Bullying

I could not have been more excited when I opened the envelope on the last day of fourth grade. Not only had I received my official promotion slip, but I had also received my teacher assignment for the coming fall—Mrs. Feinberg---the most beloved teacher in the entire school.

But it was not meant to be.

My parents had decided for a variety of reasons to pluck me from my happy academic and social world of Emerson Public School and ram me into Christ the King Catholic school where the only student I knew was Michelle—the unpredictable unkempt overweight ambiguously sexually oriented neighbor with whom I had nothing in common.

I was completely miserable.

There was nothing Christian at all about Christ the King School. I had stepped into an escapeless labyrinth of mean girl and mean teacher hell.

Inside and outside of the classroom shoulders were cold and invitations remained either unwritten or ignored. I was the bullseye of whispers and giggles.

And I listened the other day on the news of a woman who challenged whether bullying required adult intervention. The woman suggested that dealing with classmates who issue wounds fortified a child’s soul—that enduring meanness aided problem solving skills for them in the future. She claimed that coddling was more destructive than allowing callouses to form.

I am 53 years old and I can confidently say that the woman is a total ass.

Because the reason a scar is a scar is its refusal to correctly heal. While scars can be camouflaged with make-up or covered up with fashion, they never go away. They have little elasticity to bear future strain with normalcy. Residual pain results in the questioning of all ties.

Scars scar.

And In seventh grade my family moved to Dobbs Ferry. Sacred Heart School was safe—it was welcoming—I found respite. There were hands to hold. My voice found harmony. I began a friendship with Elissa—a soon-to be lifelong friend and eventual godmother to my daughter.

In rapid time, my soul was rehabilitated.  

But the scar still remains—it resides deep in the flesh. And even now, anytime I am excluded—whether it is intended or not, it plays like the Zapruder film: pop pop pop. And while I learned the necessary “problem solving skills” to combat the isolation a long time ago, I only wish that I never had to learn those skills in the first place.