Scars

This is somewhat of a re-hashing of what I have on my Facebook profile at the moment. But I felt it deserved to be expanded upon here, so I'll add the salient points and allow you to read my story - or as much of it as I can remember.

I have a lot of scars. Some of them are easily seen, such as the one on my leg from where I tripped over a branch at 20 years old (I'm so graceful). But there are far more that can't be seen, or are old and faded; but these scars shape who I am, and today, I'm telling you all about them. Why? Because I believe that the pains of the past only have power over us when we allow them to, and I am reclaiming my power in sharing this.

I was a victim of bullying. In Grade 2 , I was bullied by my teacher. I'm a tad fuzzy on the details here, as the child's brain is remarkably well-equipped to protect itself and its host, locking away what is too painful to recall. What I do remember comes to me like snapshots, or very short videos. Being ridiculed in front of my class on the first day of school for the beautiful outfit my mother had made for me especially for school; being pulled out of my desk by my small gold hoop earring (she would hook her pinky finger in it and pull); my teacher poking me in the chest with her ball-point pen (which I still bear the scars of); being told that I couldn't possibly read handwriting because she hadn't taught it to me yet; the bruises on my arms from where she had pinched me for not answering the math flash cards fast enough; lying to my parents and saying that I had fallen on gravel which caused those bruises; being given permission by the vice-principal to escape from my classroom once a week to go to the library for advanced reading projects; hiding under a study desk in the library to avoid returning to the classroom, only to be discovered by Grade 6 students and cowering as I was returned to my abuser; being told I was stupid so many times that it was the only thing I heard in my head for years. YEARS. I have good memories of Grade 2; I was popular. I remember playing "Mother May I?" in the playground one lunch hour, and knocking a tooth out with my knee. My friends and I spent the rest of the time searching the gravel for that tooth - I had good and true friends. I remember going to a lot of play-dates and birthday parties; I remember not liking my peanut butter sandwich at one friend's house, and opening it and sticking it to the underside of the kitchen table (it fell down a couple of days later, which sparked an interesting conversation with my mother); I remember many days spent playing with a brother and sister who lived in the cul-de-sac at the end of our street and playing in my kitty-corner neighbour's pool. We moved to another town an hour away on the last day of school and I was released. I spent a quiet summer in our new home and prepared for a better year in Grade 3.

But I was now the new kid in one of the roughest schools in the district. I had to be assigned a friend, an experience I found both shocking and humiliating, because after enjoying a large number of friends in my previous town, this now meant that nobody *wanted* to be my friend, to introduce me to people, and to help me acclimate to my new school. I received another blow on my second day of school; my protector, my big brother, was shipped off to one of the other roughest schools in the district for an AP program. I really don't remember much of Grade 3, either. I only really remember being excluded. I did make one friend from that year, and she is in my life to this day. Like my brother, I was tested and chosen for the district's AP program, so I was moved at the end of that year to another school. Another year of being the new kid, but at least I wasn't the only one this time.

Grade 4 was when the bullying by my peers really started in earnest. I know that there must have been others that were targeted, but I can only remember what they did to me. Ostracism, ridicule, name-calling and systematic chipping away at my self-esteem to the point that I thought I was nothing. I built a wall around myself, to protect me from their words. I created a face that showed no emotion. Nobody saw me cry. Not even my family. I got sick a lot that year, and in retrospect, I can only imagine that it was the stress that weakened my immune system so much. My body was trying anything to keep me from being put back into that hell-hole. They were very careful - no teacher ever saw or heard what they did to me; or if they did, they never did anything about it. Grades 5 and 6 were very much a repeat of Grade 4, mostly because it was the same group of 24 children (give or take a student), moved along together in the name of promoting academic excellence. I do have to thank my Grade 6 teacher, Bob Black, for seeing some of it, and for dealing with it decisively when he did. That was my only year at that school that I felt like someone was solidly in my corner. I had another friend in the class, but I think she was also a target, so there were times that she was cruel to me, likely in the name of self-preservation. We stayed friends through high school, but unfortunately, we've lost touch.

It wasn't until Grade 7 that I began to find my voice. And it wasn't for me. I got to junior high and met new people into the AP program; people who were generous, kind, musical, smart and shy - just like me. And we became friends. And when my bullies started in on one of them, I had reached my threshold. I had had ENOUGH. I stood up to them like I never had for myself. I placed myself as a shield between them and my friend, challenging them to focus their venom on me, because I knew I could take it.

I was jumped by half a dozen girls during recess one day in grade 7, where they held me down and tried to pull my pants down just as the boys were coming into class. Tipped off to their intent, I had put a safety pin through the zipper pull, and it took some doing for them to be able to unpeel my fingers from around it to get it open. All they managed to do by the time the bell rang was to drag my arm across the pin in the struggle, leaving an angry, bleeding trail from my wrist to halfway up my inner arm. Our teacher asked me what had happened, and all I said, while lifting my head towards the girls was, "Why don't you ask them?" Nothing was done by the teacher, or by the school. And I knew that reporting it would only bring stronger retribution down on me. I still have a scar on my arm from this.

Junior high was a waiting game to me. Wait and see what they try next; wait to see where they go, so I can take a different route; wait for them to enter the classroom first, so there was nobody behind me when I walked in. I lived in a perpetual state of fear for three years, with smatterings of times when I could just relax and hang out with my friends. But the threat of ridicule was always present, just waiting for me to mess up in some way so that they could point at me and laugh. I became a perfectionist. I would give them no ground.

I guess they got bored of getting no reaction from me, because most of the overt bullying tapered off in high school. By then, it was just snide comments and insults. I developed an acid tongue in self-defense. I knew by now that for the most part, these people were cowards, and would back down if I confronted them. So I began to give as good as I got. And I was good.

I was blessed to have four very good friends that I hung out with in high school, as well as several other good friends that I could count on. Even so, I spent most of my lunch hours in the band room, whether I had a need to be there or not. It was my refuge, and I am thankful to Janine for providing me with that place to be safe.

I have heard it said that high school are some of the best years of your life. I can't say that about mine. I had moments of happiness, sure - but it was poisoned by the spectre of bullying, and by the damage done to my self-esteem. It was coloured by the thick wall I built and shrouded by the mask I wore.

I have spent the last 24 years trying to undo the damage that was done. I know that I'm intelligent, but I fear acknowledging it openly, because that always got me slapped down. I know that I'm attractive, but I still have difficulty taking a compliment from my husband. When he tells me I'm beautiful, the best I can muster most days is, "I'm glad you think so." I know that I'm talented, but I'm afraid of sounding boastful if I say anything about it. As a result, I appear to be someone desperate for people to acknowledge me. And for a time, I was that person. But I haven't been for a while - it just looks that way.

I have learned to extend trust to people again, but I am quick to withdraw it if they betray that trust. A second chance will be given, but don't press your luck for a third.

I hate that I can't just trust that people won't hurt me. I hate it when I feel those walls coming back, and I especially hate that mask that lurks just outside my periphery, waiting for me to need it again. If I could, I would take a hammer to them, smash them into tiny fragments and sweep them away. but they stay with me.

These are the scars I bear.

And now I am a parent, watching my children going through the school system, and experiencing some of the same things I went through. I have had to watch, largely helpless, as my two oldest children have been bullied - in my son's case, for YEARS unchecked. I say helpless, because those who could effect change either wouldn't, or couldn't. I have sat in meetings where the administrator has said to me that because an adult hasn't seen or heard it, they can do nothing. I have sat in meetings where I was presented with a sad tale of abuse, neglect and abandonment, packaged up as mitigating factors in why the boy who kicked my son in the crotch three times should receive no consequences. I have seen the boy who threatened to stab my son in the neck with a pair of scissors remain in his classroom and go unsupervised. I have had to enroll my children in martial arts to equip them with the tools to defend themselves, the discipline to use it judiciously, and the self-confidence to stand up for themselves, because their school fails to protect them. I have had to tell my children that they don't start trouble, but by God, they finish it. And that when the school wants to suspend them, I will take them to Dairy Queen to show them how proud I am that they stood up for themselves. I have had to teach my children how to speak up for others, and to keep trying, even though there are educators who wave off their reporting bullying, and who do nothing about it.

Bullying will never cease unless or until we change the mindset of the people who engage in bullying behaviour. It will never cease until they are held to account for their actions. It will never cease until someone says, "Enough" and holds to that.

People, this is *learned* behaviour. Children are not inherently cruel and vindictive; this is something they learn by observation and experience. Does little Johnny kick girls because he gets yelled at by his dad? Perhaps. But it only explains his behaviour; it in no way excuses it. It is up to us to not only expect better, but to do better.

Parents, be a model for peace, for nurturing, for compassion and understanding and acceptance. Children, understand that people who seek to hurt and demean others are not the people you should look to as your example. Violence is not strength; cruelty is not clever; insults are not intelligent. This behaviour doesn't earn you friends. Fear is not friendship.

Even as an adult, I still encounter people who have not shed this mindset, who seek to find their worth in pushing others down. This is the crutch of the weak. They earn my pity and nothing more. I know myself well enough now to know that I am worthy of far better treatment. I shed them like chaff from the wheat. I have overcome bullying to stand here today to tell you that you can, too.

Be strong. Have the strength of character to stand up for what is right and good. Stand up for kindness. Stand up and say "No!" when you see someone being bullied. Step in, stop it, report it. Sometimes, it is your voice alone that will make the difference. And that is all the difference in the world to someone who is bullied.

It gets better when we all stand together and say, "No more."