Overcoming Bullying: A Personal Journey of Strength and Advocacy.

Discover how standing up to a bully in sixth grade taught me invaluable lessons about courage and speaking out.

Hey, y’all. In support of anti-bullying efforts, I want to share a personal story with you. When I was in the sixth grade, a kid in the lunch line bullied me. Every day, he would stand behind me and push me relentlessly. So, I went home and asked my parents, “How can I deal with this bully?” My dad suggested, “Just push him back,” whereas my mom cautioned, “Don’t listen to him; you’ll end up in trouble.” Fast forward to another day in the lunch line. Did I push him back? Yes, I summoned the strength, feeling empowered like Naruto, and pushed him. He fell to the ground, and I was astounded by my own strength. Panicked, I ran to the bathroom—the girls’ bathroom—and hid there for the entire lunch period: five minutes, then ten, then twenty. Eventually, the assistant principal called out, “Are you in there?”

I was then taken to Missus Schott’s office. Why she was named “Missus Schott” intrigued us all, as rumors suggested she kept a shotgun in her office. She asked why I was hiding in the girls’ bathroom. I explained how the boy who had been bullying me all year provoked me to push him. I apologized profusely. She reassured me, “It’s okay. We’ve been aware of his behavior. I’m glad you brought this to our attention. You’re okay.” That boy was disciplined for his actions.

But the story doesn’t end there. Upon returning to my sixth-grade class, guess what happened? He was suspended—not me. When I entered the classroom, to my surprise, my classmates applauded. It dawned on me that I wasn’t the only one suffering from his bullying.

Ever since that incident, the boy never bothered me again. I can barely remember what he looked like. So, what’s the moral of my story? I don’t advocate for physical retaliation, but it’s crucial to stand up for yourself. Bullies operate on a simple principle: as long as they believe they can evade consequences, they will persist. Perhaps the best approach is to speak up and make it clear that their behavior is unacceptable.

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Poem: "Bobby"

Bobby was bigger, but only by a few inches; in a fight, he always toppled me
effortlessly to the ground
with a swift kick of his Keds, a warm thud: undulated by the trampoline’s
attraction to the center of things.  Bobby snarled like an innocent kid on crack as he stood over me, his hair almost falling into my face —
then laughing, jumping into the air,
landing on my belly
laughing —
again

I was angry by this
invasion after school with something I could only guess was
fucked up camaraderie,
his cat calls of queer only adding to the sting of the taut tarpaulin,
the weight of Bobby,
my own inability to stand on my own two feet, the feeling of
discontinuous motion,
too fueled with raw gut to understand what he meant when
he pushed his weight on my stomach,
his Abercrombie jeans against my ribs.

If there was intimacy,
it was only for a moment —
and even then,
I surmise,
illusory
for
he took my head
back to the grainy tarp, my face a contorted red mash:

His suck-my-dick mantra seemed a distorted fraternal gesture,
an initiation into the world of men,
inverted love and affection parading,
threatening to undo me —
pinning me in a corner,
giving me a cruel chance to

not verily “men loving men”
as I would read about later —
when I got older —
not a continuum —
but fractured fraternity,
violent; 

And he would
clap my back after we fought
as if it was a ritual of friendship.

as if the previous humiliation was nothing, really, as if I had nothing to be ashamed about — any feelings I might have had were none at this moment because Bobby was kind
and generous.

You did okay for a pansy.  Really.
Can I borrow X-Men?

I would say “sure” and “okay” like a monk at chant.
“They’re in my room”.

But, he was my friend.

Bobby in his white cotton v-neck Fruit of the Looms
and Abercrombie jeans,
wiry blonde hair —
(he didn’t sleep; red circles around his eyes)
would
graciously accept my comic books
as a token of some sort,
a secret pact between us —
and he would bring them back,
in their plastic slipcases,
as if he knew they were precious to me,
punching my chest with a cordial
fuckface,
not too distant from my mother’s call
to come to dinner.

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