No More Bullies (11 page)

I guess that's why I never expected much compassion or mercy from my gym teachers. Most of my P.E. teachers didn't seem to care how I felt; they just yelled at me and blew their whistles. But all that changed when one man, a gym teacher, took the time—a brief moment, actually—to care.

Bullying is a remarkable phenomenon, the way it follows you. In junior high school, I attracted specific people who became my self-appointed tormentors, and that went on for the full three years. When I started high school, I was with a whole new crowd of classmates, and yet the bullying picked up right where it left off. It didn't miss a beat. You'd think the junior-high bullies had held a tie-in meeting with the high-school bullies: “Okay, be looking for Peretti. This is what we've done to him so far . . .”

Remember the young boy in
chapter 1
? That kind of stuff happened to me all through junior high and all through my sophomore year in high school until suddenly, even astonishingly, everything changed. I don't remember the exact times and dates, but I do remember the chain of events. It started one day when I was running an errand for my mom.

The Graham Street Grocery was a little neighborhood grocery store less than a block from our house. We had an account there, and Mom often sent me to pick up small items: a loaf of bread, milk, ice cream, whatever. A young man from my high school got an after-school job there, and though I'd never done him wrong and he hardly knew me, he became my enemy. I guess, to him, it was the cool thing to do.

On this particular day, I was minding my own business, just going up and down those short little aisles and picking up items on my grocery list, when my nemesis met me toward the back of the store, out of his boss's earshot.

“Whatcha doin', Peretti?”

“Oh, just buying some stuff.”

“What do you need?”

I looked at my list. “I need to get some deodorant.”

“Which kind?”

You know deodorants. There are so many different brands, they can fill a whole shelf. “Well, we usually use this one. . . .”

He grabbed a can off the shelf. “This one?”

I thought he was going to hand it to me. “Yeah.”

Suddenly, without provocation, he popped the cap off and sprayed the deodorant directly in my face! I forget what he said as he did it, but it wasn't kind.

That stuff stings! My eyes were watering, and tears streamed down my face. I was shocked and incredulous. I just couldn't believe a guy waiting on me in a grocery store would do that to me! I quickly made my way to the checkout counter, rubbing my eyes and wiping my nose. I could hardly see as I signed our tab and made a hasty exit from the store.

You may well ask why I didn't report the incident to Vern, the man who owned the store. Looking back, I can only wonder the same. It must have had something to do with the devious power of that old maxim that has protected bullies for generations: You don't snitch.

I stumbled out of the store and around the corner, my grocery bag in my arm, and then . . . it's hard to describe . . . I was like a hunted animal who has been shot but still runs several yards before collapsing from loss of blood. I made it around the corner, but that's as far as I could go before something just broke inside me. I dropped to the curb, weeping, devastated, despondent. I'd come to the end.

“Oh, dear Lord,” I prayed, still wiping the sting out of my eyes. “Please . . . I just can't take it anymore.” It felt just a little strange to be praying such a thing because, in my mind, I still linked God with all the other authorities in my life. They were all making me go through this, and so was He. As I prayed, I was actually pleading for mercy. “Please, God; please don't do this to me anymore. Don't make me go back there. Have mercy, dear Lord. I haven't fought back; I haven't snitched; I've turned the other cheek. Haven't I suffered enough?”

I'm reminded of God's response to Moses: “Surely I have heard the cry of My people in Egypt.” They'd been crying to Him for the better part of four hundred years! But, at last, it was God's time to answer.

And, after so, so, long, God answered me.

A few days later, I faithfully and obediently stepped through the big, ominous door for another hour of Boy's Hell. My despair must have been showing. One of the teachers paused—he actually took just a moment—and spoke quietly to me. “How you doing? You feeling okay?”

I looked back at him in disbelief. Somebody in authority was actually asking about me, and he seemed genuinely concerned! He wasn't even
my
teacher. He had other classes, other coaching duties, but he was there, and he had noticed that I was looking ill. This was so unexpected, so unusual, I didn't know what to say, or whether I should say anything at all. I was afraid of those gruff P.E. teachers. Not one of them had ever,
ever
before asked me how I felt.

I muttered some look-down-at-the-floor answer, just as an insecure boy my age might do, and he went on about his business.

But the gentle tone of his voice did something to me: It gave me just the tiniest, years-in-coming ray of hope, something I'd never felt before. Somebody really wanted to know how I was doing? Somebody might really listen? I grabbed onto that hope for all I was worth, and then, suddenly, an idea came to me. I didn't think I could express myself orally to a teacher who still intimidated me, but by now, I knew I could write. I decided to write my gym teacher a letter. I would tell him everything. Maybe things
could
change.

The first chance I got—study hall, I think it was—I started drafting a letter. I can vividly remember sitting in the quiet of the library on the third floor of Cleveland High School in Seattle, addressing a letter to Mr. Sampson, my P.E. teacher. First of all, I let him know that it was the kind inquiry of his colleague that prompted my letter, and then I began. I wrote that whole period. I wrote during lunch. I wrote during any opportunity I could find the rest of the day. I chronicled everything I could remember: all the insults, the abuse, the assaults, the humiliations, everything over the past several years. The letter filled several pages, handwritten in blue ink, single-spaced, both sides of the paper. That afternoon, before leaving for home, I went into the school office and slipped it into Mr. Sampson's mailbox.

Gym class was every other day, so he had a day to read my letter before I had to face him again. By the time I came through that door the next time, Mr. Sampson was looking for me. “Peretti. Hold up a second,” he called from inside his locker-room office.

Well, Mr. Sampson had obviously read my letter. Now what? He didn't seem very angry. Who else had seen that letter? What if he wanted to read the letter in front of the other guys in the locker room?
Oh, Lord, this is it. Please
don't let me down.

I stood there against the wall, nervous, schoolbooks in my hand, a stream of boys passing before me on their way to the locker room. From my vantage point, I could see through the office door. Mr. Sampson was talking on the phone, and I just barely made out the words, “You want to see him now?”

See who? Me? Who wanted to see me?

He hung up the phone, filled out a hall pass, and sent me to the school office to see the counselor, Mr. Eisenbrey. I'd always been afraid of Mr. Sampson, and I'd always been afraid of Mr. Eisenbrey, but that day changed everything. Those guys had compassion on me; they really did care.

Mr. Eisenbrey had reviewed my letter and was actually warm and cheerful as he helped me rework my class schedule, excusing me from P.E. for the remainder of the school year. “We'll just call it a medical excuse,” he said, scribbling some notes on a piece of paper. He signed me off and sent me back to Mr. Sampson so he could sign the forms too.

Mr. Sampson didn't say anything as he filled out the form on his ever-present clipboard. He just smiled at me.

When he handed me my class transfer, my
parole
, I told him, “If you were a girl, I'd kiss you!”

“You're welcome,” was all he said.

I went out that door and never saw the inside of that locker room again.

I can't overstate the pivotal nature of that day in my life. From that moment onward, everything was so different. I could enjoy school. I could get excited about being a Cleveland Eagle. I bought a red-and-white pennant and put it on my bedroom wall. I donned my red-and-white Cleveland beanie, went to the football games, and felt great about my school. I got involved in school drama productions—where I could actually use some of the gifts God had given me—and I
burst
out of my shell, making lots of new friends, and just going nuts being creative. For the first time in my life, I began to enjoy being
me!

So, I said all that to say this: I hope someone in your school, or workplace, or
wherever
—maybe someone you don't even suspect would be kind—will be kind to you. I hope they will have the caring, compassionate attitude that is necessary to bring about a change. I hope you will speak to that person, or do as I did and write a letter. Talk about it. I understand that the custom, the expectation, the legacy of our culture up to this point has been to keep it to yourself. Listen, if you think you need some kind of permission to bring up the subject and deal with it,
I give
you that permission
. You needn't hide behind the facade of having it all together any longer. Get help! Talk to someone who cares—and don't go another day carrying the burden alone.

If possible,
become a one-to-one peacemaker.

Granted, some bullies are not the reasonable type. They pick on you because they are warped and maladjusted. For any number of reasons—a dysfunctional family, low self-esteem, low achievement, too much lead in their drinking water, or some other malady, real or imagined— they think they have to push their weight around in order to feel better about themselves. Unless they have a major turnaround in their lives, they'll either wind up in prison or become DMV license examiners.

But for the most part, bullies are human beings just like you and me, and sometimes they can be reached with a little bit of honesty and friendship—if you can talk with them one-on-one. I've known a few bullies who were actually very intelligent
A
students, who went on to be successful adults. Oftentimes, the reason they allowed themselves to become cruel and insensitive was because of the crowd; it was the “cool” thing to do.

Consider going to that person and having a private discussion with him, away from his friends. Be sincere, kind, and honest, and lay the issues on the table: You would rather be friends than enemies, and what he is doing is hurtful to you. If you have done something to offend him, apologize and make it right. If you've done nothing to offend him, ask him why he wants to hurt you.

Attempt to get to know the person who has been bullying you. In nine cases out of ten, the bully doesn't even know the person he's picking on. If he really knew the victim as a person instead of as a punching bag, he might ease up. And who knows? You could end up being friends.

Perhaps you and the bully have a mutual friend or acquaintance to whom you could appeal for help. I remember sitting at lunch with a friend named Paul in junior high school, and I started sharing my problems with him.

“
Who's
picking on you?” he asked.

I didn't have any trouble thinking of a name. I could even point the guy out, sitting across the lunchroom. “He's really mean. He just won't leave me alone.”

Paul was astonished. “
Neil?
Are you sure?”

I told Paul what Neil had been doing to me in the locker room during gym class, and Paul shook his head, perplexed. He was genuinely surprised and dismayed to hear about the way Neil had been treating me. “But Neil's a nice guy.”

“Well, he sure isn't nice to me.”

The next time I encountered Neil in the locker room, he was friendly. He complimented the sweater I was wearing. He never badgered, bullied, or bothered me again.

It's easy to figure out what happened behind the scenes. Paul went to Neil and told him, “Hey, Frank's a decent guy. He's a friend of mine. You don't want to pick on him.”

Attitude. Sometimes a bully is a “nice guy,” too, who just needs to be awakened to the fact that his victim is a person, maybe even a likable person. Once confronted, if he has the moral fiber and some common decency, he'll change his behavior.

Certainly, one of the most important steps toward healing of a wounded spirit is to
forgive
. It can be tough to do, but if you don't forgive those individuals who have hurt you in the past, bitterness will eat you alive and rob you of a peaceful future. You'll be granting the bullies the power to take away your happiness and to make you feel rotten when
they aren't even there!
Let it go. God will give you the grace you need, if you will make the conscious choice to forgive. Throw off those chains of bitterness and resentment that have been constraining you for so long, and get on with your life.

Finally, take heart:
A wounded spirit need not be permanent
. Please understand: It's never too late to start doing the right thing; it's never too late to change for the better. Especially if you're young, life as you know it right now is not fixed in cement. As we grow, we change, our circumstances change, and we find ourselves in different places and situations. Through it all, God has a purpose and a plan for your life. He made you the way you are for a reason, and don't worry, you are going to find out what it is. You're going to be okay.

When I was a kid, I felt terrible about myself. My self-image was in the toilet because I couldn't throw or catch a football, I couldn't run very fast, and I was considered small and frail for my age. Today, I'm an adult; I'm an author and a public speaker, I play in a talented acoustic band, I fly my own plane, I have a lovely wife, and a comfortable home tucked in the woods on the side of a mountain, and frankly, I don't cry too much about the fact that I still can't throw or catch a football.