WebWordsArticles - Bullying

I think I have been bullied for most, if not all, of my life. As a child, it was my mother who bullied my sister and I, as well as any other children who were perceived as naughty or unruly. Her tyranny ranged from smacking us, to threats of hitting us with a stick, emotional blackmail and a crushing attitude, that has left me emotionally scarred.

My primary school wasn't too bad, because discipline was strictly enforced. However, since I was small in stature and had been taught to read and write by my mother, I was an "outcast", from almost the day I started my first school. I had no real interest in football, which also made me "different": the senseless craze was something I truly did not understand. I did my best, though, even choosing a team to support, just to appease my classmates. However, I could never find the mindless enthusiasm, as well as the moronic following that they had. "Square ball," shouted someone in the playground, when we were playing football with a tennis ball. How could it be square? I don't think even they knew what they were talking about, but because they had heard it on TV or at a football match, they had to repeat it, just to make themselves look "big" in front of others. It never impressed me.

I never had any true friends; there were boys I occasionally met outside school, but it was rare. I couldn't invite anyone home at weekends or the school holidays, because mum just didn't allow it. We would make the house dirty (she had an OCD, which meant she was constantly cleaning and tidying and, if anyone dared to put a foot indoors, it would anger her). Where I lived, despite it being a "middle class", private housing estate, most children were not considered suitable for us to socialise with. Mum delighted in being a "snob"; she said she was proud of it. She chose my friends for me; they were usually children of wealthy parents. We weren't poor, but we certainly weren't "well off"; my parents owned their own home, never had a car and never took us out or on holidays. We had to have impeccable manners at all times, speak nicely, make our mother proud of us, behave sensibly and do exactly as she told us. There was little compromise and, frankly, my sister and I grew to hate her. This, even now, upsets me.

At the tender age of eleven years, I entered secondary school. It was some distance from my home, although it wasn't too far and I could walk it in about half an hour. There was also the option of taking the bus. Unfortunately, my mother considered that cycling to school was not appropriate for me (despite that I was a proficient cyclist and had been going out on my own for a number of years).

I have some vague memories of my first day at secondary school, but I do recall much from the first few weeks. Although there were others from my primary school, who had also come to this school, none of them were in my "form" (registration class). Thus it was that I had to mix with other boys and girls, from an entirely different social background to mine and I also had to accept my new "place" in this environment. I was wearing a new school uniform; I had a packed lunch in my bag; I had new "PE" kit, overalls for woodwork and metalwork classes, new pens and pencils and the other "accoutrements" that one required. It was a strange, hostile and much larger environment than I had been used to, although I did make what I thought to be some new friends.

The first week or so was relatively quiet, although the newer boys had to put up with the occasional unfortunate behaviour of some older members of the school. Walking past the main hall one day, a group of older boys came towards me in a line and refused to move. I had to duck down and avoid their arms and fists, which meant grovelling on the floor. They seemed to take delight in this.

Eventually, it came time for the election of a form captain; someone who would be responsible and a sort of "figurehead" for the form. Quite frankly, it was a total waste of time, because nobody had any respect for authority and certainly not another class member. There were two "vacancies"; one for Captain and the other for Vice Captain. There was some confusion after the "elections" and I had been chosen as a stand-in Captain, until the chosen recipient returned from absence. I was supposed to be Vice Captain. Naturally, because of the "yobbery" and unprincipled behaviour of some of the class, I was criticised and because I also determined to take my role seriously, I was ridiculed and bullied. At the start of one lesson, prior to the teacher's arrival, Mark M. (someone who seemed to "have it in for me" for the entirety of my school days) took hold of me and threw me against the wall of the classroom. I, of course, didn't respond, fearing recrimination from this thug, as well as his chums and the possible misunderstanding of the teacher, when he finally arrived. From that point on, he contented himself with threats towards me as well as other actions of utter moronic violence, which probably served to boost his ego. He certainly wasn't to be called "bright". However, he was only one of many that saw school as a way to vent their petty, mindless victimisation on others. I shall never forget - or forgive - his selfish and evil actions towards me and others.

As time progressed, I kept myself away from trouble by associating with the other boys in my year who also suffered abuse and bullying. During break times, we did whatever we could to avoid the bullies. We were those who were more academically inclined (although not necessarily hugely intellectual. We certainly didn't put ourselves across as being different.) Some of us were only very "slight" in build, while others were just better mannered and principled; others had either physical or emotional disabilities, which also set them up for abuse. I suppose one might have called us more civilised than brutal.

Our lessons were divided into what had been named "periods" (much to the delight of some of our more "promiscuous" classmates). These comprised 40 minutes each. For certain subjects (such as mathematics), a single "period" was more desirable, whereas for "technical" subjects (something I enjoyed, but didn't really develop, perhaps because the lack of support from my teachers), 40 minutes was barely enough time to find one's current piece of work and switch on the lights.

One subject I really enjoyed and looked forward to (although I cannot say I was particularly "gifted" at) was metalwork. It gave me an opportunity to develop my practical skills and it was something that I thought (and hoped) would make me appear more "normal" in the eyes of my peers. Since it was perceived as being a more "masculine" subject, one would have thought that they, themselves, would have revelled in it. However, since all bullies are cowards and most are fundamentally stupid (it was certainly the case with those I knew), they couldn't see the benefits of any education, so decided not to take this subject seriously, either.

During my second year at secondary school, one of the first projects in metalwork was to make a tea spoon (a spoon that could be used to scoop tea from a caddy), out of copper. The process involved cutting the copper, shaping it into a bowl shape and then "annealing and pickling" the item. Annealing being heating it to a certain temperature, at which point the metal would turn almost a cherry red, then plunging the hot metal into a bath of concentrated Sulphuric Acid. This process made the metal "malleable" and allowed us to form the bowl of the spoon. Most of my peers were too afraid (or just too inept) to be able to manage plunging the metal in acid, so I did it for them; my common sense and having listened to the clear instructions given, saving me - and them - from injury. However, it still made no difference to the way they treated me.

In the single "periods", we had very little time to accomplish a great deal and it was with this in mind that I knew I had to use every minute to the very best effect. I would have been 12 or 13 at the time and I well remember what I was trying to do. I was trying to polish the copper spoon I had been working on, using the "buffing machine"; a wheel with a polishing attachment and "buffing 'soap'", which was a form of polish. Once I started, I continued blissfully unaware of the noise and complete chaos going on around me. Unfortunately, the teacher (Mr Harris) was more interested in his own project (something he was engaged in with some of the older pupils - this was something I witnessed on several occasions; teachers more interested in more "mature" pursuits). As a result of this, he spent the entire lesson in a different room, working on his own there. Thus, those around me seized this opportunity to display their total stupidity and behaved like juniors and shouted, generally mucked about and accomplished very little. Only a short while into the "lesson", one of the main "protagonists" - Mark M. (yes, one and the same) - took it upon himself to cause further disruption by depressing the emergency electrical stop button. This cut out all the electricity in that room (which we had already been informed should only be used in cases of absolute emergency). The consequences of using this button for "fun" had already been explained to us and I was surprised that this idiot should take it upon himself to risk the threatened punishment. However, he obviously considered the "fun" to be had outweighed the consequences and went ahead. I suspect the "weakness" and absence of the teacher had much to do with this.

This, of course, disrupted my usage of the "buffing machine". I went across to the switches and depressed the "on" button, thus allowing me to continue. However, Mark did the same thing again only a few minutes later. Again, I said nothing and went and switched the power back on. Unfortunately, twice was insufficient to satisfy the juvenile mind of this ignorant thug and he persisted. Eventually, my patience wore thin and I went in search of the teacher. Another fool, Mr Harris, had a "woolly-headed" attitude and a mop of unkempt hair on both his head and around his face, that looked more like some rusty wire wool he had been using. I informed him that I was unable to do my work, because of the constant interruption. I also made it clear to him that the emergency stop button was being used inappropriately. Unfortunately, because he lacked either the interest or intelligence to listen to what I was saying, he failed to grasp the seriousness of the situation. I returned to the workshop and eventually, Mr Harris stormed into the room, shouted at the class about the level of noise and then promptly returned to what he had been doing previously. In effect, he did nothing whatsoever and was as useless as a disciplinarian as he was as a teacher and a human being. He was more interested in his precious Fifth Form's project, than he was in doing the job that he was being paid to do. He left us alone for the remainder of the lesson, not even bothering about any safety aspect or whether he had a responsibility to actually be present, even just to ensure nobody was injured.

After he had left the room, it was apparent that I was in real danger. Far from accomplishing what I had hoped, which would have seen an end to the stupid antics of my classmate, it made things worse for me. Firstly, Mark M. began waving a metal file in my direction. Not content with this, he then prodded and poked my abdomen with it, in a menacing and vicious manner. I was then warned and told to wait until the class was finished. I hadn't a clue as to what the consequences of this would mean for me, but knew it wouldn't be pleasant. I continued with my work for the remainder of the lesson and packed things away at its conclusion. However, the threats had not let up and I became agitated and fearful for my safety.

The lesson came at the end of the school day and, afterwards, I had to make my way over to the other side of the school, in order to exit by the gate that lay in the direction of my home. After I had finished packing my things away, I looked outside the building, whereupon I saw a line of every boy in my class - aside from my two only friends - waiting for me at the front of the building, along the narrow pathway. I was terrified. I didn't know what to do, so I went in search of Mr Harris, who was still busy on his project. I blurted out my plight to him as best as I could, but he wasn't interested. The fool was so busy with his own things that he completely neglected his responsibility to me, and just laughed and carried on. I knew I wasn't going to get any help from him.

I went to the rear exit to the building and left quietly, hoping I wouldn't be seen or heard by any of the waiting gang. I made it along the back of the building and managed to get some way towards where I hoped there would be others (where the building was located, was a quiet part of the school). However, as I emerged from the end of the building, I heard a shout: "There he is! Come on, let's get him!" The chase began. Fortunately, I was a fast runner and, because I was already some yards away from the mob, I had a head start.

As I ran away from the building where the trouble had begun, I continued to another quiet area of the school. All the time, I kept hoping I would find someone who could help me, but because most had already gone home, that part of the school was quiet. As I ran in desperation, fearing for my wellbeing, I felt like a wild animal, being chased by hunters. I knew what fate would befall me were I captured; I was terrified. Behind the main school, where the entrance to the changing rooms was, I found two older lads. I quickly explained my plight, but wasn't certain I could rely on them; they were "spoiling" for a fight, but I still couldn't be sure, when they met my pursuers, whether they would take my side. Hastily, I made a decision and continued my flight and eventually made it to the main part of the school and found my Geography teacher. I quickly explained my situation to him and he, being a quick-thinking individual, said he would "hold them off", while I ran home, which I managed to do without further issue. At least I could rely on one teacher; he was someone I had never considered an ally, but in those few moments, he proved his integrity and decency. I ran home as fast as I could, taking advantage of my stamina, which stood me in good stead. I found the safest route home, which would mean I wouldn't be followed and fortunately I arrived home without meeting anyone else.

From that point on, as soon as the end of day "bell" had sounded, my chair was firmly thrust upon whatever desk I was sitting behind and I was out of the classroom before anyone else. I didn't want a repeat of what I had just been through. However, that was not the end to matters; one afternoon, I was walking out of the school grounds with my only two friends, where I spotted various other members of my class waiting behind the trees for me. We immediately turned back into the school and, fortunately, I found my "form teacher". He was no fool and I knew I could trust him. He was in the office of the sports hall (he was also a games teacher as well as a maths teacher). The strain of everything finally broke me and I found myself blubbering in a most undignified manner to him. However, he was understanding. He told my two friends to go to where the "ambush" had been planned and tell anyone they found there that, if they were still there in five minutes, he would deal with them and they would have he, not the headmaster or anyone else, to deal with. I knew they wouldn't defy him.

Even after everything I had been through, it was concluded that I had a "social problem"! Social problem?!! How does being bullied, threatened and prevented from doing well at school, as well as leading a normal life, constitute a social problem?! I did tell my parents, who, in turn, visited the headmaster. However, he only told everyone I was a "sensitive boy", and left things at that. From then on, I was, in effect, on my own.

Throughout my secondary school education, I was bullied and victimised incessantly by my classmates and it was this, coupled with the domineering attitude of my mother, and my growing sense of isolation and being "different", that contributed to my difficulties.

I look back on those times, whilst writing this, with feelings of anger and despondency. Were that my son who had to endure this vile behaviour, I would never have allowed things to continue. Indeed, I would have stopped them at the first opportunity. Unfortunately, during those times, one had to be careful because children never liked to be accused of "grassing" (I was frequently called that by the vile creatures who felt they should be allowed to do as they pleased). Not only that, but parents often expect their offspring to be able to look after themselves. I had never been taught or encouraged to be anything other than gentlemanly, and I wasn't expected to fight.

Those teachers who turned a blind eye to what happened to me - and others - were a disgrace to their profession. However, I have to live with the damage it wreaked upon my life and which affects me even now.

They were very difficult times, even with the few friends I had. Several of us were in the same situation, although we didn't talk about it. We had no comradeship; not "one for all and all for one", because we were just too insignificant and we knew that to stand up to the thugs, would cost us dearly. We couldn't risk it. I do remember, on one occasion, when one of my friends had been singled out for an attack. I and my other friend just walked away; were we to become involved, we would have suffered and, quite possibly, our other friend would have suffered even more. Fortunately, the physical abuse was limited and, probably due to our policy of not becoming involved or violent in retaliation, it was our dignity that suffered the most.

As the school terms passed, I became withdrawn and lonely; I wasn't allowed to socialise with anyone outside school (my mother saw to that) and I had few real friends in school. As some of the bullies left (probably because they lacked the intellectual capacity to make anything better of their miserable lives), things calmed down. However, it left me as an outcast, with many of my peers sneering at me, just because I didn't share the same interests as they did. (Football, sex, smoking, drinking and loud music never appealed to me.)

I continued to try to do well academically, but it was still difficult; I had no support from anyone and nobody really understood why my progress was "lacklustre". In the 5th and 6th forms, we were allowed to go out of the school at lunchtimes. I usually went on my own and sat on the nearby common land, where I could gaze at the trees and think back on times when I used to visit the place with my family. I saw some people in the distance, walking towards the secluded bench I had chosen for myself. I recognised them instantly, but fortunately they hadn't seen me. Without hesitation, I grabbed my books and papers and ran off and hid in the nearby bushes. They passed by, without knowing I was there. My heart was pounding in my young chest, because I was scared of them; I was afraid of other people. However, I had been so for most of my life and it upset me. But who was there to listen? Who would understand? Who even cared? I was just a nobody in a violent and unprincipled world; a world I would have to enter, myself, one day, but I was ill-prepared for it. I hadn't been taught the basics of inhumanity, bullying, hatred and how to make others' lives an utter misery. I think, perhaps, I had been taught at the wrong school.

At the age of 17, I left school and started working for the Department of the Environment in Croydon. I was keen to make a new start and leave the bullying of my school years firmly in the past. However, that was not the end of my troubles, it was really just another beginning.

After about a year in the job, I moved offices, where my immediate superior was a woman of dubious character; she was the office flirt. She smoked in the office (which was permitted) and made my life a misery when she had had an enjoyable night with the latest of her lovers. However, when this man spurned her advances, she was full of self pity, constantly seeking attention - and revelling in it when she received it. She was a loathsome individual and, frankly, I detested her. She was similar to my mother in her attitude towards me: she enjoyed ordering me around, making me go out and get cigarettes for her, or other menial tasks.

It was at that time, when I was a mere 18 years old, that I first fell in love - with a young man. I had "known" that I was "different" from an early age, but didn't understand about homosexuality. Whilst my family had never been openly hostile (in fact, they never discussed the subject), I knew, from the media and my peers, that being "gay" was unacceptable. Perhaps I was the "victim type"; maybe my upbringing had given me an "aura", which led others to believe they could and should overpower me. My mother certainly had done this to me, from a very early age and, even in my adulthood, both she and my father refused to treat me as an adult, aside from that they expected me to "stand on my own two feet" in some aspects of my life, but allow them to control me in others, such as what work I did, or whom I socialised with.

The memories of my past will haunt me for the remainder of my life. As I grow older, I become sadder and more reflective. I cannot go back to those times; I cannot re-live my life; I cannot enjoy the security and happiness that my childhood should have given me. I was robbed by the bullies and cowardly creatures who decided to hate me, because they perceived that I was different. I have to live with that. I hope you do not.