We relocated just in time for me to begin 6th grade in a very wealthy suburb and in a school filled with the spoilt spawn of the nuevo riche. To make matters worse, my parents did not believe in fashion, nor did they understand that appearance can make or break you in the social circles. I showed up to school dressed in my brother's handmedowns, during an era where if it weren't Polo, Klein, or Members Only, well you just weren't fit to live. The resident popular kids quickly made it their mission in life to teach me that particular rule of life. I'll spare you the boring details, but they could teach a trick or two to the military in terms of utterly destroying the enemy without laying a finger on them.
My mother always taught me to turn the other cheek when people were mean to me. I tried that for a few years but the truth is that children don't recognize forgiveness as anything more than a sign of weakness. Ignore the bully, and he'll start to smell the blood and circle in for the kill. My parents were useless. Mom insisted I was making it up, or overreacting. I couldn't expect any help from my dad. If he wasn't beating the shit out of me for some imagined infraction, he was nowhere to be found.
I spent much of my 7th grade year hiding in the bathroom hoping no one would find me, or else racing up and down the stairs to work up a sweat and appear flushed, so that I could convince the school nurse I was sick and get sent home. Every day it was more of the same, endless humiliation and abuse heaped on me from the popular girls. The boys were mean too but girls particularly revel in destroying those at the bottom. I couldn't do anything, say anything, wear anything, without them gleefully ripping it to pieces, reminding me at every opportunity that I was stupid, ugly, fat, worthless, and why didn't I just kill myself already? I'd be doing my parents a favor after all.
I still remember your names too bitches. Don't think you're off the hook yet.
In 8th grade, I decided this turning the other cheek thing was bullshit. I didn't see how detention or even suspension could be any worse than what these hags were putting me through. This realization came to me while standing in line waiting for the bell to let us out of class. I felt something hit me in the butt, and heard the girls behind me giggling. I tried to ignore it, but it happened several more times. They were literally kicking me in the ass. I was chewing my lip to hamburger trying to stay calm about it, but I knew that once I got out of that room, the tables were about to turn.
I wasn't really a fat kid but I was bigger than the other girls. I rode my bike all the time and my thighs were muscled up pretty heavy. At 5'2" and 125 I could bench 100 pounds easily. Basically I was the Fresian in a stable full of Arabians. I'd long suspected I could take them all out with one punch but until that point hadn't had the guts to find out. As the bell rang, I sucked up my balls and got ready to find out.
As soon as I cleared the corner, I spun around and reached out for the first throat I could catch. It belonged to Amy, a stick thin cheerleader who, although far from the ringleader, was certainly high up in the ranks. With one hand I picked her up by her neck and slammed her into the lockers, and then held her there, studying her terrified face coldly. Options ran through my mind as the other girls started squealing and a crowd began to gather. I knew I could beat the shit out of her easily. I wondered how cute a broken nose would go with her pom poms. As I relished these visions, a darker truth sunk in. No matter how badly I beat the little bitch, no one would say, oh she had it coming. No, they'd all turn on me as some psychotic bitch. The school would point it's accusing finger at me, as if I had attacked unprovoked. No one would believe that pretty, popular Amy had done anything to deserve the pitch I was about to swing. My parents would tell me I overreacted, that 3 years of torment did not justify my shaking the little bitch like a rag doll. They'd have me sent to a psychiatric ward and medicated, claiming I was a "problem child".
I leaned in close to Amy's face, listening to the gasps as she tried to breathe through my squeezing hand, her feet still dangling off the ground. Softly, so no one else could hear, I whispered in her ear "I could snap your neck like a chicken you hateful bitch. Think about that next time you think about making fun of me." Then I dropped her to the ground and walked away.
Amy never made fun of me again. When her friends would start up their shit, she would back away. I always assumed she told them what I said, because if I made a move towards them, they would always reconsider and head off in another direction.
That taught me a valuable lesson. Predators don't care if you forgive them, or show them kindness. Either grow a spine or go home. Word spread fast that Star wasn't going to tolerate shit any longer, and the girls went off to find weaker targets for their constant bullying. When I moved up to 9th grade and a different school, the abuse was pretty much over.
