![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wingedbeastThe Disclaimers:
1. This story is going to cover years. I'll try to be quick about it.
2. This story will be significantly self-pitying. It's unavoidable to tell the story. I apologize in advance. That which I suffered is very mild in the grand scheme of things. I was a mildly unlucky amidst what was otherwise a sea of privilege. This is not like other sufferings either in kind or degree. The most that can be done with this is that it can be mined for value. That is the intent, let's see how well I do.
When I was in Junior High School, in the early 1990's, on the bus, I bit a girl. When I was later asked why, I gave the proximate cause. She had picked up my math homework and refused to return it, only repeating "I just want to look at it." She didn't even go to my same school, but she wanted to look at my math homework and didn't see anything wrong with taking that look over my repeated objections.
My own school's Principal, having me by the wrist, was to ask me what I was supposed to do. I gave the answer she wanted, but it wasn't the right answer. The answer she wanted was that I was to go to the nearest authority and trust them to side with me when it was the obviously right thing to do. I gave her that answer, but it was wrong.
Let's look at the ultimate cause.
I hated my first grade teacher. In my defense, she hated me first. She wasn't just strict, she was uniquely strict. Where other kids could raise their hands in order to get called upon to get an answer, I only got that privilege when I didn't have my hand up. (Once, I remember that I held my hand in the air through two topics, because I wanted to be called on, at least once, when I actually indicated that I had the answer.) Other kids could shove me out of the way, right in front of her, and have no response. I tried that once... and had to take a letter home to my parents.
I'll repeat from the disclaimer, this is mild. She didn't hit me or call me stupid or even so much as call me a troublemaker. It was just the subtle assumption that I couldn't do well in her class. I wasn't a trouble maker. I was an eager student. But, to earn her distaste, I had been born in the summer.
When I came of age to join the first grade, first grade had already gone on for a semester. The first grade teacher was against my joining, instead preferring that I wait and join the start of the school year. My parents both had careers and limits of time and limits of what daycare would allow.
Freakenomics would later show that those who most thrived in sports fields were born closer to summer, indicating that the few months of physical development gave an early on advantage that translated to more attention and more reward for sports and so on. Maybe my first grade teacher was right to suggest that I wait. Maybe, on the other hand, she just believed a self-fulfilling prophecy that ensured that I wouldn't have a good transition into school and that I would likely have a contentious relationship with teachers.
Either way, my school career became a combination of three pressures. Firstly, my peers who would commonly bond over the joys of harassing me. (The phrases "picking on" "making fun of" "laughing at" all take what would otherwise be called harassment and treat them as just nothing.) Secondly, my teachers who would osculate between acting as though oblivious to my treatment or finding ways to paint a social target on me. Thirdly would be my parents who, when they heard of such complaints, would give the standard excuses of the time.
("They must really like you." "They're jealous." "Oh, kids can be so cruel." Not included in the responses would be "let me help you with that".)
When I started Junior Highschool, I thought that might be a fresh start, a chance with peers that I didn't know. That didn't last, thanks in large part to a verbal bully that everybody called "Rock." He wasn't a bully to everybody and the only reason he got the name "Rock" was that it was a shorter version of his last name. The entirety of my experience with "Rock" was, any time he had time, he would harass myself and one other student.
The standards of the time, saying "duh" in someone's face. Calling them stupid. Any time where we couldn't leave, he had his opportunity and his sidekick. This went on for a year before "Rock" moved to another town. But, during that time, the target had been painted on my back. The girls of the class had joined in on their own. The sidekick continued on his own. Others would join in or not.
The only one who didn't was universally well liked among the class. Nobody spoke any ill of him and everybody called him cool. That should say that the matter wasn't even about me, but about survival. For the moment, survival meant someone else being the target.
That second year, several months in, something very rare happened. A teacher was made aware of what had happened in front of her face several times already. Some students got together to tell one of the teachers about the sidekick-come-into-his-own harassment of me. It was a powerful moment for me, because this was the time that something could happen, that some consequence could befall the treatment, that it could change.
I have no idea if any consequences were actually visited upon my harasser. The moment came, the other students called the teacher over to make the announcement, I verified and... well... If anybody in authority felt that was worth doing something about, nobody felt it important that I know about that.
Nevertheless, even if he stopped, the girls were there, too.
One time, in social studies class, the with desks around mine found themselves very amused by repeatedly kicking me and putting their trash on my desk. My visible jump was the mark of audible amusement to them. Apparently, neither the teacher's eyes nor ears operated to their full capacity in that otherwise uneventful class. And, yet, if I was visibly noticed to have my eyes involved in anything but the required reading or the work to be done, that would certainly get noticed.
The kicker of this incident happened right after class. I, last in line to pick up my assignment before moving onto the next class, was yet another fun opportunity for these girls to come up to me, en mass, and say "duh" in my face. Months upon months of harassment, with a full hour of non-stopp harassment without help, eventually I try something.
This time, I swung a textbook at one of their heads. I did not connect. It wasn't the point to connect. It was the point to get them to leave and get me a moment of peace.
They immediately told on me and I got the shocked question of "why would you try to hit someone with your book?" from this utterly sincere teacher who utterly, sincerely, didn't get that I only started my answer with "well, it started when they put trash on my desk." She immediately, confusedly, and shockedly told me that doesn't answer her question. I stopped trying to answer her question.
That was one of two times when I responded with violence.
Although, the next incident was treated as sternly as violence. This was after school was over. Most of the kids were going home and was one of few remaining. Same basic harassment happened, two girls coming over and I knew that my options were... nothing. So, for once, I broke down in tears, sitting on the stairs.
The Principal came over to ask me what was wrong and try to calm me down. She was not helped by another teacher who decided that the right thing to do would be to repeatedly ask me "are you pouting?" That is not the way to deescalate a situation, particularly when you come in not knowing what lead up to the situation in the first place. Somehow, it was completely impossible for her to imagine me shooting back with "shut up!".
Any sympathy the Principal might have had for me immediately disappeared. It was yet another stern talking to. You never tell a teacher to shut up, ever. I suppose the fact that I merely had to tell the teacher that I was sorry was the manifestation of any remaining sympathy. If the Principal ever indicated, to this particular teacher, that asking me, repeatedly, if I was pouting was anywhere short of ideal, that was never told to me.
Perhaps that was because this was the 80s going into the 90s. Perhaps that was because this was a school where authority figures will tend to side with authority figures regardless of all else. Perhaps that was because this was a Catholic Junior Highschool, based on a philosophy bound in a faith that explicitly said that authority figures were put in power by God. Whatever it was, you can rest assured that nobody would ever acknowledge to me that, between a student and a teacher in a conflict, the student could, ever, be in the right.
You might be thinking a thought that did occur to me. Maybe, despite their claims to ultimate class-sensing power, they legitimately didn't see any of what was going on. Maybe, despite how they claimed the power to live up to this responsibility, I was giving them too much responsibility, expecting them to notice the harassment so as to respond in a way that didn't get me labeled a "tattle-tail" or, as we matured, "a snitch".
I went to a teacher for help. I told her that wanted to ask her help with other kids that were picking on me. This teacher did not ask for details. She did not wait for me to give details. She responded, nigh immediately, with "you should learn to accept constructive criticism." She wasn't even passing this off. She smiled down at me as she said it, as though this was the kindest and most loving thing she could do. She kept up that smile through my anger as I told her "saying 'duh' in my face isn't constructive criticism." Again, if she ever considered that her first response might have been anything less than ideal, I had no means of learning that.
By that time, I'd been in the same junior highschool for years. These incidents I brought up were only the most memorable examples in a daily life that repeatedly reinforced very basic lessons. People in authority weren't on my side. I couldn't count on them to even wait to learn new details before drawing the conclusions they already had in hand. When faced with the choice between serving justice and serving authority, they would choose authority every time. And, they would never, ever imagine that there was anything less than ideal about this. They would never, ever allow the thought to enter into their minds that they weren't doing the exact best thing for me.
It was a pre-meditated bite. I had planned it a few days in advance. I didn't choose a target, but made a choice. The next time someone messed with me, I would bite. That would be memorable, distinct violence that would make people afraid to harass me.
This felt like a good decision. Not only did it feel like I had the means to achieve some moments of peace where I wasn't in a constant state of being harassed or fearing harassment, but that I was taking a positive step in my life. It felt like I finally had someone on my side... that someone being myself.
The Christian ethic that surrounded my life denied me the right to be angry or to respond. My legitimate choices were to be on their side so much that they became my friend (that never worked) or to be neutral (to "ignore them and they'll go away", which also never worked). In a world that repeatedly told me never to be angry, never to respond violently, never to think too much of myself, I had to reject all of that just to be on my own side.
So, it happened. A backpack spilled, someone picked up my math homework. I demanded it back, repeatedly, and, repeatedly, was told "I just want to look at it" as though that would have some new effect. I went over and she held up her hand defensively and... I made good on my promise to myself.
That particular girl didn't deserve to get bit. I can't think of any one person who did deserve to get bit. I was awash in a world that believed that children couldn't really hurt each other and that everybody has to deal with getting picked on and that sometimes you just have to leave them to yourselves and, perhaps more honestly, that bullying is too big an issue for teachers to have to deal with when they're already trying to teach class.
The one who asked "are you pouting" could be among my better teachers, less ready to share her distaste with me. The one who asked why I tried to hit someone with a book was just so uselessly but blamelessly innocent of bullying that happened around her. The one who told me that I should learn to accept constructive criticism never had an unkind word and just thought that she was doing the right thing.
And, through it all, that Principal who was also a teacher, she tried. She tried to help me get completed assignments to the teachers. She tried to present herself as reasonable and would when it was small enough an issue. But, once there was any importance to the issue, there was no thought to be had. Authority was it.
Now, I warned you that this would be self-pitying. I don't know how to tell this story otherwise. But, that isn't the point. If you exist, you've probably suffered worse. If you don't have my straight-flush of privileges, you are well within your rights to roll your eyes at the privileged, middle class, straight, white boy crying over people picking on him.
Still, as mild as this is, it's still something that can be mined for lessons.
One is that you don't necessarily need people to be outright evil in order for a system to fail. Not one of those teachers had to think "oh, that (person now using the nick WingedBeast), he's just no good and I hope he suffers." Nothing so blatant needed to happen.
The next is that the easiest way for a system to fail is for the system to assume that it won't. No, let me reword that. The easiest way for a system to fail is for the system to think it possible that it hasn't already failed. With dealing with bullying, dealing with bigotry, etc., the only question isn't if there will be failure, but to what degree.
An important lesson is that it's important to allow people not to trust the system. At some point, after repeated failures, it has to be acknowledged that we are not required to continue to trust that the system works when it manifestly doesn't.
A big lesson is that not only do actions have consequences, those consequences will often fall on those who don't deserve them. This is not a naturally just world. That means that, after a long line of failures, at the bottom of the line, justice might just not be an option.
I'm not going to try to say that biting that girl was a good thing. I'm certainly not going to say she deserved it. I will say that, for a very short moment, at least I was on my own side. It makes me question a lot of wrong things done.
Here's hoping the lessons can be of any value. For a long time, this has been in my head and I at least needed to write it out.
1. This story is going to cover years. I'll try to be quick about it.
2. This story will be significantly self-pitying. It's unavoidable to tell the story. I apologize in advance. That which I suffered is very mild in the grand scheme of things. I was a mildly unlucky amidst what was otherwise a sea of privilege. This is not like other sufferings either in kind or degree. The most that can be done with this is that it can be mined for value. That is the intent, let's see how well I do.
When I was in Junior High School, in the early 1990's, on the bus, I bit a girl. When I was later asked why, I gave the proximate cause. She had picked up my math homework and refused to return it, only repeating "I just want to look at it." She didn't even go to my same school, but she wanted to look at my math homework and didn't see anything wrong with taking that look over my repeated objections.
My own school's Principal, having me by the wrist, was to ask me what I was supposed to do. I gave the answer she wanted, but it wasn't the right answer. The answer she wanted was that I was to go to the nearest authority and trust them to side with me when it was the obviously right thing to do. I gave her that answer, but it was wrong.
Let's look at the ultimate cause.
I hated my first grade teacher. In my defense, she hated me first. She wasn't just strict, she was uniquely strict. Where other kids could raise their hands in order to get called upon to get an answer, I only got that privilege when I didn't have my hand up. (Once, I remember that I held my hand in the air through two topics, because I wanted to be called on, at least once, when I actually indicated that I had the answer.) Other kids could shove me out of the way, right in front of her, and have no response. I tried that once... and had to take a letter home to my parents.
I'll repeat from the disclaimer, this is mild. She didn't hit me or call me stupid or even so much as call me a troublemaker. It was just the subtle assumption that I couldn't do well in her class. I wasn't a trouble maker. I was an eager student. But, to earn her distaste, I had been born in the summer.
When I came of age to join the first grade, first grade had already gone on for a semester. The first grade teacher was against my joining, instead preferring that I wait and join the start of the school year. My parents both had careers and limits of time and limits of what daycare would allow.
Freakenomics would later show that those who most thrived in sports fields were born closer to summer, indicating that the few months of physical development gave an early on advantage that translated to more attention and more reward for sports and so on. Maybe my first grade teacher was right to suggest that I wait. Maybe, on the other hand, she just believed a self-fulfilling prophecy that ensured that I wouldn't have a good transition into school and that I would likely have a contentious relationship with teachers.
Either way, my school career became a combination of three pressures. Firstly, my peers who would commonly bond over the joys of harassing me. (The phrases "picking on" "making fun of" "laughing at" all take what would otherwise be called harassment and treat them as just nothing.) Secondly, my teachers who would osculate between acting as though oblivious to my treatment or finding ways to paint a social target on me. Thirdly would be my parents who, when they heard of such complaints, would give the standard excuses of the time.
("They must really like you." "They're jealous." "Oh, kids can be so cruel." Not included in the responses would be "let me help you with that".)
When I started Junior Highschool, I thought that might be a fresh start, a chance with peers that I didn't know. That didn't last, thanks in large part to a verbal bully that everybody called "Rock." He wasn't a bully to everybody and the only reason he got the name "Rock" was that it was a shorter version of his last name. The entirety of my experience with "Rock" was, any time he had time, he would harass myself and one other student.
The standards of the time, saying "duh" in someone's face. Calling them stupid. Any time where we couldn't leave, he had his opportunity and his sidekick. This went on for a year before "Rock" moved to another town. But, during that time, the target had been painted on my back. The girls of the class had joined in on their own. The sidekick continued on his own. Others would join in or not.
The only one who didn't was universally well liked among the class. Nobody spoke any ill of him and everybody called him cool. That should say that the matter wasn't even about me, but about survival. For the moment, survival meant someone else being the target.
That second year, several months in, something very rare happened. A teacher was made aware of what had happened in front of her face several times already. Some students got together to tell one of the teachers about the sidekick-come-into-his-own harassment of me. It was a powerful moment for me, because this was the time that something could happen, that some consequence could befall the treatment, that it could change.
I have no idea if any consequences were actually visited upon my harasser. The moment came, the other students called the teacher over to make the announcement, I verified and... well... If anybody in authority felt that was worth doing something about, nobody felt it important that I know about that.
Nevertheless, even if he stopped, the girls were there, too.
One time, in social studies class, the with desks around mine found themselves very amused by repeatedly kicking me and putting their trash on my desk. My visible jump was the mark of audible amusement to them. Apparently, neither the teacher's eyes nor ears operated to their full capacity in that otherwise uneventful class. And, yet, if I was visibly noticed to have my eyes involved in anything but the required reading or the work to be done, that would certainly get noticed.
The kicker of this incident happened right after class. I, last in line to pick up my assignment before moving onto the next class, was yet another fun opportunity for these girls to come up to me, en mass, and say "duh" in my face. Months upon months of harassment, with a full hour of non-stopp harassment without help, eventually I try something.
This time, I swung a textbook at one of their heads. I did not connect. It wasn't the point to connect. It was the point to get them to leave and get me a moment of peace.
They immediately told on me and I got the shocked question of "why would you try to hit someone with your book?" from this utterly sincere teacher who utterly, sincerely, didn't get that I only started my answer with "well, it started when they put trash on my desk." She immediately, confusedly, and shockedly told me that doesn't answer her question. I stopped trying to answer her question.
That was one of two times when I responded with violence.
Although, the next incident was treated as sternly as violence. This was after school was over. Most of the kids were going home and was one of few remaining. Same basic harassment happened, two girls coming over and I knew that my options were... nothing. So, for once, I broke down in tears, sitting on the stairs.
The Principal came over to ask me what was wrong and try to calm me down. She was not helped by another teacher who decided that the right thing to do would be to repeatedly ask me "are you pouting?" That is not the way to deescalate a situation, particularly when you come in not knowing what lead up to the situation in the first place. Somehow, it was completely impossible for her to imagine me shooting back with "shut up!".
Any sympathy the Principal might have had for me immediately disappeared. It was yet another stern talking to. You never tell a teacher to shut up, ever. I suppose the fact that I merely had to tell the teacher that I was sorry was the manifestation of any remaining sympathy. If the Principal ever indicated, to this particular teacher, that asking me, repeatedly, if I was pouting was anywhere short of ideal, that was never told to me.
Perhaps that was because this was the 80s going into the 90s. Perhaps that was because this was a school where authority figures will tend to side with authority figures regardless of all else. Perhaps that was because this was a Catholic Junior Highschool, based on a philosophy bound in a faith that explicitly said that authority figures were put in power by God. Whatever it was, you can rest assured that nobody would ever acknowledge to me that, between a student and a teacher in a conflict, the student could, ever, be in the right.
You might be thinking a thought that did occur to me. Maybe, despite their claims to ultimate class-sensing power, they legitimately didn't see any of what was going on. Maybe, despite how they claimed the power to live up to this responsibility, I was giving them too much responsibility, expecting them to notice the harassment so as to respond in a way that didn't get me labeled a "tattle-tail" or, as we matured, "a snitch".
I went to a teacher for help. I told her that wanted to ask her help with other kids that were picking on me. This teacher did not ask for details. She did not wait for me to give details. She responded, nigh immediately, with "you should learn to accept constructive criticism." She wasn't even passing this off. She smiled down at me as she said it, as though this was the kindest and most loving thing she could do. She kept up that smile through my anger as I told her "saying 'duh' in my face isn't constructive criticism." Again, if she ever considered that her first response might have been anything less than ideal, I had no means of learning that.
By that time, I'd been in the same junior highschool for years. These incidents I brought up were only the most memorable examples in a daily life that repeatedly reinforced very basic lessons. People in authority weren't on my side. I couldn't count on them to even wait to learn new details before drawing the conclusions they already had in hand. When faced with the choice between serving justice and serving authority, they would choose authority every time. And, they would never, ever imagine that there was anything less than ideal about this. They would never, ever allow the thought to enter into their minds that they weren't doing the exact best thing for me.
It was a pre-meditated bite. I had planned it a few days in advance. I didn't choose a target, but made a choice. The next time someone messed with me, I would bite. That would be memorable, distinct violence that would make people afraid to harass me.
This felt like a good decision. Not only did it feel like I had the means to achieve some moments of peace where I wasn't in a constant state of being harassed or fearing harassment, but that I was taking a positive step in my life. It felt like I finally had someone on my side... that someone being myself.
The Christian ethic that surrounded my life denied me the right to be angry or to respond. My legitimate choices were to be on their side so much that they became my friend (that never worked) or to be neutral (to "ignore them and they'll go away", which also never worked). In a world that repeatedly told me never to be angry, never to respond violently, never to think too much of myself, I had to reject all of that just to be on my own side.
So, it happened. A backpack spilled, someone picked up my math homework. I demanded it back, repeatedly, and, repeatedly, was told "I just want to look at it" as though that would have some new effect. I went over and she held up her hand defensively and... I made good on my promise to myself.
That particular girl didn't deserve to get bit. I can't think of any one person who did deserve to get bit. I was awash in a world that believed that children couldn't really hurt each other and that everybody has to deal with getting picked on and that sometimes you just have to leave them to yourselves and, perhaps more honestly, that bullying is too big an issue for teachers to have to deal with when they're already trying to teach class.
The one who asked "are you pouting" could be among my better teachers, less ready to share her distaste with me. The one who asked why I tried to hit someone with a book was just so uselessly but blamelessly innocent of bullying that happened around her. The one who told me that I should learn to accept constructive criticism never had an unkind word and just thought that she was doing the right thing.
And, through it all, that Principal who was also a teacher, she tried. She tried to help me get completed assignments to the teachers. She tried to present herself as reasonable and would when it was small enough an issue. But, once there was any importance to the issue, there was no thought to be had. Authority was it.
Now, I warned you that this would be self-pitying. I don't know how to tell this story otherwise. But, that isn't the point. If you exist, you've probably suffered worse. If you don't have my straight-flush of privileges, you are well within your rights to roll your eyes at the privileged, middle class, straight, white boy crying over people picking on him.
Still, as mild as this is, it's still something that can be mined for lessons.
One is that you don't necessarily need people to be outright evil in order for a system to fail. Not one of those teachers had to think "oh, that (person now using the nick WingedBeast), he's just no good and I hope he suffers." Nothing so blatant needed to happen.
The next is that the easiest way for a system to fail is for the system to assume that it won't. No, let me reword that. The easiest way for a system to fail is for the system to think it possible that it hasn't already failed. With dealing with bullying, dealing with bigotry, etc., the only question isn't if there will be failure, but to what degree.
An important lesson is that it's important to allow people not to trust the system. At some point, after repeated failures, it has to be acknowledged that we are not required to continue to trust that the system works when it manifestly doesn't.
A big lesson is that not only do actions have consequences, those consequences will often fall on those who don't deserve them. This is not a naturally just world. That means that, after a long line of failures, at the bottom of the line, justice might just not be an option.
I'm not going to try to say that biting that girl was a good thing. I'm certainly not going to say she deserved it. I will say that, for a very short moment, at least I was on my own side. It makes me question a lot of wrong things done.
Here's hoping the lessons can be of any value. For a long time, this has been in my head and I at least needed to write it out.
no subject
Date: 2017-08-23 02:04 am (UTC)Hopefully you don't mind me using this as an excuse to share my own story.
I was "picked on" by many of the other kids the entire time I was in public school (which, incidentally, was the 80s and 90s for me too), but I never had any teachers that were actively against me. None of the teachers actually helped with the bullying problem, but then I never expected them to; in fact it never even occurred to me to ask a teacher for help.
I did talk to my parents about the problem, and they initially responded similarly to how your parents did. Later they indicated there was nothing they could do (I believe they may have talked with the teachers, but if so it didn't change anything). When I was probably 12 or so my father suggested I punch one of the bullies; I have no regrets over the fact that I did not heed this advice. Finally when I was in 8th grade my parents actually did something: pull me out of school and start home schooling me.
My life hasn't been perfect since then of course, but I do consider being taken out of public school one of the best things that's happened to me.
-- Chronos
no subject
Date: 2017-08-23 04:02 am (UTC)