Diary of a bullied boy...20 years later

Other victims

I am aware of the very sad fact that I am only one of many people who were tremendously bullied in the school system. While my case is highly extreme, I am not the only victim of tolerated abuse that occurs within schools. There are people who suffered worse abuse than myself. While I tend to keep the focus of this story on my own events, I feel it strengthens my point to suggest the stories of other victims. It would be impractical to discuss instances of bullying that were not as severe as my own, therefore I am only going to discuss stories Ive witnessed from children who suffered similar levels of abuse.

Veteran teachers, that is to say teachers who had been around for a long time would occasionally reminisce about a poor little girl who got bullied out of the middle school. Her actual name was never mentioned in my presence but it was obvious whenever instructors would talk about her legacy because they would not only offer similar stories but they seemed to share the same global helplessness and sympathy.

Apparently a few years before I entered this middle school, there was a case of bullying that was even worse than my own. My own, meaning the abuse I suffered everyday for years which was simply tolerated. This particular girl (yes, a little girl) was still widely remembered by a lot of the staff. She was supposedly nicknamed "BFI", a popular sanitation company which branded the letters BFI on all their dumpsters. Legend has it, according to several teachers and my assigned counselor, that this little girl was so poor that her grandmother, her only living relative and provider, would force her to dig through dumpsters in search of clothing and other necessities. As I mentioned earlier, being perceived as poor would leave one vulnerable to relentless shame, accusations, and hatred. The most intense part of the story I recollect is learning of the day this girl was pushed into a corner as many of her classmates chanted "BFI! BFI! BFI!" This terrible hate crime continued until a teacher caught wind to what was going on and broke up the chant. Perhaps the most heart-touching story I have of this girl is that of my Home Economics teacher. Knowing the situation and being unable to do much about it, she had access to fabrics, threads, sewing machines, and obvious skill, all the necessary tools to produce textiles. She would supposedly produce clothing for this girl on occasion. She shared with us a sweater that was meant to be given to the girl who was removed from this school before her teacher had the opportunity to give her student this gift.

My bullying did not really start until middle school. Thats not to say there were not particular classmates who harassed me in fourth and fifth grade, but my stories that were significant enough to justify creating an entire novel about bullying did not start until sixth grade.

In my elementary school there was a little boy I felt sorry for. I feel bad for him even still today, although I have not seen him since my freshman year of high school. The horrible abuse I witnessed this boy experience was every bit as bad as my own, if not more so. Sadly his started in third grade. He was new. He was actually accepted by his classmates at first. However, he was a tad slow. He was underweight. He was different, meaning, according to most of his classmates, that he was not worthy of social acceptance. His bullying seemed to emerge out of nowhere. Boys and girls alike would hurt him. They would pile up on him. They would pin him to the playground and beat on his back. I witnessed a boy kick him in the face. I witnessed him being pushed down the stairs. The girl I spoke of earlier who I liked in fifth grade who put a boy in the hospital- this was him. It was the last day of fifth grade. She ended up behind him on the sliding board. She deliberately landed on him and kicked him in his stomach. He had asthma. He was taken to the hospital.

Why didnt I say anything? Obviously this is a question that would be raised by any reader. Its actually quite simple. Every teacher knew. All this poor boys (yes, he was also poor) teachers were very aware of his unfortunate situation. Honestly, I think they were simply tired of dealing with him. One particular day, a lot of rough boys were chasing him during recess. He panicked and ran to the only teacher out there. This particular teacher is the same lady I mentioned in a previous chapter, my soulless fifth grade math teacher who growled at me and through her teeth, told me to get out of her sight. She took absolutely no pity on this little boy of whom she was responsible for and clearly announced she could not help him.

I felt bad for this boy. He had it bad. Worse than me. Despite being the artist and the recipient of free school piano lessons, I was not exactly a favorable student in elementary school. My teachers seemed to have given up on me. I was always encouraged to try to hang out with the good students. The smart kids who made good grades. They could possibly help me to do better in school. I was not supposed to spend too much time associating with peers who already had problems. Needless to say, I did not get good feedback if I hung out with a harmless little boy who was basically unwanted in his school.

As a kid forced into public school, you learn the score too soon. You prematurely realize that you are in competition with your class. Teachers can only be in so many places at once. Someone is going to ace the test. Someone is going to fail. Someone else will test at average, remaining invisible. There are many students and limited resources. If you see a classmate failing at life when you are ten years old, you pick up on the subcontious message that this student will pull you down. After all, you only get praised when you ace a test, score a field go, or look cute on stage.