Four Bullies (Part 2)

Marshall.

I was a pretty cool kid in the 5th grade. I had a bunch of friends in my class, I played on a couple of different sports teams, I went skiing every weekend in the winter, and (to top it all) I was elected ASB Class President -- a term to be served in the 6th grade. I was, for all intents and purposes, a confident (cocky, almost) popular kid. But things started to go wrong that summer...

I found out in August that I was going to be placed in Mr. Schoenfelder's 6th grade class...which was a major bummer. Hans Schoenfelder was a hulking German man in his early-60s (at that time), who had a reputation for being "old school" in his teaching methods. He had a strict code of discipline, and anyone defying him would feel his wrath (not physically, of course, because only Nuns are legally allowed to abuse school children). He had a medicine ball, and any time someone was talking out of turn, or generally screwing around, he'd send them on a "lap" around the school yard, carrying the medicine ball. He'd often send the entire class out for a lap, if they were going too rowdy. He'd put students in a push-up position and keep them there for fifteen minutes. He was laser-quick with detention, trips to the principal's office, and the revocation of the "privilege" of recess.

And since he had a corporal reputation, his class was the destination for a good number of the school misfits, in addition to the regular students (like myself) who happened to fill out the roster.

Marshall was one of those misfits.

Now, Marshall was about as close to the stereotypical "school bully" as I ever came across. He was a total coward who was the pack leader of a crew of ne'er-do-wells. He actually looked and acted a bit like Scott Farkus, minus all of the physical violence. This is because no one really got "beat up" at our school. I'm assuming it happens, of course, but maybe Arrowhead Elementary was just too milquetoast and suburban for anything that exciting. Or maybe it was the whole "threat of expulsion." Don't know. Either way, bullies did not fight...they teased.

And Marshall was a champion teaser. I had the good fortune to sit next to Marshall for a good portion of the year (Mr. Shoenfelder did not make many seating changes), and I was mocked on a daily basis. Marshall was unrelentingly sarcastic and hurtful, and I had nowhere to run -- I had to spend six hours a day next to this kid who seemed to be just praying that I'd say or do something stupid so he could make fun of it.

I tried to keep up and give as good as I got, but I was wholly unprepared for someone to burn so many calories just trying to make me feel awful about myself. I still have my D.A.R.E. handbook (the least-successful & most expensive drug education program out there). One of the exercises that we had to do was pass the booklet around and each kid was supposed to write two compliments.

So I passed mine around for the first round of compliments, and when it came back (desks were arranged in little islands of 5 desks each, Marshall sat across from me) that little sweetheart had written: "You can barely tell your face is covered in pimples from far away."

Of course, like an idiot, I'd actually given him a compliment, but the books were passed around again, and I laid into him about his freckles (I don't know if he was self-conscious about those, but I doubt it...it was just the only thing I could think of), and he hit me with another snide comment about how I dressed, or something. I don't really remember.

But that was just one example of, probably, hundreds. Like the time he threw a hand-full of pebbles in my face during a game of kickball (his only real act of violence...but they were small pebbles that were more intended to irritate than damage)...or the time he wrote insults on my desk in pen.

Basically, my day in the sun (the 5th grade) was over. Eventually I got away from Marshall, and he gave up his quest to ruin me, but the damage had been done. My confidence was shredded by the time I got out of Mr. Shoenfelder's class. My best friend had found new, cooler friends to hang out with, and Marshall had persistently shattered any self-confidence I had built up in the early grades of elementary school.

I don't know what happened to Marshall -- I think he was at my Junior High School...but we didn't have any classes together, and I lost track of him. He may very well have dropped out (I'm pretty sure he had a lot of chaos at home...and a brother who was a drug dealer), or moved away. But he never bothered me again...not because I fought back, but because we didn't see each other again.

But when I found myself suddenly in Junior High School, surrounded by equally terrified and overwhelmed kids, with no close friends to speak of, and a poor grasp of just how mean kids could be to each other, I was in for some trouble. 7th and 8th grade (8th especially) were some bad times for me, with all of those "man-to-boy" changes heaped on top of my social difficulties.

It all came to a head with bully #3 (a minor bully...not really worth his own blog entry) whose name was Jeremy. Jeremy wasn't a traditional bully -- hell, I'm actually hard-pressed to call him a bully at all. But he did perpetrate an act that I considered to be fairly ruinous on my self esteem, and I thought I should mention it.

Yearbooks were a new thing for me, and the stress of getting them filled out was almost not worth the effort. It was a measure of one's popularity, and getting those "hot girl" or "cool guy" signatures was definitely braggable...especially if there was a phone number attached, or the message was long.

But I wasn't gunning for the "hot girls." I wasn't even really gunning for girls at all (I had, maybe, three female signatures in that 7th grade year book). I did have some people that I was friendly with, and it was normally no problem for anyone to sign a book with something along the lines of "Have a great summer." I signed the books of people I didn't really like that much, and vice versa. It was just what you do.

Jeremy and I sat next to each other in 4th period math class, and we were friendly (he was a smart guy, I was smart, and we got along, from what I recall). So, even though we weren't super-close, I thought he might want to sign my year book.

But there was a problem. When the time came for me to ask, he was talking to someone else. So, I figured, when he was done talking, he could sign...so I put it on his desk.

Jeremy, in a super-douche-bag move, noticed me putting the book on his desk, and responded by sliding it off of his desk onto the floor. He then resumed his conversation as if I didn't exist.

Hoping no one was watching (and sure that no one was...because no one ever really is watching), I quickly scooped up my yearbook, and pretended to read it as my face flushed with embarrassment. That was the end of my 7th grade year, and it cleared the way for a pretty terrible 8th grade that included, among other things, the last and most powerful bully I was to face down, and a story that still makes me proud to this day.