Damn bullies
The look of hurt ...
By Kenneth Amos
Director: News & Operations
It's nearly 10 a.m., and I cannot get focused on the day ahead.
Instead, I'm replaying the events of yesterday afternoon in my mind.
Yesterday was supposed to be a day of fun, laughter and joy in my home.
Instead, it turned into something sour.
I left the office early to take care of last-minute details for my daughter's 13th birthday — a quiet gathering of just a family celebrating a momentous occasion.
My wife called as I head south across the Brent Spence Bridge into Kentucky to let me know she had not been able to pick up my daughter from school at the prescribed time. She asked me to swing by and get her from jazz band practice, which had concluded several minutes earlier.
I called my daughter's cell phone to let her know I would be there in a few minutes.
As soon as she answered in hushed tones, I knew something was wrong.
She said some older boys were taunting her and calling her names. She said there were three of them, but she told me not to worry, they were outside and she had just gone inside her school to get away from them.
It was the longest 12-minute ride of my life.
Upon arriving at the middle school, I scanned the grounds and was relieved to see her sitting outside —thankfully, alone and unharmed.
She got into the car; her cheeks red, her curly hair asunder, her huge eyes filled with tears.
She said one of the boys had been taunting her relentlessly.
The barrage of remarks so cutting and destructive to her young, enthusiastic spirit were these:
"You look like a boy!"
"You're ugly!"
"You don't matter to anyone!"
"You're so small, you're only six inches high to us!"
"Nobody wants you here, so go away!"’
Over her small shoulder and through the passenger window of my car, I saw movement inside the large inviting windows of the school. Three boys — a smallish one wearing a blue T-shirt with white writing, a tall burly one in a white T-shirt, and lanky one in a peach-colored T-shirt.
Armed only with confirmation that these were the perpetrators, I strode inside and toward the school's office. The burly one of the bunch tried to intercept me and asked politely if I needed directions to an event that was occurring in the school's cafeteria.
All I could do was glare at him, and at the others, as I walked past the entrance to the school to the principal's office just a few yards away.
The door was locked.
An adult I presumed to be a teacher was passing. I asked if there was anyone from the school administration available. She just smiled, shook her head and maintained her flight to the exit.
I followed her out of the building, got back into my car, and looked into my 13-year-old daughter's water-stained eyes.
She wanted to leave. She wanted this episode to be over.
But, there are defining moments in every child's life.
I distinctly recall twice when my father stood up for me when I was quite young.
How will my own offspring remember this? How will she remember me?
I determinedly unbuckled my seatbelt — but not my emotions. I strode back into the building and sternly confronted the trio by bluntly asking, “Which one of you has been calling my daughter names and taunting her for the past 30 minutes?”
Two boys immediately professed genuine innocence. They made eye contact and stood up to my charges. One began nervously walking in circles, denying any possible involvement saying, “I’m from (the) High School next door.”
I told all three that I was going to bring my daughter inside and ask her who was badgering her. Perhaps this was a case of mistaken identity. If so, I promised the boys I would apologize.
She didn’t want to leave the car, but she did so anyway only after I promised everything would be okay.
My daughter said the two boys who had stood up straight — like men — were not involved, except for laughing at her. She confirmed it was the smallish one, wearing glasses and a blue T-shirt with white writing, who had been yelling at her.
The others, in my mind, were not guilty of anything other than hanging around with a bully, egging him on by laughing at his stupid antics.
I sternly asked this smallish-for-high-school bully what he was thinking. And I asked him to apologize to my daughter. I told him this was her birthday and that he had spoiled it for her.
He declined, again standing behind his doubtful "high school" defense.
So I chose my weapon.
I told him I would take his picture with my camera-phone to make sure I could report the right person who so needlessly had picking on my child.
For the next minute, the small-minded bully buried his chin into his chest, refusing to look up at me.
Finally, and defiantly, he "jersey-popped" his T-shirt, just like an exuberant basketball player, and told me to make sure I got a good shot of it, too.
Unrepentant, he was, as are most kids lacking emotional or physical maturity.
I turned to the other boys and told them I was sorry.
Quietly, the kid in the peach T-shirt asked, “So, you know I wasn’t involved, right?”
I nodded, only because I could not have spoken another word, and left hand-in-hand with my daughter, who said she doesn’t understand why people go out of their way just to be mean.
“He doesn’t even know me,” she said as I helped wipe away her tears.
So, for the smallish boy in the blue T-shirt with white writing, here is whom you would have met if you had taken the time to get to know my daughter.
As a journalist, I usually deal with all-too-common stories about bullying in our schools every time they occur in our communities, or across the country — with suitable empathy, but seldom with little other external emotion. Although not on a par with the stories of intimidation that have left innocent children across our land to consider and commit suicide, yesterday's incident provided one of those defining moments that I could not let pass in good conscience.
My own view of how other people must choose to react — young folks and their parents who must face up to the reckless nature of ill-mannered, ill-tempered and ill-trained bullies — has changed forever.
Leave it to my wife to put this into some good-humored perspective. After the cupcakes and ice cream and presents — in a private mother-daughter moment recounting the slight-of-stature perpetrator of such needless indignities and degradations — she whispered to my daughter:
"Just tell him that if he want to start talking inches, he's got a lot of growing to do."
It's 10:55, and I need to get back to work ... I feel so much better just getting that off my chest.
Director: News & Operations
It's nearly 10 a.m., and I cannot get focused on the day ahead.
Instead, I'm replaying the events of yesterday afternoon in my mind.
Yesterday was supposed to be a day of fun, laughter and joy in my home.
Instead, it turned into something sour.
I left the office early to take care of last-minute details for my daughter's 13th birthday — a quiet gathering of just a family celebrating a momentous occasion.
My wife called as I head south across the Brent Spence Bridge into Kentucky to let me know she had not been able to pick up my daughter from school at the prescribed time. She asked me to swing by and get her from jazz band practice, which had concluded several minutes earlier.
I called my daughter's cell phone to let her know I would be there in a few minutes.
As soon as she answered in hushed tones, I knew something was wrong.
She said some older boys were taunting her and calling her names. She said there were three of them, but she told me not to worry, they were outside and she had just gone inside her school to get away from them.
It was the longest 12-minute ride of my life.
Upon arriving at the middle school, I scanned the grounds and was relieved to see her sitting outside —thankfully, alone and unharmed.
She got into the car; her cheeks red, her curly hair asunder, her huge eyes filled with tears.
She said one of the boys had been taunting her relentlessly.
The barrage of remarks so cutting and destructive to her young, enthusiastic spirit were these:
"You look like a boy!"
"You're ugly!"
"You don't matter to anyone!"
"You're so small, you're only six inches high to us!"
"Nobody wants you here, so go away!"’
Over her small shoulder and through the passenger window of my car, I saw movement inside the large inviting windows of the school. Three boys — a smallish one wearing a blue T-shirt with white writing, a tall burly one in a white T-shirt, and lanky one in a peach-colored T-shirt.
Armed only with confirmation that these were the perpetrators, I strode inside and toward the school's office. The burly one of the bunch tried to intercept me and asked politely if I needed directions to an event that was occurring in the school's cafeteria.
All I could do was glare at him, and at the others, as I walked past the entrance to the school to the principal's office just a few yards away.
The door was locked.
An adult I presumed to be a teacher was passing. I asked if there was anyone from the school administration available. She just smiled, shook her head and maintained her flight to the exit.
I followed her out of the building, got back into my car, and looked into my 13-year-old daughter's water-stained eyes.
She wanted to leave. She wanted this episode to be over.
But, there are defining moments in every child's life.
I distinctly recall twice when my father stood up for me when I was quite young.
How will my own offspring remember this? How will she remember me?
I determinedly unbuckled my seatbelt — but not my emotions. I strode back into the building and sternly confronted the trio by bluntly asking, “Which one of you has been calling my daughter names and taunting her for the past 30 minutes?”
Two boys immediately professed genuine innocence. They made eye contact and stood up to my charges. One began nervously walking in circles, denying any possible involvement saying, “I’m from (the) High School next door.”
I told all three that I was going to bring my daughter inside and ask her who was badgering her. Perhaps this was a case of mistaken identity. If so, I promised the boys I would apologize.
She didn’t want to leave the car, but she did so anyway only after I promised everything would be okay.
My daughter said the two boys who had stood up straight — like men — were not involved, except for laughing at her. She confirmed it was the smallish one, wearing glasses and a blue T-shirt with white writing, who had been yelling at her.
The others, in my mind, were not guilty of anything other than hanging around with a bully, egging him on by laughing at his stupid antics.
I sternly asked this smallish-for-high-school bully what he was thinking. And I asked him to apologize to my daughter. I told him this was her birthday and that he had spoiled it for her.
He declined, again standing behind his doubtful "high school" defense.
So I chose my weapon.
I told him I would take his picture with my camera-phone to make sure I could report the right person who so needlessly had picking on my child.
For the next minute, the small-minded bully buried his chin into his chest, refusing to look up at me.
Finally, and defiantly, he "jersey-popped" his T-shirt, just like an exuberant basketball player, and told me to make sure I got a good shot of it, too.
Unrepentant, he was, as are most kids lacking emotional or physical maturity.
I turned to the other boys and told them I was sorry.
Quietly, the kid in the peach T-shirt asked, “So, you know I wasn’t involved, right?”
I nodded, only because I could not have spoken another word, and left hand-in-hand with my daughter, who said she doesn’t understand why people go out of their way just to be mean.
“He doesn’t even know me,” she said as I helped wipe away her tears.
So, for the smallish boy in the blue T-shirt with white writing, here is whom you would have met if you had taken the time to get to know my daughter.
- She is a straight-A student — a President's scholar.
- She is a multitalented musician (in several select orchestras).
- She has represented your supposed high school swimming and bowling teams the past two years, even though she's just in middle school.
- She is shy but still tackles and loves Forensics.
- She often tries to find ways to organize events and the means to help others.
- To make her own dreams a reality, she will be a People to People Ambassador to China this summer.
- Oh, and she has her first-degree black belt in taekwondo. So does her big brother, who’s in the high school you claim to attend. Naturally, he’s always watching out for his little sister. Now he’ll most certainly have an eye on you, too.
As a journalist, I usually deal with all-too-common stories about bullying in our schools every time they occur in our communities, or across the country — with suitable empathy, but seldom with little other external emotion. Although not on a par with the stories of intimidation that have left innocent children across our land to consider and commit suicide, yesterday's incident provided one of those defining moments that I could not let pass in good conscience.
My own view of how other people must choose to react — young folks and their parents who must face up to the reckless nature of ill-mannered, ill-tempered and ill-trained bullies — has changed forever.
Leave it to my wife to put this into some good-humored perspective. After the cupcakes and ice cream and presents — in a private mother-daughter moment recounting the slight-of-stature perpetrator of such needless indignities and degradations — she whispered to my daughter:
"Just tell him that if he want to start talking inches, he's got a lot of growing to do."
It's 10:55, and I need to get back to work ... I feel so much better just getting that off my chest.