Picture a thirteen year old boy: tall for his age, a bit overweight, glasses. A love of Star Trek and Doctor Who and his general awkwardness mark him out amongst his peers. He loves to read and is hopeless at sport. He doesn't have many friends and he doesn't really know how to talk to other people. Sometimes the shyness he feels is almost physical.
He's walking the mile home from school on a hot summer's afternoon, a guitar case in one hand and a briefcase in the other. He loves the briefcase because it's organized and has compartments for everything. He's walking as fast as he can, sweating and crying, because he's scared. Behind him are a group of about a dozen kids, his age and older, taunting him, laughing at him, threatening him.
I don't remember a lot from my childhood but I remember that. I remember the fear and the panic and the humiliation - I can feel it now, as I write this. I remember the pain that comes from being made to feel ridiculous, from being mocked, from having the things you love ridiculed.
And the ripples from that summer's afternoon still touch me. Even now I don't like having to carry bags in each hand - if I don't have one hand free I start to feel anxious. All my life I've tried to deflect the ridicule and criticism I was sure I was just about to receive by ridiculing and criticizing myself - if I do it, you might not. And to this day I have an over sensitivity and hatred of bullies.
I don't really hate much in my life. If I don't like something, I can rarely find sufficient energy or passion to feel hatred for it; I'm mostly indifferent. But I know that I have a temper and when it comes to bullies I'm closest to losing that temper and saying or doing something that I'll regret. Then I can find boundless energy and passion to fuel my loathing for people who bully others.
I got home safely that afternoon but in a way that group of kids, some of whom I thought were my friends, are still behind me. I can feel them sometimes, still chasing me, laughing at me, stripping me of the dignity to which every human being is entitled. And that's what bullies do - they make their victims less than human.
But they don't just do that; they twist things around, make you responsible for their actions and other people are complicit in that. I was bullied at school and for years I was told it was my fault, by teachers, by my parents... It's my fault because I don't fit it; because I have a briefcase instead of a bag; because of the TV programs I talk about or the things I like; because I don't stand up to them, or argue back or hit them or walk away. And it took me years to realize that all of those things were lies and excuses and bullshit. If you are being bullied or victimised that's not your fault - it's the fault of the person bullying or victimising you. You are not to blame because another person decides to pick on you. You don't bring it on yourself because you like something not many others like, or because you're shy and awkward around other people.
I don't really have a point for this piece. The subject has been on my mind for a while, brought up by some stuff that's been happening at Scarlet's work and perhaps because Little 'Un now is the age I was then. It's just a bunch of stuff that I wanted to get off my chest; thanks for letting me.
