The 5 Lies They Tell You About High School

"No Bullying" is a Joke, Suicide Isn't.

#5: Bullying (AKA being immature) is not tolerated on high school campuses.

There are five lies that they will tell you about high school. The least common lie you’ll hear is the fifth one. It isn’t said very often, but it is said enough to make it to the top five.

“Class, class,” bellowed Mrs. Lexington. “Please keep your voices down while I try to explain the rules of my classroom.”

The only people making noise in Mrs. Lexington’s second period Spanish class were the five sophomore football players sitting in the back corner. They were the same five that spit sunflower seeds at me that morning of my first day of freshman year. I sunk in my chair as their laughter and voices came down to a whisper. My face felt hot. I had never been so uncomfortable and embarrassed in my life. I drew the conclusion that boys may never, ever mature.

While Mrs. Lexington went over the typical classroom regulations—like: being on time, being prepared for class, turning in homework or projects when due, etc.—I saw from the corner of my eye Paul Lane Fortin. And more importantly, I saw Jacob--the leader of the douchebags--creep up behind Paul who was busy scribbling down that day’s assignment. I knew it was coming. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t want to be embarrassed again.

Mrs. Lexington was four feet in front of Paul, facing them. Somehow she didn’t notice what was going on. In fact, she didn’t notice much of anything. Girls were painting their nails beside me, one guy was drawing gang signs in one of the textbooks, and Jacob and his friends were scheming to give Paul a hard time right under Mrs. Lexington’s nose.

She’s the type of teacher to forget she assigned homework. I bet she has reminders written on post-it notes that are taped to her desktop to remind herself that she has to grade papers or give out benchmarks. She looks old enough to be an antique at the thrift shop. Whoever prescribed her those glasses didn’t graduate from high school because they aren’t doing her much of a service.

Jacob tied the ends of Paul’s back pack straps to his chair. It’s the classical prank to pull. Paul will slip his arms through the straps and stand up to leave for his next class, but he’ll either end up falling back on his chair or dragging the chair along with him. It’s only funny when you’re doing it to mess with a close friend, not to an outcast who’s constantly made fun of just because he wears hiking boots to school.

“And like most classes, I have a sign by the classroom door that clearly states that this is a no bullying zone.” Mrs. Lexington pointed across the room to the red octagon that says in large, white letters “STOP. NO BULLYING”. I thought it kind of ironic that if the school puts so much money towards anti bullying programs and advertisement for it, you’d think they’d make the effort to actually enforce it. If they really did, people like Jacob wouldn’t be at this school.

Correction: people like Paul wouldn’t be afraid to come to school. I didn’t know Paul any better than the ones who picked on him. But I was smart enough to know that you cannot not get tired of being ridiculed and mistreated everyday you go to school. It’s naive to think a program could get rid of people like Jacob.

Maybe that’s what high schools need, I had thought. Instead of programs to change the minds of the bullies, instead of programs to cover school boards’ butts, why not a program that encourages the ones who are bullied. It must get tiring to always be the target, and it must get harder to stand up each time you’re knocked down.

Silently, and patiently, I watched Jacob’s prank unfold in front of me. I was distracted by my thoughts on how to fix something instead of physically doing something.

Jacob and his friends snickered to themselves as they searched for their next target. Bullying one person a day isn’t enough for them. I didn’t dare to turn back in the case I would have reminded them that they need to come after me again.

But that’s just it. I’m being afraid. And what if all it took was one word, one look, one open opportunity to speak up that could have stopped them? No one stands up to these immature boys because they’re afraid to stand alone, to step out and look stupid. But if no one stands up, then how can we expect for programs like “No Bullying” to work?

The bell rang and I bolted out the door. Behind me, I could hear the clinging of the chair on the tile and Jacob’s obnoxious laugh over the laughter from the class. I made it halfway down the hall before I glanced over my shoulder. That’s when I saw Paul in the middle of the hallway, cutting his backpack straps from the chair.

Mrs. Lexington’s class poured out of the door, ignoring Paul’s struggle. Soon, the hallway was flooded with students overlooking Paul. And I was one of them.

I sat in my next class. Asking myself what it would really feel like to have sunflower seeds spat at me everyday I came to school. I thought of embarrassment, shame, sadness, and then I thought of why? Why would someone bully me? What makes people like Paul stick out to bullies?

If you want to avoid being bullied, you can’t. You’re not bullied because you look like someone the bully hates or because you wear goofy clothes. You’re not bullied because you smell or because you don’t hang out with their kind of people. You’re bullied because you allow it to happen. Of course, not showering and wearing goofy clothes may attract a bully, but the only way you can really say “I’m being bullied” is if it happens again and again. It (only?) happens again and again if you allow it.

Paul has been bullied since he moved to this town in the sixth grade. Everyone thought he was weird because of the way he talked and what he wore. Nobody really started giving him a hard time until one thing was said; everyone laughed, and then it just escalated from there. When high school started, bullying became more pranks like—almost physical. Before it was just the class clown making fun, but now it’s the douchebag tormenting.

The next day, someone stole Paul’s shoes during gym class. He had to borrow shoes from Mr. Gomez, the PE coach, and that was like asking for Godzilla to eat you and your family whole.

My friend, Jesus, laughed hysterically as he told me the story at lunch. He had to keep sweeping his thick bangs to the side as he talked, using his hands to exaggerate the event. I didn’t laugh. Instead, I thought deeply about what he told me.

Jesus used to get made fun of a lot in middle school for being “gay”. He wasn’t, but boys just loved giving him a hard time for having a feminine voice and a lot of friends that were girls. You would think for someone who was bullied, he’d have some kind of sympathy for Paul. But he didn’t. I couldn’t think of any reason why.

While Jesus finished off his burrito, I locked my eyes absentmindedly on the mint colored lunch table, my mind flashing back to when I witnessed Jacob prank Paul. I searched for those thoughts I had. Then, I found what I believed could be the answer.

I didn’t stick up for Paul because I thought it was better him than me. I got to thinking that was probably what everyone thought about when they saw Jacob or one of the seniors shout something about Paul in the halls. Everyone laughed, but they laughed because they were relieved it wasn’t them that time. I guess, everyone expected Paul to take it because he never really reacted like it hurt him. He thought everyone was laughing with him, not at him.

It didn’t sink in that maybe we were all bullies, and we were all hurting him until he committed suicide half way into the year. He left a note, which read:

I ended the problem myself because nobody else would.

Nobody really thought about him again. One day, it was on the news and everyone cared. Then, the next day it was normal, kind of like he never existed anyway. A lot of people at Springfield High School even admitted to never seeing him around before.

I was shaken up for weeks because I could have saved his life; anyone could have. The fact his death didn’t ring a bell to anyone, bothered me more. Jacob did his thing, his friends did theirs; everyone just did what they normally did before his death, but I couldn’t. I felt like I was  the only one who cared. I had always thought that since this was high school, the end of the childhood cycle, people would be growing up now, but they hadn’t. Nobody had.