Bullies (Part 1)

I just read on of my best friend’s blog, “Let’s talk about bullying” And almost cried. If you care to read her blog, you can click here on the link http://mairea.wordpress.com/2011/10/10/lets-talk-about-bullying/#comment-26

In my friend’s blog, she talked about how most of the bullying happens in middle and high school, but for me it was different. I was mostly bullied in middle school (or junior high it’s called at some places) and then the next runner-up is elementary, and then the school I was least bullied in is in High School.

I started being bullied in kindergarten. And I remember having pink eye, and my mom made me go to school the week I had it. And then when I did go to school, the teacher announced to the whole class, do not touch me, because they might get pink eye. And then that led to “The cootie game”. You know when your little, and girls had cooties? And if they kissed you, you had cooties. Well, it was the same concept, but I was the only one with cooties, instead of pink eye. And they didn’t get it from me kissing them, they got it from either me touching them, or them touching anything that I touched. Whether that be a desk, a pencil, a ball, pretty much anything. And when my pink eye eventually went away, my cooties didn’t. And later, the cootie game got more serious, where if you get the cooties, instead of saying, “ooh, Emily touched me, I have cooties” they said nothing, because they were dead. On the ground, dead. And then eventually I got picked last in kickball, or any other game in P.E. and I my heart would break, and being in Kindergarten, you cry over everything. So I cried over that.

I do not really remember first or second, except that the bullying just got worse and worse for me. The cootie game still existed, only then it wasn’t a game, anymore. And when I had to work with someone of an activity, or I had to be on a team, or even sit next to them, a lot of the other students would say, “ooh, I feel bad for you.” not to me, but to them, because they have to actually somewhat acknowledge that I’m there. And that really did hurt, and it still hurts to this day, and it’s still happening somewhat.

In third grade I remember fairly well, I remember it was my most favorite year ever in Elementary school. And I owe it all to my teacher, Ms. Olson. After Ms. Olson found out that I was being bullied; neglected, and feeling pity for each other, she made everyone write me an apology letter, and I wish that I kept all those letters, for good memories, but they’re gone. And I read them all, every single one of them, and it was required for them to make one for me, it was graded.

And I don’t remember fourth at all, and I don’t know if it’s because something horrible happened and I just blocked it off, or what. But I barely even remember my teacher, all I know is her name is Ms. Keane, and that’s only because that was my dance teacher’s last name. But I don’t remember her face, or where my classroom was, anything of fourth. It’s like it never even happened.

And in fifth, again, I remember it pretty well, but this time it wasn’t for the good, it’s for the bad. And I forced myself to remember this, I don’t know why, I guess to feel sorry for myself or something. But sometimes I would forget, and I would force myself to remember, and then I would cry all day from it. Again, I don’t know why I remember this, I just did it.

So I remember, it was near the end of the school year, in the middle of May. And then someone, who has bullied me the worst all throughout elementary, said something to me, and then for once, I built up the courage to say something back, I think I said, “leave me alone” or something else, but defiantly not harmful, no cussing, no name calling, nothing like that. And once those three words left my mouth, world war three just started. I remember her telling her friends, who were the mean girls at the time, the ones that were popular mostly because everyone was afraid of them. And these were all girls, but they were scary. We planned for a fight that day, and yes I did say plan. I don’t know what I was doing, I guess that I felt hurt, and it was time to stop that feeling, and to be strong. And to be strong, I have to get into a fight. I know it sounds stupid, but that’s how little fifth grade minds work. And so it was settled, fight on top of the hill of Turner street, after school. Of course, me being the looser in the school, everyone wanted to beat me up. But there was only a few that didn’t care, and really didn’t tell anyone. But I remember only one guy, Chase, who was kind of the guy that would get into fights, was on my side, and no one else was. And I felt proud, and happy that he was fighting for me. But then near the end of school, the very last hour, the tension of it all was building, as my thought began to swell up from being so nervous and scared. Especially since a lot of the people going to fight against me were sending me notes calling me a bitch and a whore, and the only thing I thought of saying was, “you are too!” I wrote that so many times, trying to see through the water that was dripping from my eyelashes. We had a substitute teacher that day since our normal teacher wasn’t there because her daughter was sick, and he let us talk for the last ten minutes of class. The girl that had the whole fight idea came up to me and demanded me to test punch her, and so then I did, and then she laughed in my face, “That’s the best you can do? HA! We’re going to kill you” and that’s the moment when I broke down, I remember crying so hard, and then somehow magically the principle came up, and our teacher was there. And I told the principle what happened, and then I went home, and it was like it didn’t even happen.