CrusaderSimon
New member
Hi, I would like to share a story of my experience of bullying that occurred when I was 12 years old. As a result of the bullying, the course of my life was affected in such a negative way that I developed social phobia and other anxiety problems that would plague me throughout my life.
In the fall of 1979, I was a wide-eyed seventh grader attending the first day of class in a new school. I was filled with an array of thoughts and emotions that ranged from the excitement of starting a new school year, to the apprehension of being in the company of so many unfamiliar faces. Even though the school was multiracial (blacks, whites, Hispanics) I was only one of a handful of Asian students there.
When class began, I was assigned to sit in the front row. Since I was too shy to take a peek at the rest of the class behind me, I kept my gaze in the direction of the teacher. Students introduced themselves, class schedules were revealed and the syllabus explained. Then the lunch bell sounded. As we made our way towards the cafeteria, other students quickly formed cliques, since many of them were already familiar with each other. The cafeteria was much large the one in my old elementary school. The sounds of nonstop chatter and commotion from hyperactive students permeated the crowded room. I found one of the few empty seats where I ate my lunch alone. I felt a sense of relief when the school bell rang at 3pm signaling the end of the day. The next few weeks were uneventful. The regular schedule for our class included two periods of homeroom (in the beginning and end of the day) and four periods of world history and other basic subjects. The entire class took the same classes, except for the one period of electives (this period was in the school band playing the clarinet). I developed a daily routine and tried to become more accustom with the environment of my new school.
Then one day in October, the tallest kid in the class misunderstood what I said to him and thought it was something offensive. He angrily walked from the rear of the room towards the front and sat in the seat behind me. Others sitting nearby were anticipating a potential fight, they goaded him by saying, “Simon was talking bad about you”. “Are you going to let him get away with that?” The “offended” student then hurled one nasty insult after another. Anyone within an earshot heartily laughed and encouraged him to continue the barrage of name-calling. I felt humiliated and fearful, as I was unable to respond to defend myself. The next day, since he already released his anger, I thought yesterday’s incident would be forgotten and everything would be cool. However, he continued where he left off the day before and bombarded me with new insults. Soon, a total of six other students joined in the verbal assault. “Skinny-bones, midget, roach eater, skeleton, chink, ching-chong, slanty-eyes, flat nose,” words that serve no other purpose than to harm and degrade my character. When the rest of the class (35 students) heard a particularly humorous insult directed at me, they would all laugh in unison. Most of the abuse took place in this class, the homeroom/English class, where we would spend a total of two hours a day. The teacher in this room was fully aware of what was happening. She’d momentarily paused her lecture and waited for the laughter to subside, and then resume teaching as if nothing unusual occurred. The homeroom/English teacher who I remember being in her mid 40s, had a reputation of being self-absorbed, with a habit of frequently looking in the mirror during class time to apply her makeup.
The bullying would become a daily routine until the end of the school year in June. I found no one in the class who was willing to stand up and speak in my defense. Perhaps they were afraid they would be victimized as well. When I was in elementary school, I witnessed many bullies abusing their victims. Quiet indifference was the way I viewed seeing fellow classmates suffer from being bullied, not once did it cross my mind to intervene on their behalf. I just felt lucky that their torment wasn’t happening to me. Ironically, it did happen to me. I never told anyone outside the class of what was occurring. I was afraid if I told the school’s staff about it, the bullies would get in trouble and they would retaliate by increasing my suffering even more. Neither did I want my family to be involved because I was concerned for their safety. Moreover, in my prideful adolescent mind, I felt I would bring shame on myself if anyone outside the class knew that I was a victim.
The verbal abuse ultimately escalated into physical abuse. It started with thumbtacks that I found on my chair. When I avoided all of their attempts to have me unwittingly sit on the tacks, they resorted to another tactic- sneaking up from behind me and stick me with a safety pin. Laughter would ensue as I jumped out of my seat in excruciating pain. If they didn’t have a pin, they would slap the back of my neck or slam a heavy book on back of my head so hard that it produced dizziness and disorientation. In the schoolyard during lunch break, one of the tormentors would often challenge me to a fight. Being much smaller and weaker than he was, I was at an obvious disadvantage. I made sure I protected my face from the blows. However, the body bruises I hid with long sleeves shirts, even when the weather was hot. Every day before class started, I would be terrified thinking about what new type of abuse awaited me. One bully from the gang kept insisting I would cry from their harassment. As one of my few acts of defiance against them, I set in my mind I would never give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Ironically, this bully was the one who cried in class, when he found out he was not going to be promoted to the next grade. The school year finally ended and emotionally I felt as if I was lower than dirt. The daily verbal and physical abuse made me view myself as an inferior sub-human who wasn’t worthy of a drop of respect.
During the next grade and throughout the rest of my schooling, I was plagued with memories of what happened. I would regularly cut class or be absent for several days, fearful that eventually one of my new classmates might bully me too. My avoidance was a faulty method of self-protection. This anxious mindset only intensified as I entered high school, when I eventually dropped out in the 11th grade. The physical damage healed, but the injury and scars to my psyche and self-esteem remains until this day. For decades, I was stuck in an emotional holding pattern, unable to make any significant forward progress, because the trauma has not fully healed.
I’m in my 40’s now, and just recently, I have finally made practical steps dealing with my emotional difficulties (through professional therapy, meds-buspar, self-help research, etc.) I hope that I’ll finally be able to overcome my anxiety problems with God’s help, along with diligence and determination.
Thanks for reading.
Simon
In the fall of 1979, I was a wide-eyed seventh grader attending the first day of class in a new school. I was filled with an array of thoughts and emotions that ranged from the excitement of starting a new school year, to the apprehension of being in the company of so many unfamiliar faces. Even though the school was multiracial (blacks, whites, Hispanics) I was only one of a handful of Asian students there.
When class began, I was assigned to sit in the front row. Since I was too shy to take a peek at the rest of the class behind me, I kept my gaze in the direction of the teacher. Students introduced themselves, class schedules were revealed and the syllabus explained. Then the lunch bell sounded. As we made our way towards the cafeteria, other students quickly formed cliques, since many of them were already familiar with each other. The cafeteria was much large the one in my old elementary school. The sounds of nonstop chatter and commotion from hyperactive students permeated the crowded room. I found one of the few empty seats where I ate my lunch alone. I felt a sense of relief when the school bell rang at 3pm signaling the end of the day. The next few weeks were uneventful. The regular schedule for our class included two periods of homeroom (in the beginning and end of the day) and four periods of world history and other basic subjects. The entire class took the same classes, except for the one period of electives (this period was in the school band playing the clarinet). I developed a daily routine and tried to become more accustom with the environment of my new school.
Then one day in October, the tallest kid in the class misunderstood what I said to him and thought it was something offensive. He angrily walked from the rear of the room towards the front and sat in the seat behind me. Others sitting nearby were anticipating a potential fight, they goaded him by saying, “Simon was talking bad about you”. “Are you going to let him get away with that?” The “offended” student then hurled one nasty insult after another. Anyone within an earshot heartily laughed and encouraged him to continue the barrage of name-calling. I felt humiliated and fearful, as I was unable to respond to defend myself. The next day, since he already released his anger, I thought yesterday’s incident would be forgotten and everything would be cool. However, he continued where he left off the day before and bombarded me with new insults. Soon, a total of six other students joined in the verbal assault. “Skinny-bones, midget, roach eater, skeleton, chink, ching-chong, slanty-eyes, flat nose,” words that serve no other purpose than to harm and degrade my character. When the rest of the class (35 students) heard a particularly humorous insult directed at me, they would all laugh in unison. Most of the abuse took place in this class, the homeroom/English class, where we would spend a total of two hours a day. The teacher in this room was fully aware of what was happening. She’d momentarily paused her lecture and waited for the laughter to subside, and then resume teaching as if nothing unusual occurred. The homeroom/English teacher who I remember being in her mid 40s, had a reputation of being self-absorbed, with a habit of frequently looking in the mirror during class time to apply her makeup.
The bullying would become a daily routine until the end of the school year in June. I found no one in the class who was willing to stand up and speak in my defense. Perhaps they were afraid they would be victimized as well. When I was in elementary school, I witnessed many bullies abusing their victims. Quiet indifference was the way I viewed seeing fellow classmates suffer from being bullied, not once did it cross my mind to intervene on their behalf. I just felt lucky that their torment wasn’t happening to me. Ironically, it did happen to me. I never told anyone outside the class of what was occurring. I was afraid if I told the school’s staff about it, the bullies would get in trouble and they would retaliate by increasing my suffering even more. Neither did I want my family to be involved because I was concerned for their safety. Moreover, in my prideful adolescent mind, I felt I would bring shame on myself if anyone outside the class knew that I was a victim.
The verbal abuse ultimately escalated into physical abuse. It started with thumbtacks that I found on my chair. When I avoided all of their attempts to have me unwittingly sit on the tacks, they resorted to another tactic- sneaking up from behind me and stick me with a safety pin. Laughter would ensue as I jumped out of my seat in excruciating pain. If they didn’t have a pin, they would slap the back of my neck or slam a heavy book on back of my head so hard that it produced dizziness and disorientation. In the schoolyard during lunch break, one of the tormentors would often challenge me to a fight. Being much smaller and weaker than he was, I was at an obvious disadvantage. I made sure I protected my face from the blows. However, the body bruises I hid with long sleeves shirts, even when the weather was hot. Every day before class started, I would be terrified thinking about what new type of abuse awaited me. One bully from the gang kept insisting I would cry from their harassment. As one of my few acts of defiance against them, I set in my mind I would never give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Ironically, this bully was the one who cried in class, when he found out he was not going to be promoted to the next grade. The school year finally ended and emotionally I felt as if I was lower than dirt. The daily verbal and physical abuse made me view myself as an inferior sub-human who wasn’t worthy of a drop of respect.
During the next grade and throughout the rest of my schooling, I was plagued with memories of what happened. I would regularly cut class or be absent for several days, fearful that eventually one of my new classmates might bully me too. My avoidance was a faulty method of self-protection. This anxious mindset only intensified as I entered high school, when I eventually dropped out in the 11th grade. The physical damage healed, but the injury and scars to my psyche and self-esteem remains until this day. For decades, I was stuck in an emotional holding pattern, unable to make any significant forward progress, because the trauma has not fully healed.
I’m in my 40’s now, and just recently, I have finally made practical steps dealing with my emotional difficulties (through professional therapy, meds-buspar, self-help research, etc.) I hope that I’ll finally be able to overcome my anxiety problems with God’s help, along with diligence and determination.
Thanks for reading.
Simon