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madrobinsThis topic has been much in discussion lately, for reasons I don't think I need to state. And over at Making Light a very good and useful discussion has sprung up--interesting in and of itself, but also interesting in that some of the people making opposing points have felt themselves "bullied" by others who disagree. Reading the whole 300+ messages, I don't see it, but I believe that the posters felt this way. The community is resisting descending into flaminess, however; it's kind of interesting to watch people not only control the Fist of Death, but attempt to engage each other over the feelings that are coming up.
But that's not why I called you all here today.
On Making Light, someone told a story: she had been regularly bullied by one of the "popular kids." When a teacher had the class divide into groups of three to work on a project, only she and her tormentor Fred* were left. She said something to the teacher to the effect that "if you want any work to get done, this might not be the best pairing." The class laughed, a girl in one of the groups said "you can work with us," and that part of the problem was solved. The teacher (and I don't think the teacher did a great job with this whole situation) then asked for another group to take Fred in. No one volunteered, and eventually the teacher assigned him to a group. Among other things the poster said this made her question her perception of Fred's popularity; maybe everyone saw him as a bully.
Here's where it gets interesting. Many people were favorably impressed by the story; she took care of herself. One commenter, however, was not. He felt that she had bullied Fred by publicly exposing him to ridicule.
Cue me thinking about my kid-hood. This is how I remember it:
I was a sad sack child, more comfortable with adults than my classmates, and for a good ten years, from nursery through 8th grade, I was subject to emotional bullying and ostracism. Nothing physical: the school came down on physical bullying fast. But this was the early 60s, and the sort of thing that started as "you can't play with us" in nursery school got codified into "no one plays with her, she's got cooties." And I suspect that I gave off the kind of stink of defeated misery that made it hard for anyone in authority to defend me (if they perceived what was going on as bullying rather than normal kid stuff). Outside of school I had friends, particularly on my block; at school I was miserable (so miserable that my work suffered, and I grew up thinking I was stupid).
Then a new family moved in down the block. They had a son my age and a daughter my brother's age. And the son, Bill*, who was tall and good looking and had some charm, seemed (to me) to intend to move in and become the leader of the swarm of kids who ran and played up and down the block and at each other's houses. But he had serious anger issues, and could not brook any challenge to his authority (like, me standing up to him when he bossed the younger kids around), and when he threw tantrums they were physical, and people got hurt. I think I was in seventh grade when he started at my school (there had been a couple of years when he went somewhere else). By this time the monolith of my unpopularity was breaking up a little; we pretty much ignored each other at school, although I suspect he made his dislike of me known.
Cut to the end of seventh grade, when Bill threw a party. School protocol on parties was clear and deeply entrenched: you could have a party with a few friends from school, but if you invited the whole class you invited the whole class. No exceptions. So I'm sitting in the garden reading one evening, waiting to go somewhere with my parents, when I see someone from school on the deck three doors down at Bill's house. "Aren't you getting ready?" she called.
"Ready for what?" I answered.
It became clear to her that I had not been invited to the party. Only one in the class. And apparently word spread through the party; a couple of people, I was told later, left because of it. One of them was a girl Bill had a crush on. And on Monday, back at school, people were solicitous of me, and a few people publicly upbraided Bill for breaking the rule. It was easy for me to be unconcerned, not just fake it: I'd had plans, I'd had a good time (picketing at NYU with my parents--so 60s!) and I wasn't surprised by Bill's behavior because I'd first known him outside of school. I didn't expect the community to punish him--in fact, the punishment was, I thought, more about breaking a rule than hurting me. Curiously, this episode was the beginning of a change in my status in the class; I was never popular, but the long period of feeling like a planet on a distant orbit around the rest of my class was over. And Bill's popularity took a hit. And then, a year later, we moved out of NYC and I took the things I'd learned and reinvented myself--not as one of the popular kids, but as a slightly odd but accepted member of my new school.
For years, I've thought of the episode with Bill's party as the community self-policing, enforcing a standard of behavior. There's certainly not a direct comparison to the story the woman on Making Light told. But I wonder now if Bill felt bullied by our classmates. I ran into him twenty odd years later at a reunion, and he was curt to the point of rudeness. Obviously he still doesn't like me, and obviously I'm okay with that, but...I've just been reviewing the whole story and wondering how he would tell it.
*names changed, obviously.
But that's not why I called you all here today.
On Making Light, someone told a story: she had been regularly bullied by one of the "popular kids." When a teacher had the class divide into groups of three to work on a project, only she and her tormentor Fred* were left. She said something to the teacher to the effect that "if you want any work to get done, this might not be the best pairing." The class laughed, a girl in one of the groups said "you can work with us," and that part of the problem was solved. The teacher (and I don't think the teacher did a great job with this whole situation) then asked for another group to take Fred in. No one volunteered, and eventually the teacher assigned him to a group. Among other things the poster said this made her question her perception of Fred's popularity; maybe everyone saw him as a bully.
Here's where it gets interesting. Many people were favorably impressed by the story; she took care of herself. One commenter, however, was not. He felt that she had bullied Fred by publicly exposing him to ridicule.
Cue me thinking about my kid-hood. This is how I remember it:
I was a sad sack child, more comfortable with adults than my classmates, and for a good ten years, from nursery through 8th grade, I was subject to emotional bullying and ostracism. Nothing physical: the school came down on physical bullying fast. But this was the early 60s, and the sort of thing that started as "you can't play with us" in nursery school got codified into "no one plays with her, she's got cooties." And I suspect that I gave off the kind of stink of defeated misery that made it hard for anyone in authority to defend me (if they perceived what was going on as bullying rather than normal kid stuff). Outside of school I had friends, particularly on my block; at school I was miserable (so miserable that my work suffered, and I grew up thinking I was stupid).
Then a new family moved in down the block. They had a son my age and a daughter my brother's age. And the son, Bill*, who was tall and good looking and had some charm, seemed (to me) to intend to move in and become the leader of the swarm of kids who ran and played up and down the block and at each other's houses. But he had serious anger issues, and could not brook any challenge to his authority (like, me standing up to him when he bossed the younger kids around), and when he threw tantrums they were physical, and people got hurt. I think I was in seventh grade when he started at my school (there had been a couple of years when he went somewhere else). By this time the monolith of my unpopularity was breaking up a little; we pretty much ignored each other at school, although I suspect he made his dislike of me known.
Cut to the end of seventh grade, when Bill threw a party. School protocol on parties was clear and deeply entrenched: you could have a party with a few friends from school, but if you invited the whole class you invited the whole class. No exceptions. So I'm sitting in the garden reading one evening, waiting to go somewhere with my parents, when I see someone from school on the deck three doors down at Bill's house. "Aren't you getting ready?" she called.
"Ready for what?" I answered.
It became clear to her that I had not been invited to the party. Only one in the class. And apparently word spread through the party; a couple of people, I was told later, left because of it. One of them was a girl Bill had a crush on. And on Monday, back at school, people were solicitous of me, and a few people publicly upbraided Bill for breaking the rule. It was easy for me to be unconcerned, not just fake it: I'd had plans, I'd had a good time (picketing at NYU with my parents--so 60s!) and I wasn't surprised by Bill's behavior because I'd first known him outside of school. I didn't expect the community to punish him--in fact, the punishment was, I thought, more about breaking a rule than hurting me. Curiously, this episode was the beginning of a change in my status in the class; I was never popular, but the long period of feeling like a planet on a distant orbit around the rest of my class was over. And Bill's popularity took a hit. And then, a year later, we moved out of NYC and I took the things I'd learned and reinvented myself--not as one of the popular kids, but as a slightly odd but accepted member of my new school.
For years, I've thought of the episode with Bill's party as the community self-policing, enforcing a standard of behavior. There's certainly not a direct comparison to the story the woman on Making Light told. But I wonder now if Bill felt bullied by our classmates. I ran into him twenty odd years later at a reunion, and he was curt to the point of rudeness. Obviously he still doesn't like me, and obviously I'm okay with that, but...I've just been reviewing the whole story and wondering how he would tell it.
*names changed, obviously.