When I was in eighth grade, one day in art class, I remember getting up to sharpen my pencil and hearing some snickering. I looked around and I saw a group of kids giggling. They were the popular kids.
We were drawing still-lifes and the teacher had assembled a jumble of branches, vases, and antlers on a table in the center of the room.
As I walked back to the table to sit down I had a small panic attack that maybe I had started my period but didn't know. Isn't it funny that as young teens girls, our biggest fear is that someone will know we are on our period?
I sat back down at the table and the giggling continued. I finally approached the teacher and asked to use the bathroom. As soon as I got to the girl's room, thankfully empty, I was relieved to see that everything was fine. Even my hair looked good (This was shortly before I cut my bangs to look like Janeane Garofalo's as seen in Reality Bites). I was wearing my favorite flannel shirt, it was after all the height of Seattle grunge chic. My love for Kurt Cobain was in its early stages.
I returned to the classroom to find everyone cleaning up so I put the whole incident out of my mind and decided I was paranoid. But the rest of the day, and as I moved through the halls during breaks, I could feel people staring at my back, and when I turned it always seemed to be some of the group from art class in the vicinity.
Later that night as I got undressed, I realized that someone had written on my shirt.
I could only think of one moment when I had taken it off, in art class, so I wouldn't get charcoal on the sleeves.
Written in small blue ink, in the squares of the plaid, were the words SLUT, FAT, DUMB, BITCH.
From the distance of age and time, I can laugh as I think of these stupid kids writing such mean and untrue insults. Well perhaps FAT.
But SLUT? Come on. Not only was I still riding the Virgin Express, but my interest in boys didn't move past maybe we can hold hands.
DUMB? Never a day in my life.
BITCH? Maybe now, but in junior high I was anything but mean. I was a nice girl who just wanted to be friends with everyone.
But that night, as I hid the flannel shirt in the garbage can, I was convinced it was the worst thing that ever happened to me.
I was a nerdy kid. I read all the time. My mom had cancer. I spent two years of my life convinced she was going to die any minute. We didn't have any money. I shopped at K-Mart. I followed in the footsteps of two older brothers, one a sports star and one a well-liked rebel.
This was not the first bullying I was the brunt of, and certainly not the last, but it is a memorable event in that it was one of the first times I remember consciously deciding to keep it a secret.
Last night I had a conversation with a friend who admitted to bullying when she was younger. She said "I'm sure the girl doesn't remember it." And I got really angry. I said "Fuck you. She for sure remembers it, even if she says she doesn't."
Do you know how old I was when this happened? 14
How old am I now? 31
Is it the worst thing to happen to me? No
In fact, when I think back to that time in my life, I'm glad I got bullied because I think in the long run it made me a better person. But I'm also a strong enough and rational enough person to make it through.
But never in my life would I ever want a person to go through the same thing.
On a serious note, don't be mean.
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