Being Bullied Sucked

No subtitle required.

Photo by Chris Sabor at Unsplash.

Seventh and eighth grades were tough. My plump legs made my jeans fit tightly. My Trapper Keeper was meticulously neat, especially the transparent case for pens and pencils. Kids pounced on this.

“Nerd!” they exclaimed if they acknowledged me at all.

I wasn’t cool in any way imaginable. I threw myself into the math team, where I was more than above average, but hardly the star. That was fine with me. Science projects were my favorite. I loved the detective work necessary to state a hypothesis. Sometimes I  solved the problem; other times I didn’t. Math and science made me feel safe from my own shortcomings in an inhospitable place. Only a fool won’t admit to needing the same once in a while.

In October of that year, a classmate named “TR” broke (active voice) both my arms at the same time. I now had a captivating tale to recount for life – I’ll save that one for another time – but there was really only one thing that mattered. From the nastiness of that whole predicament, I made a good friend – he was, in fact, my best friend throughout middle school.  Alex, a brilliant thirteen-year-old headed to MIT, was every bit as awkward as I was. For weeks, he carried my backpack from one class to another. Sometimes we used an old-fashioned luggage roller. I never asked him to do so. 

But it was another boy who truly defined 7th and 8th grade – Tommy, a big bully whom I will call Bully so as not to forget who Tommy really was. I didn’t yet understand that bullies are cowards, so I allowed myself to be pushed around. I was unexpectedly (again) tripped to make me fall forward. Shoved against lockers. Bully demanded my lunch money. Sometimes I gave it to him. At a time when life itself made me feel small enough, Bully made me feel infinitesimal. I never said a word to anyone except Alex, who kept my secret.  

With only a few weeks left in 8th grade, Bully grabbed me from behind and held my face against my locker. He had made a mistake this time, and there was no turning back. I reeled around and pushed Bully in the chest – hard – sending him sliding onto his butt. Kids now laughed at Bully, who, my goodness, had fallen at the hands of the science and math kid. I offered him a hand. Bully refused, scampered to his feet, and ran. I was sure he wouldn’t say a thing and that I might be safe for the course of ninth grade. I was. 

Years later, my good friend Alex planned to attend his 10th high school reunion. My family had moved after ninth grade, so I graduated from a different high school in a different state that seemed like a very welcome, different world. The reunion thus wasn’t for me. 

“Hey Alex,” I joked, “tell Bully I say hello.”

Alex understood. Several weeks later, we were shooting the breeze. 

“By the way, did you see Bully at the reunion?” I asked cautiously. 

“I did,” Alex responded. Then he went quiet for a few seconds.

“He didn’t have the first clue who you are. Didn’t remember a thing about you from school.”

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