You need to back off

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I was bullied.

Hindsight being 20/20, I should have realized that taking that particular job wasn’t a good idea. I arrived on my first day toting a box full of reference books, teacup, tissues, and all the things that make your desk your home away from home.

“Hi! I’m Laurel,” I said to the woman who came into the main office when she heard me come through the front door. “Can you tell me where my desk is?”

“Um … I don’t know where they want to put you,” she said uncertainly. “I guess you can sit there.” She gestured to a desk right inside the door. The chair was a couple feet from the sink, microwave, and refrigerator.

Without going into a lot of detail, let me just say that this job was a bad fit -- a really bad fit -- for them and for me. For them because I wasn’t family or a friend of the family. That translated to “not to be trusted.” For me because I was there to use my skills as a writer and editor. Please refer to the above: “not to be trusted.”

I was watched: what time I came in, what time I left, and how long I took for lunch. I was judged. At the time I was trying to combat my rising cholesterol numbers by eating oatmeal for lunch every day. It was hot, good, and cheap. The rest of the office (i.e., the family) got takeout every day and ate it at the table right next to my desk accompanied by the sound of open-mouthed chewing and tooth sucking. Oh, and their lunches usually ran about 90 minutes.

This was the job where, when I took it upon myself to move the desk in my new office so that my back wouldn’t be to the office door, I was taken to task. Even though our office was in a public building, apparently moving furniture must be approved by the main guy.

This was also the job where, when I was carrying out a task exactly as I’d been told to do by the boss lady, I was questioned on what I was doing. Then I was told not to be stupid.

The last straw for me was when I was on my way out the door at my regular time. Let me back up and say that my hours were 8 a.m. to 4:30 p.m., with 30 minutes for lunch. The family showed up anywhere between 9 and 11 a.m. So I was on my way out the door at 4:30 when the boss lady called me into her office. I don’t remember the content of the conversation, but I do remember the tone. It was nasty. I was taken to task for thinking or some such nonsense, and it went on and on.

Everyone has her limits. Even a rabbit will fight if it’s backed into a corner.

I’d had enough.

“You need to back off. Right now,” I said to the boss lady. I looked her right in the eye when I said it. She may have been seated in the power position (i.e., behind her desk) in her huge office, but I was standing, so I was looking down at her … in more ways than one.

I was shaking by the time I reached my car. I couldn’t believe I’d said that, that I’d actually stood up to her. But I felt good. I despise bullies, especially bullies who target people who they think can’t fight back.

Much later I was laid off from that job. It was a power play on their part. They’d hired their daughter-in-law, whose primary responsibility seemed to be to make sure that their son came into the office each morning. I suppose that hiring her meant that they had to cut expenses somewhere. Where better than by getting rid of that employee who they didn’t trust, who didn’t take the abuse they gave out, and who didn’t fit their mold.

In retrospect, being laid off from that hellhole was the best thing that they’d ever done for me.

One of the great things about reaching “a certain age” is not caring what people think about you. This is not to say that I am rude or nasty. It is to say that I will not tolerate rudeness, deliberate unkindness, or any of the other unpleasant things that life can sling your way. I now know how to stand up for myself.

When it comes to your kids, you want them to be able to stand up for themselves, too. However, it’s not as simple as teaching them to tie their shoes or brush their teeth.

We always thought that our younger son, Buddhaboy, would be the brawn to his brother’s brain. After all, when he became angry, we referred to Buddhaboy as “The Bull.”

As he grew, however, Buddhaboy became less of a steamroller and more of a thinker. His mind is always working — always. First we were waiting with breathless anticipation for him to say his first words, but now, we anxiously wait for him to draw a breath between monologues.

Buddhaboy neither liked nor disliked school. What he most looked forward to was the snack his father had in the car when he picked Buddhaboy up from school.

It came as a surprise when we learned that Buddhaboy had kicked another child on the playground. After reading the teacher’s note, we asked him about it. It turned out that he’d been watching a caterpillar at recess, just enjoying watching it move. Out of the blue, one of the boys in his class came over and squished the caterpillar. Then Buddhaboy kicked him.

The next incident also occurred on the playground. The janitor used an insecticide to kill all the wasps in a nest they’d made under the sliding board. This upset Buddhaboy, and he was teased by some of the other children. I believe he pushed them in retaliation.

As a side note, let me explain why Buddhaboy was given that name. When a fly is in the house, most of us dispatch it with a flyswatter and think no more about it. Buddhaboy put a stop to this practice in our house. Instead, he would use a spray bottle to mist the fly until it was unable to fly. Then he would gently capture the insect in his hands and take it outside and place it on the deck railing. True story.

Another incident was when some boys did something to the desk of a little girl that Buddhaboy liked. I can’t remember if he punched, kicked, or pushed them, but what happened next was a parent-teacher conference.

The counselor had a laid-back personality and really seemed to know what goes on in kids’ minds. I really liked her.

“Buddhaboy has a very strong code,” she said to me when we met. “He doesn’t like it when insects are killed, and it offends his honor when someone interferes with another person’s property.”

Huh. Interesting.

I don’t condone violence, having heard from my own mother since I was a child, “Always walk away from a fight.” On the other hand, I could understand why Buddhaboy decided to mete out his own kind of justice.

I saw a lot of the counselor while Buddhaboy was in elementary school. I am ashamed to say that it took quite a long time before I learned that there was actually a problem.

“Going to school is like torture,” he said to me one day. I followed up with him after school, asking questions that would elicit more than a yes or no answer. For a kid who barely remembers to breathe while he’s explaining mythology or dinosaurs or the future of the world, it’s sometimes next to impossible to get two words out of him.

At long last, I heard something that made everything click.

“Some boys are bothering me.”

“Do you mean just today?”

“No. They bother me every day.”

“What do you mean they ‘bother’ you?”

“They call me names under their breath and they kick me under the desk.”

“Does your teacher know?”

“No.”

“Have you told her?”

“Yes.”

“Well, how about if you tell them to stop it the next time they start?”

This he did. However, he’d apparently reached his limit and shouted at them. He was the one who got in trouble.

In gym, Buddhaboy was always the last one picked, but he continued to be picked on. We’ve told our boys that if there’s something they’re not comfortable sharing with us, they should share it with their brother. So Skimbleshanks told me that a boy who’d been pushing Buddhaboy around during every gym class had finally learned his lesson. The last time the kid had done it, Buddhaboy had put the boy in an armlock, a painful, powerful defensive tactic. From that point on, the aggressor kept his distance.

If you factor in Buddhaboy’s tendency to stutter when he’s exciting about what he’s talking about, his utter social awkwardness, and his physical coordination, you have the perfect recipe for what Ed and I call bully bait. Buddhaboy was bully bait to the nth degree.

The bullying went on during every year of elementary school. Think about that. First grade. Second grade. Third grade. Fourth grade. Fifth grade. Sixth grade. For six long years, the bullying continued, despite preventive phone calls and meetings before the school year began and visits with the principal. Buddhaboy met with the counselor, and she gave him different techniques to try. Ed and I worked with him, role playing different scenarios. We asked Skimbleshanks for his advice, which he gave.

Finally Buddhaboy had reached the end of his final year in elementary school. At dinner one evening, I again asked him how he was doing in school and if anyone was bothering him. With an air of resignation, Buddhaboy said that, yes, some kids were bothering him. Ed gave a sound of frustration, then asked Buddhaboy to look at him.

“Look, your mother and I do not approve of or condone fighting, OK? But the next time a kid messes with you, I want you to punch him in the face — hard.”

I was horrified, and Ed could see it. He went on.

“Sometimes all a bully understands is a punch in the face. One good punch, and that kid — all the kids who have been bothering you — will get the message that picking on you is a really bad idea.”

I think at this point I was sputtering and most likely flailing my arms. Ed continued.

“You will get in trouble for fighting, and you will probably be suspended. I am not telling you to walk up to someone and just hit them out of the blue. And I’m not telling you to provoke someone into fighting with you. What I am telling you is that the next time someone starts something with you, punch him, and punch him hard. Do you understand?”

Buddhaboy nodded his head.

I think I put up some sort of resistance along the lines of “can’t we all just get along?” But even Skimbleshanks was on board with his father’s advice.

“Bullies expect you to back down, and they’ll never leave you alone once they start,” he said, looking at his little brother. “Punch the next guy who picks on you. You’ll get in trouble, but it’ll be worth it.”

I metaphorically threw up my hands at that point. All three of them had closed ranks, and I was missing the critical Y chromosome to be admitted to that particular party. I hate violence — hate it. I also hate the idea that I sent off my son to be tortured for six years of his young life. I hate that we’d tried everything we could with all the teachers and the administrators and yet our son was still being bullied at school. “Zero Tolerance for Bullying” may be a great slogan, but it appeared to still be bologna no matter how thin it was sliced.

I’m relieved to say that Buddhaboy never did punch anyone, in the face or anywhere else. The idea of his fighting makes me cringe.

On the other hand, as the victim of bullying myself, I have to say that a hard punch — or, in my case, hard words — can sometimes be damn effective deterrents.