Once a Bully....
“Four-eyes!”
“Teacher’s pet!”
“Smarty-Pants”
“Wuss!”
RRRIIINNNGGG……
Saved by the bell. Literally. Again.
Fourth grade was hell for me. If there really is a hell after death, and I get sent to it, that’s where you’ll find me. Fourth grade. With all my bullies lined up in front of me, pressed into the school wall on the playground, praying for the bell to ring.
In 1968-69, the US was in racial turmoil. Assassinations. Anger. Cities in flames. New York City was no exception. Blocks of Harlem and the Bronx simply disappeared into rubble. White flight to the suburbs was a huge thing.
My parents had lived in suburbia since their marriage in 1956. Suddenly, our small town became one of the “safe” places to be if you were white. An easy commute back to the city for work on train or bus. Good schools. Places for kids to safely free-range.
My elementary school doubled in population between grades three and four. We were bursting out of the seams. The kids that moved up from the city to join us were streetwise, tough, and quite used to being mean to survive. They were also behind in schoolwork.
I was small, terrible at sports and uncoordinated due to my hypermobility. I wore glasses. I was an only child. I loved school. I was at the top of my class. I was also an easy target.
Recess was terrifying. If I could get on the top of the monkey bars fast enough, they’d ignore me. But playing group games? Oh no.
Our teacher was brand new and not cut out for education. She let them bully me, even in the classroom. A year later she quit to become a computer programmer, where she got to sit alone and punch holes in cards. Perfect.
It’s more than 50 years later now. I long ago learned how to handle being called names by insecure, not-well-educated people who are trying to find and hold their place in society. On that, I do have understanding and even some compassion. No born teacher like me could think any differently.
But there are so many ways to resolve things other than resorting to name calling and physical bullying. I learned that on the playground in 4th grade.
If “Snowflake” had existed in 1969, they’d have called me that, too.
“Teacher’s pet!”
“Smarty-Pants”
“Wuss!”
RRRIIINNNGGG……
Saved by the bell. Literally. Again.
Fourth grade was hell for me. If there really is a hell after death, and I get sent to it, that’s where you’ll find me. Fourth grade. With all my bullies lined up in front of me, pressed into the school wall on the playground, praying for the bell to ring.
In 1968-69, the US was in racial turmoil. Assassinations. Anger. Cities in flames. New York City was no exception. Blocks of Harlem and the Bronx simply disappeared into rubble. White flight to the suburbs was a huge thing.
My parents had lived in suburbia since their marriage in 1956. Suddenly, our small town became one of the “safe” places to be if you were white. An easy commute back to the city for work on train or bus. Good schools. Places for kids to safely free-range.
My elementary school doubled in population between grades three and four. We were bursting out of the seams. The kids that moved up from the city to join us were streetwise, tough, and quite used to being mean to survive. They were also behind in schoolwork.
I was small, terrible at sports and uncoordinated due to my hypermobility. I wore glasses. I was an only child. I loved school. I was at the top of my class. I was also an easy target.
Recess was terrifying. If I could get on the top of the monkey bars fast enough, they’d ignore me. But playing group games? Oh no.
Our teacher was brand new and not cut out for education. She let them bully me, even in the classroom. A year later she quit to become a computer programmer, where she got to sit alone and punch holes in cards. Perfect.
It’s more than 50 years later now. I long ago learned how to handle being called names by insecure, not-well-educated people who are trying to find and hold their place in society. On that, I do have understanding and even some compassion. No born teacher like me could think any differently.
But there are so many ways to resolve things other than resorting to name calling and physical bullying. I learned that on the playground in 4th grade.
If “Snowflake” had existed in 1969, they’d have called me that, too.
RSS Feed