Bullying Left Me Feeling Like I Didn't Belong
Yet I still felt compassion for one of my harassers
Dear Friend,
I looked over my friend's shoulder and knew the biggest bully was coming for us.
From afar, he had already picked Jonathan Turkel and me out of the herd. Easy targets, we were both shy and skinny, and my friend wore thick brown plastic-rimmed glasses.
After a few moments, I began fidgeting and warned my friend, who didn't seem too concerned and kept talking. I figured I could outrun the bully with enough lead, even though he was one of the best athletes at our school. In truth, I just had to outrun my friend.
As the gap between the bully and me narrowed, I had two choices: stay and we both get beat up or abandon my friend and run like a chicken. Either way, I would be humiliated. As much as I wanted to be the guy in the movie who sacrificed himself, I bid my friend good luck and headed toward the far end of the playground.
Jonathan stayed behind, and the bully caught him and punched him several times.
Later that year, on the blacktop, Roger Nethersole, a kid from South Africa, threatened to beat me up. Wanting to save face, I agreed to fight. It was winter, and I wore a kelly green down Gerry jacket with a navy blue and red hat. A group of kids gathered around me, and I approached Roger. I threw the first punch and thought, "Hey, this is going better than expected."
Then he punched me and threw me to the ground, and just like that, the fight was over.
Two years later, in sixth grade, Roger and I were on the same soccer team in physical fitness class. In a moment of chaos, I got turned around and scored on my own goal. Embarrassed, I headed upfield as Roger approached me. I figured he'd offer some encouragement. Instead, he leaned in, punched me in the stomach and knocked the wind out of me. I doubled over, gasping for air. "What an asshole," I thought.
The following year, on the first day of middle school, Fritz honed in on me on the playground like a drone. He was taller and lankier than me. "Geez," I thought, "it's only the first day of school, and it's already starting." While I don't recall what he said, I remember it stung.
As Maya Angelou famously said, "People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."
Exactly two years later, on the first day of ninth grade, Fritz bullied me again, this time facing backward from two seats ahead of me on the bus. As he continued to harass me, my brother, who was one seat ahead of me, said, "Turn around, Fritz," while poking Fritz in the eyes with two fingers in a horizontal "peace" sign. Fritz never bothered me again.
That same year, I shared biology class with the bully from grade school. We were older, and not only had he not picked on me for some time, but to my surprise, he was even friendly, a welcome relief from the days of being chased around the playground. It didn't make sense at first, but then it occurred to me that he felt insecure and longed for allies.
He was used to being the star athlete and the strongest kid on the playground, but he didn't have the same confidence in the classroom and was uncertain about his place in the pecking order. In that instant, in my mind, he went from being a tormentor, the class jerk, to a fallible, insecure human being like the rest of us. He was real, and I had compassion for him.
Later that year, a friend with a neck like Mike Tyson turned to me in class one day and said, "I'm going to try to bench 225 pounds (102 kg) today. You wanna come to the gym with me?"
As my friend loaded plates onto the bench press, a guy lifting weights with his friend looked at me and said, "Hey, I dare you to pick up this bar." "Nah, that's okay," I replied. "C'mon, man, I'll bet you can't even press it over your head," he said. Assuming he may be right since I had never lifted a weight, I declined, not wanting to embarrass myself.
My friend laid down, gripped the bar and lifted it off the rack. When the bar's upward trajectory slowed, I grabbed it with both hands and pulled lightly. At 80 pounds, how much could I help? Nonetheless, my friend thanked me.
In January, my parents told me we were moving halfway across the country to Minnesota. I was barely getting by and would have to make new friends.
On the first day of nutrition class in tenth grade, Spencer Lundgaard asked if I was new. "Yeah, I just moved here from Connecticut," I said. Hey, isn't that where Johnny Appleseed chopped down the cheery tree?" he asked, throwing his head back and looking around at the others, sharing his laughter. I turned around and slunk into my chair.
I looked up to an upperclassman in college because he looked like one of the Beatles. But as I stood next to him in the refectory one day, he muttered, "What a beanpole." The illusion was shattered, yet I didn't dare to say what I wanted: "You know, I used to look up to you. I thought you looked like one of the Beatles. But now I know you're just a jerk."
The next time someone made fun of me in college, I said, "What did you say to me?" "Nothing, man," he replied.
Despite outward appearances, each of us lives with insecurities from bullying. Some of us are insecure about our social skills, some have imposter syndrome, and some feel unattractive. Whatever our psychic scars, we are convinced we are not okay the way we are.
Bullying left me with the feeling that my body was wrong for being thin and that I was an outsider who was not wanted and didn't belong. The bullying continued and didn't end until, at 32, I began to heal and stop bullying myself.
Keep healing,
Ryan
Growing up as boys often feels like living out our own versions of Lord of the Flies.
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