Our
lifetimes are defined by the sum of our experiences; both the good and the bad.
Every challenge we face is a place for growth. Every mistake we make holds a
lesson to learn. No two people will have the same experience, just as no two
people will have the same reaction to that experience. For that reason, it is
even more crucial that we consider others when speaking and acting. One of the
hardest concepts for humans to master is walking in another person’s shoes, and
because of this we often speak and act without considering what our words and
actions might cause. Our intentions may be harmless, but we do not always consider
how they will be perceived, how they may hurt another.
I’m not
here to lecture you about the harmful effects of bullying. If that were my
intention, this essay would be much easier to write. I could easily Google
“bullying” and get hundreds of statistics and examples and spit them back out
at you in a nice, organized way. But that’s not my intention. I have played
both roles, the bully and the victim, and I have grown from both. I have seen
both sides of bullying through personal experience as well as witnessing these
situations. I do not elicit your pity, and I also ask you to please remember
that I, too, am human if you choose to judge me for what I have to say. Rather
than trying to lecture you on how bad bullying is, my intention is to share my
personal growth from these experiences. Whether or not you gain insight on
overcoming issues or reflect on the effects of your own actions is entirely up
to you.
I was
homeschooled until fifth grade. As much as I would like to blame that for how
unprepared I was for the social aspect of public school, there is nothing that
could have prepared me as thoroughly as actually going to school. My childhood
was sheltered, to say the least. My parents were very strict Catholics and it
was important to them that their children grew up that way, which is why my
older sister and I were homeschooled. Their worst fear was that we would go to
school and pick up foul language and that awful “pop music garbage”, so instead
we stayed at home and only hung out with kids my parents approved, aka other
Catholic homeschooled kids. Just like me and my sister, the other kids I knew
were raised on the golden rule: treat others as you would want to be treated.
Needless to say, we were all generally nice to each other and if we had a
problem with someone, we simply wouldn’t hang out with them anymore. Problem
solved. However, life isn’t so convenient.
I
entered the first day of fifth grade in tears. Even though it was my choice to
go, I felt like I was thrown into water without any clue as to how to swim. I
was terrified of leaving the safety and comfort of the only lifestyle I had
ever known. I had seen plenty of TV shows and movies that depicted public
school, but I reduced much of what I had seen to exaggeration. On TV, bullies
gave swirlies and the nerds who wore pocket protectors got the swirlies; but
real kids were all normal, right? When I walked into the classroom on my first
day, I saw no nerds with pocket protectors and wet hair and no one looked
incredibly menacing, so that was a good sign. I sat down in the desk with the
name tent that said “Kathryn”, next to a girl who was deeply absorbed in a
book, whose name tent read “Kendra”. When I sat down, Kendra looked up and said,
“I think you live down the street from me. My brother pushed your brother down
like two years ago when we were roller skating and my dad made him come
apologize to your brother. I ran and hid because it was really embarrassing… oh
yeah, I’m Kendra.” From every show/movie I had seen to base it off of, Kendra
was quite obviously ‘popular’ and I was extremely relieved that she hadn’t
threatened to give me a swirly, so I said, “Yeah, I remember that! I’m Katie…
I’ve never been to school.” Kendra and I instantly became friends. I was so
relieved that my first conversation was successful, and I took it as a hint
that all the kids would be this nice.
The
next week at recess Kendra invited me to play soccer with her and a bunch of
the other kids. Being incredibly clumsy and also terrible at soccer, I declined
the offer and told her I was just going to go swing, but thanked her anyways.
She looked over at the swings and turned to me and said “see that boy on the
last swing? That’s Garrett, he’s a total jerk so don’t talk to him!” I thanked
her for the advice and we parted ways. I was both curious about her warning,
and naïve, and there were no open swings so I walked up to Garrett and asked if
I could swing. He didn’t even consider the question before saying “beat it
fatass!” My whole world came to a screeching halt. This small comment brought
me to two realizations; that not all the kids were as nice as Kendra, and that
I was fat. Before then, I had no idea I was fat. I walked away from the swings
and spent the rest of recess sitting on the benches by the door, crying. I told
Kendra what had happened while we walked home from school. She, of course, said
the expected “I told you so!” and went on to reassure me that Garrett was fat,
too, so he had no room to be talking and that he was a jerk and to ignore him.
It didn’t help though.
After
that, news apparently traveled fast that Katie Spiegel was fat. By the next day
at lunch, when we all lined up in front of the cafeteria, several of the boys
joined in with Garrett’s harassments. They had already come up with several
incredibly creative nicknames such as fatty, pig, fat pig, fatass, and of
course the constant mocking with the pig noise. When I sat down to eat, it
didn’t stop. Garrett made a point to announce to the whole lunch room that
“piggy’s hungry!!!” as several of the boys followed up with oinks. I felt like
my life was ruined. I felt ashamed to be me. I hoped that this torment would
get old for them quickly, but I was not so lucky. I never wanted to go back to
school, I never wanted to see these boys again, and I never wanted to be called
fat again. Since the first two were clearly not an option, I went home that day
and searched for some article of clothing that would make me not look fat.
Sadly, I was fat and there was no hiding it. I put on a hoodie, which actually
made me look larger than I was, and decided that was the best I could do. I
went to school the next day wearing the hoodie, hoping that they would leave me
alone, but they didn’t. The oinks and names continued. Now, not only was I fat
and constantly reminded of it, I was also uncomfortably hot in the 85 degree
weather at recess. But I still didn’t take off the hoodie. I didn’t want to let
them see my body, and to be honest, I didn’t even want to look at myself. I was
disgusted with myself.
About
halfway through fifth grade year, some safety organization came to my school
and we got to make those ID cards that say “have you seen me?” to give to our
parents in case we ever get lost. The ID card had a photo of us, our name,
birthday, height, eye color, and to my horror weight. When I received my ID
card in gym class a few days later, all I could see was the word weight and the
mocking reminder printed next to it: 110lbs. I tried to quickly shove it into
my binder, but I was too late. A boy from my class, Vidal, had snatched it from
my hands. He examined it before saying “damn Katie, you weigh 110? I knew you
were fat but not that fat!” I begged him to give it back but he ignored me. He
got the attention of the whole class before saying “hey guys! Guess how fat
Katie is!” My face burned red and I felt tears coming. Garrett chimed in
“really fat” before Vidal announced “110 pounds!” The whole class burst into
laughter, except me. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. I had never been so
embarrassed in my life, and I was quite sure if it was possible to die from
embarrassment, I would have dropped dead, right then and there. The rest of the
year went pretty much the same. They still harassed me, and most days I would
go home and cry. But I never gave them the satisfaction of crying in front of
them.
Today,
I look back at fifth grade and laugh. Nothing about it was in the least bit
funny, but I lived through it, and came out a better person in the long run
because of it. I wouldn’t change the experience if I had the chance because
those hardships I faced that year are just another part of what makes me the
person I am today. That said, I must acknowledge the self-image problems and
horrible fear of eating in front of people (especially guys) that I still have
to this day. However, not all of it was bad. Facing those things helped me
build a wall. Now, when people say mean things to me, their sticks and stones
hit the wall but will never break it; the dementors now feed off of my patronus
and not my soul. Also, Garrett, the bully, has since become one of my really
good friends. I could have held a grudge and hated him, but I chose to forgive
him. He’s one of the funniest and sometimes nicest people I know, now. Rather
than letting this awful experience control my life and break my spirit, I chose
to move on and let it go. I always show people my fat pictures from that year,
now. Half the time they’re shocked that it’s me, but everyone always laughs.
And this time, I laugh with them.
Sharing
my experiences about being bullied was the easy part, for me. It will be
significantly harder for me to relay the details of the events that took place
with me as the bully. When I was the victim, I was able to reassure you that I
was fine despite some relatively minor psychological troubles, and I was able
to reassure you that there was a happy ending in the long run. However, with
the following story, I cannot say the same. I promise you, the reader, my
utmost honesty with the following story, no matter how awful it may reflect on
me, because it is important. That said, I ask you to please realize that the
Katie in the story is seven years less experienced than the one who speaks to
you now.
In
eighth grade, Kendra and I were still best friends. When we were together, we
were the kind of best friends that no one wanted to be around. We thought we
were hilarious, and most of our humor came from making fun of other people. We
would usually pick a victim, whoever was around, and make fun of them. If no
one was with us, we made fun of each other and it was still just as hilarious
to us. Most people knew not to take our jokes to heart, and most people would
just laugh with us, knowing that’s how our humor was. That year, we had math
class together and also rode the same bus. This was the perfect set up for us,
allowing us time in the morning before school to talk, time in the middle of
the day, and then again after school on the bus ride home. This was, however,
unfortunate for those who were in our math class or rode our bus because they
were all possible victims. One girl was misfortunate enough to share both a
math class and a bus with us.
Molly
Kleink had gone to school with us since fifth grade. She was a tiny Asian girl
with, until eighth grade, the most obnoxiously positive attitude and the
ugliest, most childish pink and purple outfits. In eighth grade, though, she
started wearing all black to school, going by MJ, and developed what I assumed
to be OCD, or a mental disorder I now know as Trichotillomania. She would
constantly rip out her hair and examine the strand, as if they weren’t all
exactly alike, then rip it in half with her teeth and drop it on the ground. She
was weird, to say the least. She hadn’t entirely dropped the positive attitude,
but it was definitely buried deeper that year.
On the
first day of math, Kendra and I sat next to each other and Molly sat in front
of us. We immediately took notice of her new look and asked her what the hell
happened to her and why she was soooooo emo. She said “fuck you, leave me
alone” Kendra and I burst out laughing. This reaction told us all we needed to
know: Molly was an excellent victim. We constantly tormented her with jokes and
rude remarks. We made jokes about her emo-ness, her “hunger for hair”, and of
course the classic Asian jokes. We thought we were hilarious, but she didn’t
find us the least bit funny. We enjoyed taking turns sliding her books off of
her desk when she wasn’t looking, and on two separate occasions I put gum in
her hair. This torment went on for the majority of the year, unmercifully.
One
day, towards the end of the year, Kendra and I got onto the bus and chose the
seat behind Molly, in case we decided to mess with her at some point during the
ride. We had gotten a history test back that day and Molly was comparing her
scantron to the test, checking her answers. The test was over something that
had to do with Kamikazes, I remember that much. Kendra and I spent most of the
bus ride discussing our days but when we ran out of conversation, we sought
other means for entertainment. The answer was right in front of us. I stood up,
reached over the bus seat, snatched Molly’s test from her hands, and quickly
sat back down. We laughed. Molly popped her head over the seat and yanked the
test out of my hands. We laughed ten times harder. I waited a minute, trying to
be sneaky, and then snatched the test back. This time though, I ripped it to
shreds and threw the pieces over the seat onto Molly’s head, looking like
dandruff. Molly stood up and looked over the seat. I grabbed a book and held it
up like a shield saying, “Watch out! She’s going to Kamikaze us!” At this
point, we were in tears from laughing so hard. Molly was furious, I could tell,
but there was nothing she could do about it so she sat back down, defeated.
Kendra got off of the bus at the first stop, about a minute later.
After
Kendra got off the bus, still laughing at Molly’s expense, Molly popped up over
the bus seat and said “you guys think you’re funny, don’t you?” to which I
replied, teary eyed from laughing still, “pretty fuckin’ funny, yeah.” The next
thing I knew, Molly’s fist was colliding with my jaw. She had punched me, and a
lot harder than I would have expected. I was stunned, speechless. I didn’t hit
her back, no, I laughed harder than I ever had at her expense. I moved to the
bus seat next to her, trying to get my words out through the gasps of laughter,
“Dude, MJ, *gasp* that was *gasp* so fuckin’ funny! *gasp gasp* I can’t believe
you hit me! *gasp* so much respect for that *gasp* you little *gasp* Asian
bitch *GASP*” She looked both confused and like she may hit me again, but said,
“You’re a huge fucking bitch, you know. You deserved that and I’m not sorry” I
couldn’t control myself anymore, I thought I was going to pee my pants from
laughing so hard, and Molly just looked at me, pathetically, knowing that I
didn’t care, and looking like she might cry. When we got to my bus stop, I took
the gum out of my mouth, dropped it on Molly’s head, and proceeded to stumble
off of the bus, trying to contain my laughter.
We
still bothered Molly sometimes after that, but significantly less. I would love
to say that this story had a happy ending, and I wish it had stopped with her
punching me in the face because that would have been a fair and happy ending
(relatively). However, the story does not end there. The next year, freshman
year of high school, Kendra had moved to Bexley, but Molly was still around. I
didn’t torment her daily like I had before, but I what I did was much worse.
One day, in the lunch line, Molly was handing out her prescription medication
to the losers that usually left at lunch to smoke cigarettes by Speedway, and I
just happened to be right in front of them, witnessing this blatant stupidity.
After lunch, I went into my Algebra class where Molly sat next to me, and my
friend Erika sat on the other side of Molly. As obnoxiously and loudly as I
could, I said “hey Erika! Guess who was giving out drugs in the lunch line! If
you need any drugs, hit up MJ!” Molly gave me the dirtiest look and said “fuck
you Katie!” Mrs.Bringardener, our teacher, had been standing at the front of
the class listening to this conversation, pretending to write out notes on the
projector. She walked over to the computer, typed for about five minutes, and
then started class. Not even ten minutes later the office sent for Molly. That
was the last time I saw her, ever. She got expelled.
I, of
course, cannot fully blame myself for her expulsion. I may have brought it
about sooner than expected, but Molly had blatantly disregarded the rules (not
to mention law) in front of about 350 people. There were five cameras in the
lunch room and seven teachers (not including the school resource officer, who
was also there) on lunch duty, babysitting us. I may have been the first, but I
was not the only witness, nor the only one who had brought it to the attention
of the administrators. I hadn’t intended to get her expelled, in fact, I didn’t
even know that was the punishment for such an offense. I had merely intended to
get Molly’s goat, so to speak. But that doesn’t make it okay.
Looking
back on what happened those years with Molly, I am horrified. I’m embarrassed,
disappointed, and, quite frankly, shocked with my actions. I cannot even
imagine what was going through my head, or why, during these events. I don’t
know when, or why or how, the change took place in me, taking me from heartless
monster to whatever I am today, but I’m glad it happened. I don’t mean to tell
you that I have made a 180 and renounced my evil ways completely, for that
could never happen. I did, however, start trying to consider those on the
receiving end of my words. I will never be a saint, and I will never be able to
change what I’ve done, but remorse for my actions and the changes I’ve made
trying to be better are what set me now apart from myself seven years ago.
In
fifth grade, I was weak, I was a victim. In eighth grade and the beginning of
high school, I was a bully. After fifth grade, I wanted to escape my weakness.
I wanted to be as far from weak, fat, young me as I could, but I took it to an
extreme. Using Molly as an example, a warning to all, I showed the kids at
school that I was not to be messed with, as I was in fifth grade. I was a bully
now, just like the boys who called me fat, and I expected that to make me
immune to any torment. But it didn’t. Becoming a bully did not solve my
problems, make me forget what I had gone through, or prove to be better than
being the victim. All it did was make me just as low and cruel as the boys in
fifth grade. The way to avoid being the victim is not to bully others by
example, and I learned that the hard way. As I said before, I do not wish to tell
you how to live your life. I simply hope to show you that there are two sides
to every story, just as there are two sides to every person. As a wise man,
named Sirius Black, once said, “We all have both light and dark inside us. What
matters is the part you choose to act on.” Go forth and choose wisely.
