Tuesday, January 22, 2008

I, Bully

I believe that hidden deep within every class clown, every attention seeking jerk is an extremely wounded child desperately looking for approval, for love. A child who tries to conceal his insecurities, even his shortcomings by entertaining his so called friends and followers at the expense of those deemed not cool or pretty enough.
From a very young age, I knew what it felt like to be bullied, both at home and in school. I still remember how it felt to be inadequate, to never be good enough, to always be the last one picked, the first one mocked. I couldn’t, I wouldn’t let it happen again. This time around, I made sure that if there was any bullying, any beating or name calling to be done, I would be the one doing it. So, from the first day of class, I vehemently vied for the designated clown spot and once status reached, I took out my frustrations on everyone around me. Having lived in fear most of my childhood, I could smell it from a mile away and I never thought twice about taking my wrath on the weak. Putting others down and stomping all over them not only made me feel better about my weak, cowardly self, but it also made me feel so very powerful.

I had popular, rich friends who never failed to invite me over to their beautiful suburban homes. Cool friends who always notified me first before skipping school, because I just had to be there for it to be fun enough. I had friends, I was liked. In my immature and needy mind, I belonged, it was everything I ever wanted and it was more than enough.
The teachers were intimidated by our parents’ money and the status it bought them. We were the children of Baba Maal, Ismaela Lo and hard working immigrants. The rules didn’t apply to us, so, we routinely skipped school to spend the day flirting at the beach, downtown eating burgers -with our tuitions money- or at a friend’s house dancing to the latest releases from America, the land of dreams.

For a long time there were no consequences because the right amount of money into the right hands fixed anything. Our parents were oblivious to our bad behavior but soon enough, my grades started catching up; my missed days added up. I miserably failed the 8th grade and in the process, got kicked out of school for turbulence, disobedience and disorderly conduct. One of us thought it funny to set the class on fire and I as a loyal friend kept my loyal mouth shut -only to pay the ultimate price.
Left behind were my dear and ever so true best friends forevers; friends from whom I never heard from again. I, the bright future journalist who only brought home As and was her grandmother’s pride. I, the oldest, the one who was supposed to set the example for her little sisters; I failed a grade and wasted my parents’hard earned dollars. My mother wasn’t having it.

After rightfully telling me how much of a selfish, ingrate disappointment I had been and refusing to talk to me for the next following days, I was ordered to pack, by my mother and spend the summer at her best-friend Ouly’s house.



Life was getting harder and harder every day and i imagine how painfull it might remembering your childhood but : tout passe, tout s'arrange et on repart!

Sayuri Jane said...

It is very hard, but it's something I have to do to overcome. Writing is quite therapeutic for me.