I read the news today, oh boy…
A father (a police officer) turned his son in after seeing a viral video of his son participating in a beating. ‘I did the right thing as a parent,” he said.
I thought about how many parents would not do the right thing. Then I started thinking about the bullying that took place in my life, TJ’s life, and our son’s life. There was no video to capture it. No parents got involved. Three stories. And three outcomes.
Me:
The first time I was bullied, I was in second grade. I barely remember it. What is memorable is that my little brother came to my rescue, and he was just a Kindergartener. Some kid often took my lunchbox and wouldn’t give it back on the school bus. Being a sensitive, gentle 7 year old, and a girl — I was intimidated by the boy that did it. Maybe he was taking other kids’ stuff, too. I don’t know why he picked on me. But he was no match for my brother’s red-headed wrath: I got the lunchbox back. I just know that for a lot of reasons, I developed a loathing of seeing the bus come down the country road to pick us up.
In fourth grade, I had a bully for a teacher. I can still remember her tactics in keeping control of the class. She used psychological warfare on nine year olds — withering looks and ear pulling (Ear pulling on the boys); she arranged the rows of desks in order of your average — A, B, C, and D row. If your average slipped over a report card quarter, you had to get up and move your seat to the lower row. Humiliation over wrong answers was standard. There were many other strict rules that scared me to death. Because, you see, I was still sensitive, took on “class guilt” for things I didn’t do (empathetic with those who had transgressed and suffered punishment) and wanted to be a very, very good girl. “In those days” the teacher ruled. Fortunately for me, we moved half-way through the school year, and I escaped.
In the middle school grades, I was bullied by boys who — supposedly — had crushes on me. That was the explanation I was given by a sixth-grade teacher after I went to her to say that I’d been repeatedly attacked with iced snowballs by a boy in my class. The winter was a gauntlet for some of us girls. We were pelted as we walked home, had our hats snatched from our heads, were pushed down on the snow and had our faces rubbed with snow and snow stuffed down our collars. They would aim for the backs of our calves — we walked to and from school in our uniforms, jumpers and knee socks. So our calves were bare and often had red marks from the stinging direct hits. No one called it bullying. It was “normal” behavior for grammar school boys and girls. By eighth grade, the boys developed more romantic, less warrior tactics. But my brother still gave one pesky classmate a black eye for attacking me. (That time, the parents did get involved. The kid’s mother called mine and asked if she knew about the black eye from my kid brother. My mom said, yes — did she know about the snow beating her kid gave me? The other mom said, I see: my son deserved it. And that was the end of it.)
My last bullying came in 8th grade from my own friends. By 8th grade, I had a figure. I’d discovered my love for writing, I was one of the “smart” kids in school, and I was navigating the shoals of adolescent popularity. I had a group of girlfriend/classmates/neighborhood kids and life was fun. I’d learned how to flirt and laugh with my boy classmates. I’d even had a couple of innocent mutual crushes. We loved to play euchre at one of the girls’ houses. I sat in on a game — and made the mistake of sitting on one of the boys’ laps for a round. He was my best friend’s boyfriend — in her mind. It was just that one action — laughing and hanging out with the boys (which to this day, I love) while they played cards. On the next weekend, I got a phone call from my friend. She lined up all the girls at her sleep-over, and one by one they got on the phone and told me what a “flirt” I was — and I was “out”. (My mom saw what was happening as I began to cry and she got on the phone — the call quickly ended.) From that spring day until we got to high school, I was ostracized. Not spoken to. The subject of passed notes. They walked behind me on the way home from school, making remarks about me. I learned how to be separate. My parents didn’t go to the other parents. They supported me and told me what true friends do and do not do. And the summer after 8th grade, my front porch became the most popular place in town for the boys who knew me. Just laughing and hanging out, while the bullying queen bees walked by in envy.
The Outcome: In my family, I was seen sometimes as someone who wouldn’t stand up for herself, and my mom, sister and brother often wanted to do my battles for me. But I did grow in strength. I learned what was and was not a healthy relationship. I learned how to keep my dignity. I learned how to be an individual and if need be, be OK being on my own. I gained respect for myself by not sinking to the same level in retaliation. I didn’t need to — I made new, wonderful friends. None of the girls from that clique lasted as friends beyond grammar school for me. We all grew up to be good people. And most important – I didn’t raise any bullies.
TJ:
TJ was a Yankee boy at a very old Southern University — and he ran into a bully there. He went on a full golf scholarship. He was on a legendary golf team in the SEC. The coach was a legend, a fatherly man who took TJ and me under his wing when I arrived at Georgia as a newlywed. But the captain of the team — one year older than TJ — was jealous of that. Maybe he considered Coach as “his” — his father-figure. And TJ was a star on the team. The captain didn’t like the idea of having to possibly share that position as co-captain. He’d already stolen my love letters to TJ and read them when TJ lived in the athletic dorm, making fun to the other guys. He knew TJ was vulnerable and lonely as the only Northerner around, 500 miles from home. Razzing turned ugly. And the captain — like so many good ole college boys — was developing as an alcoholic. One night after we were married and living in a duplex out in the country, a carload of guys came screeching onto the front lawn. They were loud and drunk, calling for TJ. The car lights flashed at our windows. It was scary. The captain led the ruckus, peeing like a dog on the lawn to warn of his presence. When TJ confronted him later and threatened to punch his lights out if he ever came near our home again, the captain crumbled. The bullying ended. He was, in fact, a coward.
The Outcome:
TJ went on to be co-captain and then captain. He grew as a husband and a father. He got his Tour card and played the Tour for 10 successful years. He did TV, he worked for the Tour, he had a proud record in golf. The “captain” never made it, despite being a star in his state and with talent. He faded into the background. He just … faded. I tried to like him once, but I lost respect for him completely on that night he pulled that “KKK” type stunt on our lawn. I don’t know if he ever married. I’m not even sure if he’s still alive.
Our Son:
When our son was bullied in high school, I did get involved — but no parents “did the right thing.” It started when the boys and I had moved into a farmhouse after the crash of our marriage. There were strange, frightening phone calls in the middle of the night. Some male voice would say indistinguishable things, or be silent. Sometimes I thought I heard others in the background. The calls came at all times, but they were bizarre and frightening to a woman alone with her kids. Finally I asked for a tap on the line. I had to do that through the sheriff’s department, and keep a log. One day, I came home from work to find a ball thrown into the yard — we lived on a busy road — and it had a derogatory saying on it, something stupid — with one of my son’s name. On Christmas Day, I found a loosely wrapped package full of strange things, a comb, a small can of vegetable, weird, nonsensical things — and a handwritten note pretending a child-like printing, directed at my son.
One morning before I was about to drive my two younger sons to high school, a deputy sheriff called and asked if my son would be home for a while — they had a list of phone numbers from the tap and wanted to see if he recognized any. I’ll never forget the look on my son’s face as the sheriff read off the numbers. They were the numbers of all of his buddies — boys who had stayed in my house, boys who had been friends since we moved up from Florida, boys our son had played school sports with… All of them ganged up on him. The sheriff explained what the consequences could be for the boys — a minimum year in jail for the phone calls. It was up to me to say what I wanted. But I didn’t want these kids to go to jail. They were juniors in high school, good students — and athletes. I knew their parents, we’d shared car pools and picnics. The alternative, the sheriff said, was going to the school, gather them in a room and tell them what they faced — and he would call the parents to say the boys were getting off easy. The bullying and harassment had to stop at that instant.
Not a single parent ever called me, or acknowledged me after that day. The boys didn’t say a word to my son, but they egged on his younger brother with taunts. The football coach (they were gathered into his office by the sheriff) did what he always did — nothing. Apparently the fact that our son chose to play on the golf team (duh — the Diehl boys were gold for that coach) and not go on in football was an issue to these kids. Whatever.
The Outcome: My son was always an independent kid. He tended to be his own person and go his own way. He’s always been a top student and concentrated on graduating from high school and going to college with scholarships. He left the high school “friends” behind and made a ton of friends in college at Saint Bonaventure — they are all solid friends to this day. He studied at Oxford on a fellowship program. He married his college love and has a terrific job. He’s one of the world’s greatest dads. He’s about to get his Masters. And he’s one of the most mature, loving, funny unscathed people I know.
What’s the moral of these tales of bullying? I don’t know. That we can survive and be stronger and richer as human beings with the right support and love from the people who truly love us? That we can end up triumphing by not letting the bullies drag us to their level? Did I do the wrong thing by not pressing charges on those boys? What would you say?
I just admire the dad who turned his son in. He’s got to be sick about it. But he knows that in the end, his son will learn that there are consequences for wrong actions. And maybe his son will grow to be a better man for that.
For the parents who defend their bullies, thinking that they’re protecting them — the world is going to be a much harsher and lonelier place.
Photo credit: deanfotos on Flickr
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