"I couldn't take it anymore."

Credit: Michael Shapcott

As if it happened over the weekend, I have no trouble recalling how being bullied felt.  As a child in the throes of puberty, my emotions were all over the place, but hormones were not the cause the heartache, soul-thrashing, and isolation I suffered on a daily basis.  Every day was a monumental effort.  On school days I hung on just to get to dismissal time, surviving the bus rides and getting back home where I finally felt safe.  Weekends were filled with anxiety and worry about the next school week coming.

The breast-grabbing incident was humiliating and traumatic, to say the least.  So much so, that, at the age of 11, feeling like there would be no end to the torment, I attempted to smother myself one Saturday afternoon.  I remember holding a pillow over my face and thinking that it would all be over soon.  I wondered if God would forgive me and still let me into heaven.  I thought about how much I'd miss my family. But as is typical with the autonomic human survivor response, I threw off the pillow and gasped for air.  I cried for about an hour afterward, feeling guilty for what I had tried to do, angry that I didn't succeed, and petrified that I had to go back to school on Monday.

Credit: Shelly Grund

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Many, many years later, on a rainy September morning as I was getting ready for work, a neighbor called to say she had picked up my then-5-year-old grandson; he had been walking--alone--along a very heavily-traveled state highway.  He was supposed to be in school; where on earth was he going?  "He was on his way to your house," my neighbor said, "He said the kids are still bothering him."

Image: dreamstime

In kindergarten, my grandson was overweight, almost a head taller than the rest of the kids in his grade, and one of only a handful of bi-racial children in the school. The charter school he attended boasted inclusivity, diversity acceptance and zero-tolerance for bullying behaviors as part of their mission statement.

I brought him to my home and let him talk.  "Honey, why did you leave school to come to my house?"

"The older kids won't stop bothering me, Grammy," he said tearfully.  "They trip me, punch me and take my breakfast.  They call me bad names.  I couldn't take it anymore."  

"What names do they call you, honey?"

"Mommy says I can't say those words."

"It's okay, you can tell Grammy so that Mommy and I can make this stop.  What do they say to you?"

He whispered, "Fat-ass, lard-ass, blimp, effin retard and fag."

My heart broke into a million pieces.  

"How long have they been bothering you?"

"Since the first day of school.  Mommy told the teacher about it, but Mrs. Jones don't do nothing [sic]."

"Well, Grammy is going to make sure this doesn't happen again."

I brought my grandson back to the school, and asked to speak with the principal. After waiting 30 minutes to see him (which further allowed my anger to seethe exponentially), I introduced myself and asked, "How in the world is it possible for a 5-year-old to leave your care and your building unnoticed?  He just walked two miles and crossed two major intersections to escape from being continually bullied by older children."

Image: teachersweb.com

The principal couldn't answer my questions, but assured me that all of his teachers had been properly trained in anti-bullying interventions.  I said, "Well, his teacher must have been absent for that training, because the bullying has been going on for three weeks, she has not intervened adequately, and my grandson put himself in danger because no one in this school is protecting him.  No one even noticed he was missing after having breakfast in the cafeteria!  He could have been picked up by anyone to never be seen again."

He called down for my grandson's teacher to come to the office, and I lit into her as well.  She said she hadn't had time to compare the attendance in her class with that of the breakfast club.  She also thought the "conflict" with the other kids was long over.  I reluctantly released him to her care, and the principal promised to look further into this...probably as a way to appease me so I'd get the hell outta his office.

I drove straight to a nearby television station, and told this story to a reporter, who interviewed me on camera.  It aired twice that evening, and although the reporter tried to get a response from the school, all they got was "No comment."

Image: W.K. Jensen Literary Agency

By the end of that week, my daughter got him into another school.  The rest of his kindergarten year went without further incident.

The charter school closed by December of that year for a variety of reasons.

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This story has a happy ending.  My grandson is now a very well-adjusted, kind, respectful, considerate and well-liked high school student, and he has not been bullied since.  He's determined to go to a Division I college where he can play lacrosse and football. 

As far as I can see, the incidents in kindergarten haven't had a long-term negative impact on his life.

I know first-hand, however, that some people aren't as lucky.


(c) Robyn M. King 2013. All Rights Reserved.