up a chair next to mine and introduced herself. I can’t remember her name but she said she was a doctor, a psychiatrist. She asked me how I was doing and then asked me to explain what had happened that led me here on this day. After listening quietly she started to ask questions about how I was feeling about school, life and myself. I was quite comfortable with her and as I started to share my thoughts, I was overwhelmed with emotion…and started to cry, to sob uncontrollably. Everything just came out about my low self worth, anxiety, depression, and fears. This conversation never introduced cause, only affect. Therefore, bullying was never part of our discussion.
The doctor explained to me that I was physically fine but that I had probably experienced a “Panic Attack”. She didn’t get into much detail, but asked that I come in once a week to talk. Then she wrote out and returned with a prescription for Valium. Take one of these little yellow pills whenever you feel anxious, she said. Then she walked out. Twenty minutes later, I left clear-headed with a bottle of pills rattling in my pocket. Little did I know that I would need to hear that rattle for so many years to come.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Bullied: Lonely Birthdays
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Measuring Success as a Teacher
My philosophy for student success is that there must be a consistent triad system in place. The teacher facilitates learning, the student actively engages in the process and the parents contribute support and assistance. When all these three parts are connecting, we will have successful results for every child. I measure success within interims and within spectrums.
The interim component is broken apart on a daily level, on a unit level, and on a yearly level. Every day I make sure that I have clear objectives, I’m well prepared and I have a back-up plan. As I go through the day with kids, I look for signs of engagement and connection. I have always worked from the gut and I found that it works very well for me. Relationships and effective communication with students and teachers gives me a much more accurate measure of success than data and theory. So if I notice a fire in a student’s eye, a contribution, smile or laugh that connects to the topic, or an intriguing question then we (students and teacher) have been successful on that particular day.
Assessment (Data has its place) is the best measure of success at the unit level. I give a lot of homework and tough quizzes and tests. The intensity of these tests is correlated to the level of the student. However, I refuse to dummy down and I push the kids to make their brain sweat. I always start the year by telling my students that I have never failed anyone in 21 years. If a student does their work, prepares for class, studies for assessments and has a positive attitude, it is impossible to fail my class.
Typically many of my unit grades are quite low particularly with 9th graders. They have come off three middle school years where academic success plays second fiddle to personal survival and identity development. However, once in high school we have got to prepare these kids for the rigors of school and life. As I analyze the results of each unit, I look for small changes that show that the students are starting to get it. The quantity and level of completed assignments improves, and test-taking results demonstrate an enhanced understanding of critical thinking. As the units move forward the amount of students demonstrating improved skills and grades increases significantly. This is my measurement of success at the unit level.
At the end of the year, if my students are well prepared to handle the challenges of the next school year and the pertinent expectations of a typical high school sophomore, then I have been successful.
I also stated that I measured success at a spectrum level. Questions that I pose to myself are as follows: Does the student understand the importance of the integration of courses in their lives? Does the student write, speak, and read more proficiently compared to when we first met? Does the student connect today’s lesson to its purpose in shaping them as future adults. Whenever I interact with these students as kids or as adults in the future, I carefully observe them. If they can intertwine their mastery of science, social studies, mathematics, language, music, etc. together than I along with many of their other teachers have been successful. When I meet a former student years after high school, I look for certain things. If they look me straight in the eye, present a strong handshake, evoke purpose, transcend ideas, and smile with sincerity, then I am one of a team of teachers that have been successful.
The interim component is broken apart on a daily level, on a unit level, and on a yearly level. Every day I make sure that I have clear objectives, I’m well prepared and I have a back-up plan. As I go through the day with kids, I look for signs of engagement and connection. I have always worked from the gut and I found that it works very well for me. Relationships and effective communication with students and teachers gives me a much more accurate measure of success than data and theory. So if I notice a fire in a student’s eye, a contribution, smile or laugh that connects to the topic, or an intriguing question then we (students and teacher) have been successful on that particular day.
Assessment (Data has its place) is the best measure of success at the unit level. I give a lot of homework and tough quizzes and tests. The intensity of these tests is correlated to the level of the student. However, I refuse to dummy down and I push the kids to make their brain sweat. I always start the year by telling my students that I have never failed anyone in 21 years. If a student does their work, prepares for class, studies for assessments and has a positive attitude, it is impossible to fail my class.
Typically many of my unit grades are quite low particularly with 9th graders. They have come off three middle school years where academic success plays second fiddle to personal survival and identity development. However, once in high school we have got to prepare these kids for the rigors of school and life. As I analyze the results of each unit, I look for small changes that show that the students are starting to get it. The quantity and level of completed assignments improves, and test-taking results demonstrate an enhanced understanding of critical thinking. As the units move forward the amount of students demonstrating improved skills and grades increases significantly. This is my measurement of success at the unit level.
At the end of the year, if my students are well prepared to handle the challenges of the next school year and the pertinent expectations of a typical high school sophomore, then I have been successful.
I also stated that I measured success at a spectrum level. Questions that I pose to myself are as follows: Does the student understand the importance of the integration of courses in their lives? Does the student write, speak, and read more proficiently compared to when we first met? Does the student connect today’s lesson to its purpose in shaping them as future adults. Whenever I interact with these students as kids or as adults in the future, I carefully observe them. If they can intertwine their mastery of science, social studies, mathematics, language, music, etc. together than I along with many of their other teachers have been successful. When I meet a former student years after high school, I look for certain things. If they look me straight in the eye, present a strong handshake, evoke purpose, transcend ideas, and smile with sincerity, then I am one of a team of teachers that have been successful.
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