The Anthony Bully

OSLC. 2011. Pre-School. Pick-up Time.

"Daddy!"
"Hey, buddy! How are you!?!"
"Good."
"You had a good day?"
"Yeah."
"Great! You ready to go?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, well let's get your coat on."
"Daddy, Alex was laughing at me today and I didn't like it."
"He was?"
"Yeah. He was laughing and he wouldn't stop."
"Why was he laughing."
"I don't know."
"Did you tell him you didn't like it."
"Yeah, but he kept laughing. It made me sad."
"I'm sorry, buddy. I thought he was your friend."
"He was my friend, but today he made me sad, so I don't want to invite him to my birthday party."
"Okay, well, we've got a couple months before we need to worry about that. If he keeps bothering you, you can go play with someone else, right?"
"But he made Tyler and Hayden laugh at me, too."
"Wow, bud. Did you talk to your teachers?"
"Yeah. They told him to stop, but he laughed at me again after nap. He's not my friend anymore."

This first in a series of similar revelations over several days shocked me. Just a few weeks prior, Mini-Me asked if this Alex kid could come over for a play date. He told me they were best friends. It made me ignore the fact that Alex tells me I'm bald and calls me his daddy every afternoon. But now he's tormenting my boy? The kid who's everyone's best friend? Awash in memories, I pondered how to guide Mini-Me through what might be his first experience with a bully who likes pushing people's buttons to get a reaction.

Jefferson Middle School. 1989. Eighth Grade. History.

“Oh man…who farted? Was it you, Jeff?”
“Naw, man. Not me!”
“Anthony?”
“Ha! I wish!”
“Christy?”
“Ewww, gross! Never!! It was probably you, David!”
“Naw…not me. I know, it was Doug! Hey, Doug! Doug-man! Did you fart?”
“no.”
“You did, didn’t you!”
“no!”
“Haha! It was you! You farted! Doug farted! Hey Doug, stop stinkin’ up the place! Ha!”
“I didn’t fart.”
“No need to deny it, man. You farted. Phew! It was a good one, too.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Doug farted, everybody…dropped a stink bomb…probably ripped his pants!”
“I didn’t fart. It wasn’t me.”
“Dude, Doug! I can hardly breathe. Man that’s bad!”
“It wasn’t ME!”

For the first time, EVER, I stood up and left a class without permission. Just walked out. I didn’t know where to go or what I was going to do; I just needed to get out of there. I wasn't the responsible party. It probably was David, but I couldn't handle the teasing any longer. This wasn't the first time David had chosen me as his target in order to get laughs and admiration from our peers.

As the classroom door squeaked open, I could feel everyone’s eyes burning through me, even my teacher’s, who, I imagine, sat slack-jawed at her desk. She must have figured I was sick, because Doug never does anything without permission. Well-intentioned, she sent some of the boys to check up on me.

Jeff, my best friend from the day I moved to Garland in the summer of 1984 to the day I moved away in the winter of 1988, but who, when I returned for eighth grade, had changed, walked into the boy’s bathroom and found me at the sink, trying to hide the tears in my eyes.

“Hey, Doug. You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. Just leave me alone, please.”

Truthfully, while we had both changed in our time apart, he had done most of the changing. He ran with the ‘cool crowd,’ talked easily with everyone, and looked like he belonged in NKOTB. I played clarinet in the band, spoke hesitantly around people I didn’t know well, and looked like…well, let’s just say I made Screech look cool. We were still friends, but not like we were those first few years as we marched throughout the neighborhood on sentry duty, parachuted from rooftops, built elaborate battle scenes for our G.I. Joes, and fell asleep, mid-conversation, in the wee hours of summer mornings.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You know he was just messing around, right?”
“Yeah. I know. Just leave, please.”

Before he could leave, though, the bathroom door opened and in walked David and Anthony, “We wanted to come make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m sure.”
“Did you mess your pants?”
“Leave him alone, man.”
“I’m just goofin’ around! No need to cry about it.”

Before my flight or flight instincts could kick in, the bell rang, signaling the end of the hour. David and Anthony shrugged their shoulders and walked out, laughing hysterically as David lifted his left leg and ripped a fart that echoed off the bathroom walls. Jeff followed close behind. I waited a few minutes to make sure they had enough time to get their books and get out of the classroom before going to do the same.

“Are you okay, Doug? Did you get sick?”
“No, ma’am. I mean, yes, but not sick. I’m okay.”
“Well, alright. Next time let me know where you’re going.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”

Jefferson Middle School. 1989. Eighth Grade. History…again.

There's always that moment during a test when the first person finishes, stands up to deliver the test to the teacher's desk, and briefly grabs the attention of everyone else in the room before they return to their scribbling. Anthony was always the first one done. He lived for that moment of attention. He lived for every moment of attention. He was too cool for eighth grade.

I followed him briefly as he began his journey to the front of the room, but quickly returned to my struggle with dates and facts, unaware of his return trip. My desk was in the third row from the front; his was two rows behind me. This afforded him an opportunity he, apparently, couldn't refuse, because I made a mistake--I took my eyes off of him.

As I searched my memory for the significance of Davy Crockett and the Alamo to Texas's history, I was shocked by a sudden, painful impact in the middle of my back. I turned to look over my shoulder and found Anthony standing over me, smiling. He placed one finger up to his sneering lips, "Shhhhh."

I listened. I didn't say a word. He hit me square in the back twice more. No one said anything. If anyone else saw, I'll never know. I ignored the pain in my back and finished my test through tear-filled eyes.

Jefferson Middle School. 1989. Eighth Grade. Math.

"What's your problem? Don't look at me. I'll kick your..."

Ask me what I remember most about middle school and I might ramble on about playing clarinet in Mr. Strong's band, being mortified getting caught playing pencil break in Mrs. Carter's English class, being told "*snort* Ugh...NO!" when finally working up the nerve to ask out Nancy, one of my many crushes. Or I might tell you about my friend, Steve, running a sewing machine needle through his finger (the same one he put a staple through in fifth grade), or my eighth grade science teacher nicknaming me 'Derg' when I was excitedly hoping for 'Doogie'.

But, really, what I remember most is Anthony. The kid who made sure he stood right behind me in the class photo so he could put all his weight on my shoulders and make me disappear into the shadows of Candy's ginormous bangs. The kid who punched me in the middle of class for no reason. The kid who greeted me every day by telling me he was going to beat me to a pulp.

"You've got a problem with me, don't you? Well, you know what? I don't like you either! I don't like the way you look. I don't like the way you dress. I don't like having to sit in the same classroom with you."

I tried not to make eye contact, instead staring at the froot loop and cheerio abacus projects suspended from the drop ceiling.

"I'm gonna finish you off one of these days. We're gonna fight and that'll be the end of you. Is that what you want? You wanna fight me? You wanna hit me, crybaby?"

I guess he noticed my watery eyes. I doubt he'd believe it was just allergy season.

"When are you gonna fight me, huh? When are you gonna man up? You're a wuss. You're weak. You wouldn't last one punch."

He was right. I probably wouldn't. I wasn't a fighter. I hated confrontations. I just sat there and took it. Day after day. Class after class. Until finally...

"Today's the day, right? Today's the day I'm gonna kick your ass! Problem is, you probably wouldn't show up. You're such a wuss."
...
"That's what I thoug..."
"No, today is the day!" The words coming out of my mouth shocked me. "I'll meet you on the football field and we'll do this. I'll fight you today. After school. Football field. You and me."

Anthony just glared at me.

"After school, Anthony. Today's the day."
"Okay. Today's the day."

I felt sick the rest of the day. I'd never fought anyone before. I didn't have an older brother to wrestle with and toughen me up. I was a softy, and I was scared.

I crossed the football field every day on my way home, so the only thing different on this particular day was that I stopped under the goal posts and waited.
                                 And waited.
                                        And waited.
                                               And waited.
                                                      And Anthony
                                                                     Never.
                                                                         Showed.
                                                                                     Up.
He also never threatened to beat me up again. Not that he was pleasant and sociable the rest of the year, but he at least stopped the most obvious forms of antagonism. If only I'd found the strength, or frustration, to say something sooner, maybe the tormenting memories wouldn't be some of the first that come back when I think about middle school.


OSLC. 2011. Pre-School. Pick-up Time.


Mini-Me is soft like I was. He wears his heart on his sleeve and is a bit melodramatic when he gets upset. Like me, he's not a fighter. I can understand why Alex might try to get a reaction from him. It's the same reason Anthony constantly tried to get reactions out of me. I just didn't think it would happen to Mini-Me so soon.

"Daddy!"
"Hey, buddy! How are you!?!"
"Good."
"You had a good day?"
"Yeah."
"Great! You ready to go?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, well let's get your coat on."
"Bye, Mini-Me!"
"Bye, Owen!"
"Bye, Mini-Me!"
"Bye, Allie!"
"Bye, Mini-Me!"
"Bye, Julia!"
"Bye, Mini-Me!"
"Bye, Dawson!"
"Bye, Mini-Me!"
...
"Bye! Mini-Me?"
...
"Mini-Me? Why won't you say goodbye to Tristan?"
"I don't like him."
"What do you mean you don't like him? You guys play all the time."
"He tackles me when we play superheroes. He hurts me."
"Have you told him to stop?"
"Yes. And he just keeps doing it. He's a bad guy."
"Do you ever let him be one of the good guys?"
"No. He always wants to be the bad guy. He hits us when we try to put him in jail. I don't like him. He hurts me and he says mean things to me."
"What about Alex? Is he still being mean to you?"
"No. He's my best friend. He's on the Justice League. I told him he was hurting my feelings and he said sorry. He's Green Arrow now."
"Well that's good. Maybe you should try talking to Tristan, too. It's really important that you speak up, buddy, and let people know how you feel. Sometimes that's all it takes to make a difference in how they treat you."