Bully For You

When I was growing up, the neighborhood had its fair share of steal-your-lunch-money, raise-your-underpants-up-a-flagpole, hide-your-clothes-while-you-shower, beat-you-up-after-school bullies. We even had girl bullies—tough, mean, muscular mini-women wrestlers who threatened you if you looked at them sideways.

Girls are worse than boys. An adolescent boy will get mad and punch another’s lights out, and then it’ll be over tomorrow. But an adolescent girl will spread hateful lies about another girl, steal all her friends, kick the back of her chair in trig class, and ostracize her—for no apparent reason—right after her Sweet Sixteen party—and I mean immediately, same-day after. My best friend of my whole life, Andrea, did that to me. There were lots of Andreas back then, and there are lots of them now.*

I was a tough kid myself. I wasn’t a bully, but I didn’t put up with a whole lot of nonsense. My parents watered me with positivity, so I grew believing I was worthwhile. I didn’t always make others feel like they were, though. I’m trying to make up for that now. When my daughter was a little girl, I told her (perhaps too often) that she was beautiful and smart and talented but that she was also going to have to be nice. It’s hard to hate the smart, perfect brunette with the big smile when she’s flashing it at you because she means it. It’s easy to hate her when she’s a bitch.

No one liked bullies back in the ‘70s. The boys’ gym teacher didn’t encourage his students to behave like assholes; he didn’t reward bully behavior in the locker room, didn’t tell the kid, privately, that so-and-so’s a pussy, and he deserved it. But I am not naive; I know some parents out there—more dads than moms, I’d imagine—were proud of their little man for defending his territory.

Bullies didn’t go away. I’ve even seen some adult bullies recently. You probably have one in your neighborhood, and your kid probably has one in his class, like my daughter does.

First I learned of the bully was when my daughter was invited to a birthday party. Except for the next-door neighbor, a four-year-old sister of an invited boy, she was the only girl. Her best friend and two other classmates were playing upstairs when the bully decided they ought to beat up the little sister. He hit her, and she cried. The second one hit her, and she cried. My daughter claims to have pushed her gently; the best friend corroborates and claims he did the same, both of them worried that they’d be on the receiving end of the bully’s ire if they did not cooperate.

I learned about this the moment we got in the car, when I said, “How was the party?” and my daughter responded, “OK, but Mom, we beat up a girl.”

I handled it well, e-mailing the three other parents to let them know what had happened so that they could mete out the discipline. I didn’t blame any child over another, though my friend did, telling the story her son told her, which matched my daughter’s.

The mother of the bully became defensive, deciding we were all against her. She didn’t talk to us for awhile, even though all we wanted was to get the kids together to discuss why their behavior was inappropriate.

This wasn’t the first time the class bully flexed his muscle. He’d hit the sister of my daughter’s best friend. And he spent a lot of his time telling girls they were stupid by virtue of being girls; “your ideas are stupid because you’re just a stupid girl.” My daughter was, initially, one of those stupid girls until she outplayed him on the soccer field. She’d probably still be a stupid girl if her best friend hadn’t told the bully that he can’t say that kind of stuff about his other friends.

Recently, the school had an art opening at a local café. The bully’s sister was in the show, so the family attended. It was a great party, with kid-appropriate art-opening food and lots of room to run around. But there was an explosion when the kindergarten bully met up with our second-grade version.

I don’t know exactly what happened, but I was ready to leave and said so to my daughter and her friend, Caitlyn. Serena said, “But I have to wait for [Sheila] to tell Miss [JoAnne] something!” I got her to tell me, and it went something like this: Bully and Serena’s friend were laughing, and it irritated Kindergarten Bully, who elbowed Grade Two Bully in the back. Grade Two Bully grabbed him by the shirt and slammed his head against the wall. It scared my daughter and her friend. You could see they were truly frightened about what had happened and thought it needed to be addressed immediately.

I told the girls it was time to go, and we made our way out, bumping into Miss [JoAnne] on the way. Caitlyn couldn’t help herself and told the mother what had happened.

Miss [JoAnne] said something like this: “Well, from what I understand, it was the other boy’s fault, and [Bully] was just defending himself, so it’s OK.” My girlfriend’s eyes bugged out as she watched my jaw fall to the floor. I took the girls out the front door, where the Grade Two Bully’s dad and the Kindergarten Bully’s mom, both people in serious denial, were arguing about what had occurred. Neither was apologizing for the actions of the sons; neither boy was apologizing to the other.

After I put the girls in the car, I went back in to have a little talk with Miss [JoAnne]. It went like this: “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I can’t let it go. Please do not tell my daughter that it’s ‘OK’ to hit another child. Violence does not need to be met with more violence.”

“Well, you have a girl.”

“So? [JoAnne], it is not OK for boys to beat each other up! It is not OK!”

“Well, your daughter came here and embarrassed and humiliated me in front of other people!”

Note my expression here is of both What the Fuck and Are You Crazy? “JoAnne!” I said, beyond astonished. “My daughter is eight! You are a grownup!”

With that, my acquaintance made a noise similar to, “HMPH!” and stormed off.

The mother of the Kindergarten Bully is no better. She has been fishing for information about who [JoAnne] is, where she lives, what kind of car she drives.

And I’ve been talking, too, repeating the story for parents involved in the initial girl beating at last year’s birthday party, as well as a few other friends from the neighborhood who know the parties involved.

I hope the story I have told is the way it happened. I don't know; maybe I believe that somehow elevates it above gossip. It's called, instead, reporting.

It's no wonder the kids can't get it together. Just around the corner, one mom has made it her mission, it would seem, to smear the name of another mom and her daughter, accusing the pair of all sorts of immoral behavior by way of a teen-age former boyfriend, who declares, innocently, "You're actually pretty nice. I can't believe all those things So-and-So says about you."

Of course, every neighborhood has its scandals—coke addicts and wife beaters and marital infidels, all of whom are outed instantly by the first person who gets ahold of a secret. And the kids are wise to it all.

Perhaps we should be surprised they're not all angry and beating the crap out of each other.


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*For more on girl-on-girl aggression, read the excellent Odd Girl Out, by Rachel Simmons.