When
you were a kid, did someone bully you? Or did you see someone bullying another
child?
Or
were you the bully?
Bullying
is more than a childhood problem. Adults bully adults, too. Have you been
victimized by an adult bully? Have you witnessed someone bullying another
adult?
Or
are you the adult bully?
Bullying
is a form of abuse!
I
applaud those who, in recent years, have set up school campaigns against
bullying. It was long overdue. God bless every person who has stepped forward
to prevent bullying!—and those who try to bring healing to innocent victims of
bullying!
What
stories can you write
to
teach your kids, grandkids, great-grands,
and
other readers about bullying?
Writing
about bullying can be difficult.
It
took me more than half a century
to
write a story, below,
about
bullying I witnessed in sixth grade.
Don’t
let the pain involved
keep
you from writing your stories!
Shine
light on the darkness of bullying.
Just
think of the dear innocent ones
who
could benefit from your story.
At
the bottom of this post,
you’ll
find links
to
help you write about bullying.
If
you were the victim of bullying,
don’t
miss
So,
here’s my story. Let me know if you spot typos or have suggestions to make it
better. Thanks!
I thought highly of Mrs. C, my
sixth grade teacher. I admired everything about Mrs. C, even her fingernails—so
much so that I filed my nails into sharp points just like hers. She ran a tight
classroom but I always followed her rules and the two of us got along fine.
I
still remember the day Mrs. C patched together my dignity at a time my parents
were struggling financially. My shoe’s sole had torn apart from the leather
upper and it flapped every time I took a step. Sensing my humiliation, Mrs. C
whispered, “Let me slip this rubber band around your shoe to hold it together.”
Until
age eleven, I viewed teachers, especially Mrs. C, as saintly, set-apart beings,
more honorable than average people. I knew the rest of us would do well to
revere and model our lives after them.
But
in the latter half of sixth grade, when Tom Durr joined our class, he showed me
what a saintly, set-apart being looks like, for he was more honorable than the
average person, and the rest of us would do well to revere and model our lives
after Tom rather than our teacher.
Tall
and slender, Tom had moved from Texas, or so I remember, and unlike the rest of
us suburban Seattleites, he wore dark blue jeans and a jean jacket every day,
pressed and perfectly clean.
When
Tom joined our class, I witnessed a different side of Mrs. C.
At
first I misunderstood what was happening. I thought Mrs. C was treating Tom the
same way she treated all students who misbehaved. For example, if, Mrs. C was
teaching a lesson about the Gettysburg Address and noticed Mike pulling Diane’s
braid, Mrs. C would stiffen and shout a question Mike probably couldn’t answer,
like, “Mike! What year did Abraham Lincoln give The Gettysburg Address?” More
likely than not, Mike didn’t know the answer because he had been preoccupied
with his naughtiness and had missed what Mrs. C had just told the class. The
threat of public humiliation resulted in Mrs. C’s hoped-for outcome: Rarely did
anyone misbehave.
The
first few times our teacher narrowed her eyes and spit out such a question at
Tom, I assumed she had spied him misbehaving. As the days passed, however, I
noticed that unlike the other students, Tom knew the answers to her questions.
“Tom!
What is 12 times 12?”
“The
answer is 144, Ma’am.”
When
that happened, Mrs. C acted surprised, and then angry, and then she sneered,
swiveled in a huff, and changed the subject.
I
started paying closer attention to Mrs. C’s outbursts and I discovered, consistently,
that Tom had not been misbehaving. Nevertheless, with regularity our teacher
spewed out tough questions trying to stump Tom.
She
never did.
But
why did she treat Tom that way? Why did she target him in a way she did not
target other students?
My
young heart puzzled over the hatred she displayed in public.
Did
she hate him because he didn’t wear the same kinds of clothes we did?
Did
she despise him because he came from Texas? And if so, what was so bad about
Texas?
Day
after day I fretted, but then I figured it out. Tom had a birth defect: a cleft
lip. Back then people called it a harelip because it resembled the cleft, or
split, in a hare’s lip—a rabbit’s lip.
I
started to see, through my young girl’s eyes, that Mrs. C loathed Tom because
his face looked different from her other students’ faces.
She
humiliated him in public because his face looked different from her other
students’ faces.
She
inflicted emotional pain upon him because his face looked different from her
other students’ faces.
And
here is what gets to me—really gets to me—still, half a century later: Tom
responded to Mrs. C’s taunts with politeness and evenness, and he always
addressed her as “Ma’am.”
I
tried to put myself in Tom’s place, treated so cruelly because of his birth
defect. Surely he was a tortured soul.
And
he was only a sixth grader.
I
wondered how I would act toward Mrs. C if she treated me that way. Would I
strike back? Would I cry in humiliation and frustration? Yes, I know I would
have.
Then it occurred to me that Tom must have hated going to school every morning. I
began to recognize that Tom, all day, five days a week, faced public abuse that
would defeat the average person, yet he just kept doing what was right.
How
did Tom do it? How did he keep coming to school day after day? How did he
always reply politely to Mrs. C?
With
that, I began to marvel at Tom’s composure, his strength of character. Without
an ounce of arrogance, he held his head high.
And
then one morning, a few weeks after Tom joined our class, he didn’t come to
school.
Someone
asked Mrs. C where he was. Through tight lips she hissed, “He moved away,” and
changed the subject.
I
never saw Tom Durr again or heard anything about him, but I have always
remembered him and the lessons he taught me during those few weeks. The
questions I had back then have only multiplied over the decades.
Had
our teacher’s cruelty given my classmates the idea that they, too, should treat
Tom with scorn? Had Mrs. C’s humiliation carried over to the playground? In
those days, we girls played only with girls so now, years later, I wonder: Did
the boys exclude him? Humiliate him?
And
what did Mrs. C hope her public scorn of Tom would make him do? I understand
how humiliation in a classroom setting could motivate students to change
behavior, but Tom could not change his face. He could not remove his harelip.
So what did she expect Tom to do? What did she hope to accomplish by heaping
contempt upon him? All these years later, I remain appalled at her hateful,
barbaric behavior.
Did
Tom beg his parents to let him stay home? If I had been in Tom’s place, I would
have fallen apart in sobbing and tears, and I would have begged my mother not
to make me go to school. I’m certain he didn’t want to go to school each
morning, knowing he’d face another day of disdain.
But
where did he get the courage to do go anyway?
Where
did Tom’s will power come from?
Did
anything or anyone give Tom hope?
Did
Tom have parents that encouraged him? Did his family value him for who he was
and not what he looked like? Were his parents good listeners? Did he feel safe
talking with him at night about the harsh treatment he received? Did his
parents help him gain perspective and courage for the next day? Did they tell
him to hang on, moment by moment, because his persistence would pay off?
Did
his parents pray with him before he left for school and pray for him throughout
the day?
Were
Tom’s parents the reason he could say “Yes, Ma’am” and never reply with anger
or impatience? Did they encourage him to stand tall?
Oh,
I hope the answers are Yes! I hope so much that he had loving, supportive
parents! I can’t bear to think that Tom faced the cruelty of Mrs. C, and
perhaps that of his fellow students, without strong, loving, involved parents!
But
maybe Tom’s parents didn’t sense Tom’s pain, or maybe they didn’t care. Or
maybe he lived with grandparents, or with foster parents.
Perhaps
Tom didn’t have involved, protective, proactive adults in his life.
If
that was the case, then, all on his own, Tom possessed a rare, humble nobility
of spirit that enabled him to value himself for who he was and reject the vile
contempt heaped upon him. That must have been the hardest thing he’d ever
done—many a time he must have wanted to give up—but somehow he mustered the
conviction to cast aside Mrs. C’s voice and every other voice that tried to
demonize him.
From
somewhere deep inside, that eleven-year-old boy chose to reply with dignity,
remain composed, and speak with patience. Tom
must have defied his own fragility and, instead, hoped for a better future. But
how did he protect his heart?
Did
he know Eleanor Roosevelt’s words? “Nobody can make you feel inferior” she
said, “without your permission.” Did Tom understand and embrace that message?
Or, all on his own, did he just sense it within himself?
Did
he know he was made in God’s image and thoroughly loveable? And of great value?
For
more than half a century, I’ve wondered if Tom recognized his goodness. And his
strengths. Did he know he was a significant role model for our classmates—if
only we’d watch and ponder?
For
54 years, I’ve wondered how life treated him: Did someone ever befriend Tom?
Did anyone accept him into their circles?
Did
Tom’s suffering make him into a better man? Did his hardship inspire him to
reach out to other lonely, excluded people?
Or
did Tom finally give up? Did hateful people wear him down and break him? Did he
give up trying to fit in? Did he give in to self-loathing? I don’t suppose any
of us could blame Tom if he grew weary of the battle and became bitter and
angry. But, oh! I hope he didn’t! I hope he didn’t!
I
wish I could tell Tom that his actions and attitudes were not futile, they were
not wasted. I wish I could tell him I’d been watching. I learned from him. He
showed me how to overcome, minute by minute.
The book of James in the New Testament
points to people like Tom: Who is wise and understanding among you? Let him
show it by his good life, by deeds done in the humility that comes from
wisdom.… The wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then
peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial
and sincere. Peacemakers who sow in peace raise a harvest of righteousness.
(James 3:13, 17-18)
Tom
was born with a physical birth defect, but he was in no way inferior. Indeed,
he was more honorable than the average person, and the rest of us would do well
to revere and model our lives after him.
He
was a humble young man of distinction, and I am a better person for having
known him.
I
wish I could find Tom Durr and tell him he has always been one of my heroes.
Copyright © 2017 by Linda K. Thomas
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