Steven and the Bully: A Tale of Cowardice.

I will be thirty-five years old in May.  I have a hard time remembering important dates or things that may have occurred the previous day.  Yet it is easy for me to recall the torment delivered through the mouths and fists of my middle (and high school) peers.  I remember it all in graphic detail, like a movie in my head.  It was as brutal as the newsman says it is.

My entrance into the eighth grade can only be compared to a bad underwear dream.  You know, that dream where you’re hanging out in class wearing nothing but your smugglers?  I thought everything would be fine.  Mom and I went shopping at Target and bought a fresh stack of clothes and some school supplies.  I remember wearing a purple Gecko shirt, some party-popper designed Hammer pants, and double-lace L.A. Gear shoes when I boarded the bus on my first day.  Let me tell you how that went over.

It was 1991.  Hammer pants had been out of style for a few years.  I didn’t know this because I had attended private school from the 4^th grade until this very moment.  The private schools, at the time, tend to be a little behind in fashion.  When I stepped foot off the bus, I knew something was wrong.  Everyone was wearing denim jeans and black hooded sweatshirts.  I looked like a multi-colored piece of confetti walking around the campus.  Saying that the kids noticed me instantly would be an understatement.  

8th Grade - Me and my Gecko

I did my best to fit in and tried to divert the negative attention I was receiving for my terrible taste in fashion.  As my peers adapted to my personality, they warmed up to the idea that I was an easy receptacle for jokes and abuse.  Most of the insults revolved around my clothing and it was merciless.  This was doubly hurtful because I know how hard mom and dad worked to provide those clothes for me.  So in my mind, they were also insulting my mom and dad who I love more than anything else.

I didn’t get it.  I was a happy kid and was a great baseball player.  I thought I had forged enough friendships on the field to sustain me through school.  As my popularity took a nosedive, these friends avoided me as if I had never existed.  I don’t know if I can really explain what it is like to hear someone I thought was a friend participate in the verbal abuse submitted by others who I hardly knew.

I conformed with the crowd and adopted the fashion.  My personality missed the memo.  By this time, some had taken it a step further and felt that dead arms were funny especially when they were imposed on me.  I was deemed weak because I refused to fight those who assaulted me.  I was scared to throw a punch.  I had never been in a fight before.  It felt as though I was still in a state of shock from those opening moments in my public school “career.”  Instead of fighting, I accepted the blows and laughed them off hoping that I would fit in by positively acknowledging the abuse. 

Half way through the year I was nominated the “biggest loser in school.”  There were two of us, me and one other guy who had held the title before I arrived.  The popular kids were so sinister that they set up a “battle of the losers” to determine who would retain the title.  Half the school showed up to watch the fight.  I was terrified.  I told my mom the night before and she called the principal.  I don’t recall exactly how it happened but the fight never occurred.  In the end, I was deemed a snitch which resulted in other merciless punishments.  

Outwardly, I encouraged my abusers in an attempt to fit in.  Inwardly, I was huddled up in the fetal position in the corner of a very dark room.  It felt as though a crowd had gathered around me with the intent of laying waste to everything that might have been good inside me.  They were ripping me apart with their words, pummeling me with their fists, and laughing at the bloody mess that lay in their wake.  I kept it all inside.  I didn’t want to tell anyone. 

Every punch annihilated my self-esteem which by the end of the year had been obliterated.  Every drop of saliva (hurled by tormentors) falling from my face during the bus ride to school puddled on the ground in front of the girl who I had a crush on at the beginning of the year.  By the end of the year, my  memories could have been summarized perfectly through the volley of explicit notes written within the pages of my yearbook; “wishing you a shitty summer, loser.”

All I really wanted was for someone to write “it was nice getting to know you.”  I probably would have dropped to me knees in tears.  No one wrote it.  

Mom and I - 8th Grade (1991)

I was bullied over the next couple of years and eventually found my place and my own style.  Thankfully, I was surrounded by small handful of amazing friends (The Fallbrook Calvary Chapel Crew – you know who you are) who kept me balanced and sane.  I don’t know what I would have done without their support and the support from my family.  I have never put those early years into words.  It is hard for me to do so now.  I just want to say that I love the people who carried me through those times.  Your friendship is priceless to me.

Thank You,

Steven 

I was inspired to tell this story after I saw the documentary entitled "Bully."  This issue demands attention from parents around the world.