Tormentor
Good morning. I hope you had a pleasant morning.
Me, I got to pour my coffee and look up to see the tears my daughter held back in her eyes. I got to see the pain streaked red across her face. I got to hear the heartache as she angrily told us she didn't sleep last night.
Yesterday I got to hear all about the other girls that yelled at my daughter to drop the fight against her bully. I watched my daughter's shoulders slump as she said she had no choice but to yell back. I think her heart is switching the sadness to anger.
My heart is breaking. I have raised both my kids to be loving and accepting of people. I'm raising mixed race kids in a technology driven world and that used to be scary to me, but we've delved in. We celebrate inclusive love in this house. Both kids know that they can grow up to love anyone. We celebrate culture with friends that have grown up differently or even in different countries. I attended a dinner in not the so distant past where the host was from Taiwan and guests were Russian, American and Mexican and we all ate until our bellies were full and talked and laughed until our hearts were full too.
In out home food is love. Just last week I made curry for the first time and we ate almost every last morsel. My kids talked about the cuisines they've tried. Indian, Italian, Mexican, Chinese, Turkish. I've needed to take them to try Thai and Korean, two of my other favorites. We decided that we haven't tried any food from Africa, so we put and Ethiopian restaurant on our list to try soon.
But that was last week. This week, our family of four has slowly dwindled to three-ish with my daughter secluded in her room. She hasn't asked to watch TV or play PS4 games with us. Bed time is not a negotiation anymore to stay up late. In fact, she had rather just go to bed and not have to talk to anyone.
I don't blame her.
I've been asked why she no longer comes forward. Well, this morning, I understood so very clearly what those held back tears spelled out. Think about this.... you're called an ugly bitch in class. You then need to repeat to your teacher that you were called and ugly bitch, again, because this isn't the first time. Then, it's off to admin to repeat again that you were called an ugly bitch. Then maybe you have to face the person that spat those poisoned words. You called me an ugly bitch. Then, you go home from school to the safest place you know and have to again tell your parents that you were called and ugly bitch. You then have to hear your parents discuss the situation and you hear that poison again. Ugly bitch. You look into the mirror as you get ready to shower. You know it's poison because you can see it etched beneath your skin, hidden, but still there. Ugly bitch. The next morning you have to return to school and sit in the class where it's alive in the air and only you can breathe it. Ugly bitch. And now maybe you have to say it out loud to an adult again. Maybe today the words have changed and no its dumb bitch. It doesn't matter. No one has bothered to order the antidote. So, you sit and you stew in the words and catch new ones. Do you understand yet?
I am 39 years old and can probably discuss 39 instances of bullying that I have heard about or been subjected to in my life. I think I'm one of the lucky ones. I never gave a shit about what anyone said to or about me. I was "Miss Hollywood" with sparkling sunglasses and cherry lip balm in my pocket. The more you talked about me, I could see your envy and your own self loathing. Not everyone has this thick, glistening skin.
I have a story in my head that I can't get out over the course of these last weeks. In college, I took an Environmental Psychology class. I was always interested in how our environment and technology shaped us. I learned a lot of things that I have still used until this day. But, one thing stuck. It stuck hard and I didn't know why. You see, my professor, Robert Bechtel always had something to say in his lectures. He was one of the "mean" professors that had assigned seats, took attendance and graded you on it. One day he told us about a kid that was bullied. This kid was bullied in elementary school, high school and then in college. It always started with words. Other kids said mean and nasty things to this kid. But, finally, in college, other students would pull his mattress out and urinate on it. I think the class fell quiet after this story. I don't think we had a clue about how it could get this bad. We were all forced to think about the consequences of incessant bullying. And, oh my gawd, how the fuck can someone be nasty enough to pull someone's mattress out of their room to pee on it?!?!
My friend and I had discussed how off that story was and that there had to be more to it. Well, after I graduated, the proverbial cat was out of the bag. Professor Bechtel was the kid being bullied. It was his mattress being urinated on in college. But wait, the story has more to it. You see, there was a breaking point. This person, this college professor, had a breaking point. That point came on January 12, 1955, when he killed another student. This is all very real. (https://wc.arizona.edu/papers/98/62/01_1.html)
Maybe now today my heartbreak is easing into fear. I'm afraid. I have too many stories close to home. (https://kvoa.com/news/2019/11/07/mom-says-teen-daughter-was-bullied-to-death/) I see it everywhere. I'm sure you see it too.
https://www.seattletimes.com/nation-world/nation/mothers-suit-blames-suicide-of-9-year-old-girl-on-bullying/
https://www.wdrb.com/news/lawsuit-filed-against-islamic-school-of-louisville-over-alleged-bullying/article_e3c41c7a-41fc-11ea-bb77-eb0d88729549.html
https://www.independent.co.uk/news/health/bullying-suicide-teenagers-suicidal-behaviours-study-a9279546.html
I hope you're afraid now too. I've outlined the problem and given the power to correct it. Now I have to take things day by day. I have to research. I have to keep going and not give up. That's my promise. I won't give up for the little girl that sat at the breakfast table absolutely broken. I will fight for the girl whose eyes always shone with love and happiness. I will pave way for the girl trying to find herself and navigate the last of her junior high years. I may not be able to fix her but I can mold her into a precious piece of Kintsugi, no longer delicate, but shining in gold.
Me, I got to pour my coffee and look up to see the tears my daughter held back in her eyes. I got to see the pain streaked red across her face. I got to hear the heartache as she angrily told us she didn't sleep last night.
Yesterday I got to hear all about the other girls that yelled at my daughter to drop the fight against her bully. I watched my daughter's shoulders slump as she said she had no choice but to yell back. I think her heart is switching the sadness to anger.
My heart is breaking. I have raised both my kids to be loving and accepting of people. I'm raising mixed race kids in a technology driven world and that used to be scary to me, but we've delved in. We celebrate inclusive love in this house. Both kids know that they can grow up to love anyone. We celebrate culture with friends that have grown up differently or even in different countries. I attended a dinner in not the so distant past where the host was from Taiwan and guests were Russian, American and Mexican and we all ate until our bellies were full and talked and laughed until our hearts were full too.
In out home food is love. Just last week I made curry for the first time and we ate almost every last morsel. My kids talked about the cuisines they've tried. Indian, Italian, Mexican, Chinese, Turkish. I've needed to take them to try Thai and Korean, two of my other favorites. We decided that we haven't tried any food from Africa, so we put and Ethiopian restaurant on our list to try soon.
But that was last week. This week, our family of four has slowly dwindled to three-ish with my daughter secluded in her room. She hasn't asked to watch TV or play PS4 games with us. Bed time is not a negotiation anymore to stay up late. In fact, she had rather just go to bed and not have to talk to anyone.
I don't blame her.
I've been asked why she no longer comes forward. Well, this morning, I understood so very clearly what those held back tears spelled out. Think about this.... you're called an ugly bitch in class. You then need to repeat to your teacher that you were called and ugly bitch, again, because this isn't the first time. Then, it's off to admin to repeat again that you were called an ugly bitch. Then maybe you have to face the person that spat those poisoned words. You called me an ugly bitch. Then, you go home from school to the safest place you know and have to again tell your parents that you were called and ugly bitch. You then have to hear your parents discuss the situation and you hear that poison again. Ugly bitch. You look into the mirror as you get ready to shower. You know it's poison because you can see it etched beneath your skin, hidden, but still there. Ugly bitch. The next morning you have to return to school and sit in the class where it's alive in the air and only you can breathe it. Ugly bitch. And now maybe you have to say it out loud to an adult again. Maybe today the words have changed and no its dumb bitch. It doesn't matter. No one has bothered to order the antidote. So, you sit and you stew in the words and catch new ones. Do you understand yet?
I am 39 years old and can probably discuss 39 instances of bullying that I have heard about or been subjected to in my life. I think I'm one of the lucky ones. I never gave a shit about what anyone said to or about me. I was "Miss Hollywood" with sparkling sunglasses and cherry lip balm in my pocket. The more you talked about me, I could see your envy and your own self loathing. Not everyone has this thick, glistening skin.
I have a story in my head that I can't get out over the course of these last weeks. In college, I took an Environmental Psychology class. I was always interested in how our environment and technology shaped us. I learned a lot of things that I have still used until this day. But, one thing stuck. It stuck hard and I didn't know why. You see, my professor, Robert Bechtel always had something to say in his lectures. He was one of the "mean" professors that had assigned seats, took attendance and graded you on it. One day he told us about a kid that was bullied. This kid was bullied in elementary school, high school and then in college. It always started with words. Other kids said mean and nasty things to this kid. But, finally, in college, other students would pull his mattress out and urinate on it. I think the class fell quiet after this story. I don't think we had a clue about how it could get this bad. We were all forced to think about the consequences of incessant bullying. And, oh my gawd, how the fuck can someone be nasty enough to pull someone's mattress out of their room to pee on it?!?!
My friend and I had discussed how off that story was and that there had to be more to it. Well, after I graduated, the proverbial cat was out of the bag. Professor Bechtel was the kid being bullied. It was his mattress being urinated on in college. But wait, the story has more to it. You see, there was a breaking point. This person, this college professor, had a breaking point. That point came on January 12, 1955, when he killed another student. This is all very real. (https://wc.arizona.edu/papers/98/62/01_1.html)
Maybe now today my heartbreak is easing into fear. I'm afraid. I have too many stories close to home. (https://kvoa.com/news/2019/11/07/mom-says-teen-daughter-was-bullied-to-death/) I see it everywhere. I'm sure you see it too.
https://www.seattletimes.com/nation-world/nation/mothers-suit-blames-suicide-of-9-year-old-girl-on-bullying/
https://www.wdrb.com/news/lawsuit-filed-against-islamic-school-of-louisville-over-alleged-bullying/article_e3c41c7a-41fc-11ea-bb77-eb0d88729549.html
https://www.independent.co.uk/news/health/bullying-suicide-teenagers-suicidal-behaviours-study-a9279546.html
I hope you're afraid now too. I've outlined the problem and given the power to correct it. Now I have to take things day by day. I have to research. I have to keep going and not give up. That's my promise. I won't give up for the little girl that sat at the breakfast table absolutely broken. I will fight for the girl whose eyes always shone with love and happiness. I will pave way for the girl trying to find herself and navigate the last of her junior high years. I may not be able to fix her but I can mold her into a precious piece of Kintsugi, no longer delicate, but shining in gold.
"In a way we are all murderers - we kill people with our words and actions by gossiping and such."
Comments
Post a Comment