Several of our state legislators want to enact a law that would require schools to have anti-bullying policies. Because if there's one thing bullies fear, it's a policy. To see if this might work, let's examine the problem.
Kids are bullied for many reasons, but it comes down to one thing: The jerk thinks he can get away with it. No elementary school bully picks on Brutus McFisty, the new kid for whom they had to bring in a high school desk, and who spends his spare time swinging around the gym on the ropes singing the theme song from "The Green Berets." If a bully knows he will get pounded, he attempts to make friends with Brutus and fall into the natural role of Flunky. (Lesser bullies usually end up in the role of a flunky, minion or henchperson. Or they go into tax collection.) No, a bully looks around, sniffs the air for weakness, and thinks: There's someone I can dominate. Am I bolstering my own inadequate self-esteem, or confirming my pathological belief I am above the norms of decent society? Ah, only time can tell. YOU THERE! COME HERE!
Since everyone has been confessing their own bully dramas, I might as well join in. I got pounded twice in grade school. The first time I said something sarcastic to a bully, and he popped me in the face and knocked off my glasses. The Ancient Codes of Honor say you're not supposed to hit people with glasses, so that makes it twice as much fun. Since the victim usually goes to the ground to pat for the specs, there are marvelous kicking opportunities. But he ran away. Having no remorse about squealing, I told my parents, and the other kid eventually apologized. I think I had to promise not to use sarcasm, although irony was OK. This happened at the southwest corner of 8th and 24th, and every time I go back to Fargo and pass through the intersection, I remember: This is where I got clocked for something I'd later get paid for.
The second time was much more humiliating. Many bullies prefer to work in private, tormenting the victim with constant pressure, waiting for the nerd to snap and start windmilling his arms. These are the technicians. They bank on the cumulative effect. They do not realize that the victim will probably show up for the 20th high school reunion looking sharp and rich, and they'll be paunchy and alcoholic, and there will be a moment when the victim looks at him and smiles: The life of the mind and the resultant successes are the sweetest revenge, my friend. That, and the big scratch I left in your pickup with my keys.
Then there's the public bully. He knows no restraints. He will pound you outside the principal's window. He will let it be known that you have it coming, and you will spend the day marinating in your clammy dread. All the kids know it's coming: There's going to be a fight after school. From the perspective of adulthood, it seems strange that these things can happen, but they take on an air of horrible inevitability. You watch the clock. You pray to God and Spider-Man. The bell rings, and out you go. I knew my time had come, so I took the only object with which I could defend myself: my briefcase.
Yes, glasses and a briefcase in fourth grade: bully bait extraordinare.
I tried to walk away, because that's what Spider-Man did when kids picked on him. But he grabbed me and spun me around and swung. The first blow knocked the briefcase out of my hands. The second caught me right in the shoulder. Here's the key detail:
He was on crutches. He'd broken a leg, but learned to travel fast on the sticks. I was actually beaten up by a bully who braced himself, hopped on one leg and used his free arm to nail me with a crutch. In front of everyone.
That was the extent of my bullying experience. Nothing like the horror stories you read today, but you remember, extrapolate times 10, and shudder. Never knew what happened to Crutch-Fiend. I do know that no law would have stopped him. Nowadays, though, we can do something. First offense: your Xbox or PS3 online character will be Dora the Explorer for a year. Second offense: your victim gets your gaming rig. Third offense: special school. Brutus McFisty's dad is the principal.
jlileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858 More daily at www.startribune.com/blogs/lileks
