The bullies and the bullied

Several months ago, on the way home one evening, a car pulled out in front of me and — being the eloquent former Texan that I am — I let a few well-chosen words fly.

And then Tootie piped up:

"Mama, was that a bad car?"

"Yes, sweetie. That person didn't wait for her turn. We have to take turns when we're driving or else we might hit each other."

"Hitting's bad," the Toot replied.

And then she added: "Except when a boy pushes you down. Then it's OK."

Pause.

Loooooooong pause.

Oh, hell, what's the appropriate response here?

We don't hit in our house. I know some parents spank, and I'm not casting judgment. I think one parents by instinct and lingers in a chosen comfort zone. For me, spanking — or any type of hitting — just doesn't feel right. And so we don't.

But what if — what if? — someone did push her down? Or hit her? Especially a boy. My history with men -- well, one man in particular -- makes me wary of assuring her to sit there and do nothing.

Do I teach her to take it? Do I cloud the issue by telling her, "Yes, it's OK to hit sometimes, but only if someone does something to you first?"

I don't want her to bully. I also don't want her to be bullied.

It's a topic that makes me leery, uncomfortable — fearful, even — due to my own difficulties in junior high and today's school issues.

I give you Terrible Tina, the red-headed, shrilly-voiced and bossy girl who moved to town when I was in sixth grade. In short order, Tina upended our social pecking order and guess who ended up on the bottom?

Tina was, simply put, a bully. She used not only the usual girl-tactics: Divide, form alliances, divide... She also relied on brute force. I remember a trip home from camp when things got so bad — do the "chaperones" on these excursions pay any attention to what's going on? I mean, we were in a van, a rather confined space, and no one ever said a thing — that I pressed my face against a window and refused to look at, or talk to, my tormentor. Soon, the other girls joined in. Frustrated by my lack of reaction, Tina finally reached over and pulled out a huge chunk of my hair. By the roots.

People tell their children to "ignore" the bullies. Bullshit. It doesn't work. It didn't work for me, and it hasn't worked for countless other children either. "Telling" is acceptable only during the early grade-school years. After that, it only adds to the helpless victim image. And you're a snitch.

Looking back, I wish I'd given Tina and my (former) friends a long, cool stare -- one that implied they were pathetic, boring, useless people -- and then told them to fuck off.

I didn't. I crouched, weeping, by the window.

Turn to the adults? The ones at the front of the van? Not much more effective than telling our kids to seek help from the teachers -- the men and women we expect to monitor the halls, intervening in fights that involve students that even they -- the teachers -- fear.

Thankfully, after a summer during which puberty arrived, my braces came off and I got my first pair of contact lenses, high school wasn't a problem.

But still, I'm 37, and even now, all these years later, when I think of Tina, I feel a surge of anger. And I find myself hoping that at one point in her life, she suffered like I did.

Imagine being the kid who's subjected to such misery from kindergarten on? Imagine the kid who doesn't see an improvement in high school?

I worry all the time that one — or both — of my children could be that kid. How would I handle it?

Since I'm a neurotic freak who often imagines dire scenarios just so I can carry on entire conversations in my head with the imaginary people who have wronged me or my offspring, I mull the what-ifs, over and over.

Because quite frankly, if Tootie or the E-man came home, day after day, year after year, bullied and beaten down, the Mama Mean-Ass Shrew in me would want to huff over to the high school cafeteria and — abandoning my no-hitting beliefs — smack the holy crap out of the offenders.

I'm not a violent person. I don't watch violent movies. And I no longer read many books in which it's an element. Maybe because of what I do for a living. Maybe because now I have children. For whatever reason, I just can't stomach it.

But the thought of continued bullying or abuse — not a single instance, but day after day after day ... — god, it makes me want to strike out at the imaginary bullies who are tormenting my very real child.

A few years ago, I wrote an in-depth story on a family who was grappling with this issue. Their teenage son was developmentally delayed, and, sadly, an easy target. They already had switched schools once in an effort to stop the abuse. It didn't work.

He was punched. The kids broke his glasses. Twice. Called him a faggot and made fun of his mannerisms. They followed him through the halls, making threats and laughing when he cowered.

His teachers said he should ignore the kids. Didn't work. The principal, whom I interviewed, was openly frustrated. "We don't know what to do," he told me. "We're at a loss."

How comforting.

I went to the boy's house one morning, before school, and I remember the cajoling required to get him into the car so that his dad could drive him to the campus. I rode with them, and it was awful. This boy's misery radiated from every pore. He was nearly in tears by the time we arrived. I watched him pull on his backpack, square his thin shoulders and trudge to the front doors.

I wasn't a mother then. But it hurt, physically, watching that boy, and feeling his dread.

Right now, I'm just finishing Jodi Picoult's Nineteen Minutes, a novel that dissects a school shooting — and bullying — from all perspectives. It's been a tough read. Because even as I'm appalled by the shooter's coldness, I read his mother's thoughts and the descriptions of her anguish, and I wonder, yet again, what do we as parents do?


We live in an Alpha Society. Always have, really, but now, new precedents have been set. We see more, hear more, want more, have more.

We strive to be Alpha Moms, Alpha Career Women, Alpha SAHMs. Our partners do the same. Because, really, who wants to remain at the bottom of the heap, especially as "more" and "better" become increasingly available?

But we are adults with maturity (allegedly) and experience to draw from.

Our children, while they see and feel the pull of Alpha, don't have the capacity to manage it.

And so they bully. Or they cower.


And I wonder, as a parent, which is worse for my child? Life as one of those snotty girls I hated in junior high? Or life as the kid who agonizes each day over where to sit in the cafeteria?

How do I help them find the happy medium in the social shark pool that is school?

As I said, we don't hit in our home. And neither do my children. But will I ever feel compelled to excuse hitting -- or any physical means of defending oneself -- outside of it?

We tell them, "Use your words."

Yes. Well. The only words that work with bullies are strong ones, delivered with a certain attitude. Must I chip away at the sensitivity I love in both my kids, harden them up and teach them my arsenal of cuss words?

What troubles me is that children who are chronic victims in school often remain victims even after they enter the adult world. I've seen what's out there. I write about it, on a regular basis. I don't want them to be quite as cynical as I am, but I hope they will develop a don't-fuck-with-me sort of armor.

But how to balance this? How to develop it, without cultivating a bully in the process?

I treasure my children's innate empathy and kindness. I also worry these traits will make them vulnerable.

Ethan is small. Pale. He has large, beautiful blue eyes that will likely require glasses at an early age. My boy is a sweet, cuddly and loving little soul. The thought of these characteristics one day making him a walking bull's eye breaks my heart.

Still, he's a tough kid. Scrappy. Perhaps I worry for nothing.

But still... what if?

It's a question that nags at me, a question with no clear answer that feels completely right. Thus far, my parenting decisions have been based on instinct and intuition. But when it comes to bullying, I fear my instincts would lead me — and my kids — in the wrong direction.

Because that day a few months ago, when Tootie asked if it's OK to hit a boy who pushed her down, my instinct — as a mother, as a woman once abused by a man — was to say, "Hell, yeah. Hit him back."