The Bullies

Walking home a mile from school was always an adventure. Somedays I found myself cutting through swamp bogs, and hoping I would not get lost. Swamps can be very tricky to navigate around. I always tried to keep my eyes and ears to the road, yet there were places that took me deeper into the wood and away from civilisation. Once I realized I made it past the white house, the last landmark from the roads edge, I would start looking for the hill. A small incline of tall grass and scrub, that would take me back out to the road and far enough from the bend in the road , that if the bullies were waiting at the "Rock" could not see me. Once my feet touched the pavement, I would sing. Yes, sing. I was lousy with remembering songs and had no trouble making up verses. One that I liked was made up of bits and pieces of other songs, and it always started out with "Oh' What a Beautiful Day", and always made me smile. As if the reason for this song had nothing to do with a gang, waiting at the "Rock" for me.

The "Rock" as it was called, was a boulder no bigger than 2-3 ft wide or tall. But to me it was much larger than that. Larger still, when an unruly gang of neighboring bullies found it their spot. It sat tucked away just around the corner, atop the steepest quarter mile hill that nearly killed any kid who had to climb it. A great spot for bullies. No kid could run fast enough away from them after climbing that hill. It was the same spot we once found my sister's bike, a twisted scrap of spokes, tires and blue paint, hanging in the tree above the Rock's outpost. A sign of what they would do to us, if they wanted to.

I remember one particular day walking home from school, the bullies left their post and approached us at the crest of the hill. My brother was the youngest of us three girls and only in kindergarten, we were carrying home a gallon of milk that my mother asked us to pick up from the little Mom and Pop store at the bottom of the hill. At first they demanded money. I told them we had none. So they surrounded my brother and started teasing him. Of course they also started on my eldest sister, and started pushing her around. I remember getting so angry I wanted to kill the lot of them. They wanted my brother to spit on us. When he wouldn't do it, they pushed him to the ground and forced his face into the pavement and demanded he kiss it. I pulled him up from their clutches, threw the milk on them, and the three of us girls encircled our brother, and with heads held high continued to walk home past them, and their rock.

Yes, we were the kids that were picked on. I don't know of any other victims of theirs. I didn't even know who some of them were. Not that it mattered. They were bullies, and that's all the name they needed. A few of them were much older than us, and I thought that was rather queer in itself.

We avoided walking home alone after that for weeks, and found other ways to get home. We cut through neighboring streets, peoples yards we didn't know, up hills , through woods, and more swamps. Sometimes not getting home till almost dark. When I say, I knew the woods like the back of my hand, I wasn't kidding.

No one really knows why we became their target. Lots of times we discussed it. Of course my eldest sister thinks it was her fault for crying in school when she was only six, in fear of losing my Father to experimental open heart surgery. Back in the early Sixties it had only been performed five times. My father was the sixth person to undergo the procedure, and we were all told he may not live through it. How could crying be her fault?

Another time, my parents were visiting with neighbors just up the knoll. They felt we were safe enough at home and close enough as not to be concerned about our being alone. There was no reason for them to think otherwise. As the hour passed, we were sitting down in the living room watching television when a rock was thrown through the window. Another bully, from the same group from the Rock must have been watching from the enbankment behind the house. I remember getting everyone to sit on the floor away from the window, as I grabbed a very large kitchen knife. The look I got was one of fear, and awe. What was I supposed to do? I was just as scared as they were, but damn if I wasn't ready for a fight. I would've done my best protecting my siblings, and inflicting as much pain as I could, if not for anything more than leaving a blood trail. We managed to get a call out and my parents were home within minutes. There was a search of the neighborhood and one hoodlum later, but no proof that he was the culprit, yet everyone knew.

I knew 'this bully' from the "Rock." He was the same age as my older sister. I occasionally played with his younger sisters, though not often. I didn't care much for their family, but there were not many girls in my neighborhood to play with. I knew now, why we were the victims of bullying. These kids came from a broken home; their mother was an alcoholic, the boys lived in an unfinished attic with mattresses on the floor and clothes strewn about. A father who worked late, and always barked at his wife when he got home from work, leaving every kid to run in fear whenever we saw his car pull up.
It was this woman who I realized was the bane of my shortcuts through bramble and field.
I was playing with her daughter outdoors one day when she approached me with the oddest question.."How is it your father does not work, but you can afford a swimming pool and house?" Was she serious? Why would she be asking me? I was just a kid, and that was an adult question.
It all became clear to me at that moment why we were bullied. I replied with; " I guess we save our pennies." Then ran home to tell my mother.

Jealousy or envy, is a dangerous thing. Ignorance is another. I spent the rest of that evening gazing out my bedroom window, playing out in my mind what it must have been like growing up in their household. Mine, was not in my opinion considered normal, yet I was not a bully. What made a bully? I decided it was the adults that created them.

From these early years, I have become keen to bullies. I cringe when I encounter them. But not in a way you would think. I love it when they want to engage me. And I love it, knowing that they remind me of who I am.

1-15-12

(Found on a fortune cookie):
Example is not the main thing in influencing other's. It is the only thing.





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