Shoes

I read a deeply disturbing story a week ago, a story about a young girl who was bullied and attacked by her classmates. They pinned her down, shouted racist remarks to her and cut off her dreads. Now, this story was fake, and the girl was never attacked and the boys in the story were punished for a crime they did not commit. Yet before we knew the story was false, before we knew the deceit and the lie, it was a girl… bullied… by her classmates. And that is where this story begins.

                Upon reading the story of the young girl my stomach flipped over, goosebumps permeated through my skin. It was an all too real reality for me dredging up a memory buried deep in the recesses of my mind, this memory resurfaced in full view as I read the words on my screen.  A story that many don’t know about me, I was bullied, severely, unequivocally, bullied. I know what you are saying, “we were all bullied.” It’s a rite of passage, moving through school-age into middle school and then eventually into high school. “Bullying happens.” And while the phrase doesn’t make it right, it does make it a reality. A reality in which so many children in this world face on a daily basis, and to the point of committing suicide at ages where they should still be playing with GI Joe’s and Barbie’s. (I know, I aged myself) We make children grow up way too fast, beg them to accept things their minds are too young to understand.

                This story tore at that part of me that suffered at the hands of my attackers, no one was there to help me. I was bullied to the point where the school brought in a special counseling unit in 6^th grade to interact with my class and myself on how their actions were hurting me and why they felt the need to do this to me? It wasn’t until 6^th grade that something was done about it. I had been in school since kindergarten. They discussed why the hand symbols (Anna aids) were used in my presence to indicate to other students that I was a disease and shouldn’t be touched. Speaking to me wasn’t a worthy conversation and forget friendship! Their reasons for these atrocities was something their pre-pubescent minds couldn’t explain. I was just different; they didn’t like different. They wanted the same. Maybe I was weird, maybe I didn’t match my clothes, maybe I was ADD, maybe I wasn’t smart enough, maybe my hair was too wildly curly and unkempt, it didn’t matter. They didn’t know, they didn’t understand, so they hurt the thing that didn’t make sense to them. It made them feel better about themselves. Regardless, the story of the girl and her hair surfaced a memory I had buried long ago.

I was riding home on the bus from school, sitting in a seat, alone staring out the window and minding my own business. I believe I was 2^nd or 3^rd grade and some boys behind me were berating me for quite some time. Yelling insults at me and laughing at themselves for being so clever and hurtful. It was a warm day and the windows on the bus were open. I remember the wind blowing through the windows rustling my hair, and drowning the sound of their laughter, their remarks, and their giggles. Suddenly, I felt something at my feet. HANDS! Hands grabbed my ankles and pulled them under the seat behind me. I slid face-first into the green vinyl backing of the seat in front of me, screaming and trying my best to kick the hands away to no avail. My arms frantically trying to make purchase on the seat and push my way back, a body moved into the seat next to me pressing my face further in to muffle the sound of my screams, holding my hands above my head so that his friend could finish the deed.

                My shoes! He was removing my shoes from my socked feet under the seat of the bus. His strong hands holding my kicks in place until he slid them off one by one. He was an older student, though now I couldn’t tell you his name nor remember his face, had pulled my feet under the seat to steal my shoes! After he slid them off my feet and his friend let me go he stood there proudly dangling my shoes in front of me as I was kneeling on the seat reaching at him trying to retrieve them. Laughing deep belly laughs at his accomplishment, red in his face at my frantic diving at his hands to retrieve my shoes, his friends high fiving him and laughing yelling taunts at me. He dangles my shoes outside the window of the bus. “I’m going to throw them, I’m going to throw them and then you won’t have shoes to wear. Poor little orphan Annie, no shoes for her to wear because no one likes her.” And then, this boy who had no other interactions with me other than to taunt and ridicule me, threw my shoes out the bus window. Tossed them like trash, and laughed his ass off in the process. I screamed, cried, and then the bus came to an abrupt stop. The driving having realized my shoes went out the window, stopped the bus and made the boy get out and get them for me.

                He did so begrudgingly and because she threatened to call the school and report him. (She never did by the way) The boy went out, walked back and picked up my shoes, threw them in my seat when he re-boarded the bus and smirked at me as the driver closed the door. She continued on her route, off-loading her riders at their pre-determined bus stops. Just a robot doing her job, annoyed with the slight hiccup in her route. While I was grateful to have my shoes back, I couldn’t help but feel angry that this boy did this, and wasn’t being punished for it. The driver quipping at me as I got off the bus, “never let them see you cry honey, this just gives them a reason to torment you.” The boy and his friends never received an ounce of punishment for what they did to me. Looking back, I don’t know who that boy was or if his future was bright, if he is successful in life, or if he continued this behavior of beating up on those he deemed beneath him, but I sure hope that he became a decent human being.

                What triggered this memory from that story? The manner at which she said it happened. Boys held her down and cut her hair, reminded me of being held down and my shoes removed. Yet my reaction to reading it was the same as everyone else, and I muttered the same exact words… “Everyone is bullied” Everyone suffers some form of bullying whether severe or lite there is a level of meanness in the world that is expanded in those who are unhappy with themselves. They decide to prey on those they have regarded as less worthy. Regardless of the why, this behavior is unacceptable. If the story was real those boys deserved every amount of punishment they received. What those boys didn’t deserve was being punished for something they didn’t do. How this little girl and her family received all this face time talking about this incident of bullying, that everyone felt terrible for her and how wrong and awful it was for those boys to have done that to her. She used this story knowing she knew would garner sympathy and apathy, utilizing that tool to bring down a couple of kids she didn’t like. And the truth is, the school isn’t punishing her for it. She wasn’t suspended like the boys were, she isn’t being punished even though in this sick twisted story she is the bully. SHE IS THE BULLY!

                If my story from 30 something years ago happened today, I could have been the girl in the story. The girl, victim of a brutal attack by people who just didn’t like her for whatever their reasons. Only, my story is true. My abuser was never brought to justice, my story never heard by the hordes of viewers who would talk about how terrible it was that any child would do something like that to another child. How that boy’s parents should be ashamed for raising a child that would do such horrible things to others? How I the victim deserved an apology and love and understanding. How the school, bus driver, parents, school district, and anyone condoning the abuse should be sued and punished to the fullest extent of the law for allowing such atrocities. Someone should have stood up for me! Someone should have been my friend! I was not worthy…

                I hope this girl learns from this mistake. That you shouldn’t lie about being bullied. It is a very real thing with very real consequences for the victim. It lives with them for the rest of their lives. In every interaction, in every story, in every part of their life no matter how much therapy, or medication, or just putting in the past and forgetting about it they do, IT LIVES WITH THEM FOREVER… You continue working around it to overcome and live your best life. Working to quell the demons as they rise and remembering that you are not that person anymore. You are not the girl that sat in that seat scared, crying, and alone. You speak up for yourself now, you vowed you would never allow someone to treat you like that ever again, that your voice would be heard and you would be a force to be reckoned. And that is what you become. A force so loud that it drowns out the voices telling you how insignificant you are to the world. It’s a battle each and every day.

Remember that the next time you decide to beat up on someone, remember that the next time you feel someone is overreacting to something and you don’t understand why. Remember that when you think it’s a rite of passage. Remember to help when you see an injustice. Remember is to teach your children kindness. But most importantly, remember that you are not alone, there are others out there just like you, we are here for you, we understand, and we only want you to be happy.