Cassie reflects on the impact of bullying
Hello, all! Like many of us, when I was a kid, I was bullied. In elementary school, I had two bullies. In high school, I had two more. I haven’t thought about them in years because, ya know… fuck ’em. But recently I have thought a lot about how my me-ness came to me. I am strong-minded, strong-willed and I can take charge of almost any situation. I think I owe some of that to my bullies.
Don’t get my words twisted. Bullies are awful. The epidemic of these children getting bullied literally to death is heartbreaking. That is one of the reasons bullies have been on my mind. So here is my bully breakdown.
First, there was Seth. We were living in Corsicana and I was in third grade; Seth was in fifth or sixth. I remember he had dark reddish-brown hair with lots of freckles and would just shove me in the hallway every time he saw me. Occasionally, he would call me a pussy or something; it was just a fact of life. If he passed me in the hallway, I was going to be on the floor or at least picking up my books or backpack. I became adept at avoiding him — the bell would ring and I would be off. I treated the halls like they were lava and I had to hurry the fuck up and get off of the hallway floor.
Then, the Thursday before spring break, I let my guard down. He caught me in the hall near the stairs. I ran towards the stairs towards freedom but he caught me by my hair. Yes, my hair. He said he needed to make up for not seeing me for a while and pushed me hard into the lockers. He pushed me a few more times but stopped when he saw my nose was bloody (not because of him but because I was digging for gold and must have hit a vein during the previous class). He made a tampon joke to his friends that I didn’t get and walked off, laughing.
I hated him so much! I sat on the stairs and wished all kinds of bad stuff to happen to him. I fantasized that I was Carrie and Seth was at the prom. I mentally exploded his head like in the movie Scanners. I hoped the sewer alligator would eat him up. I was a weird kid.
But then, during spring break, Seth was hit by a guy on a motorcycle and killed. I learned about it the Sunday night before we went back to school. My grandmother, whom we lived with at the time, and the lady across the street were talking about the accident as I eavesdropped from beside the front porch. She said that the guy on the motorcycle came up over a hill and struck Seth, who was crossing the road. His body flew up in the air and came down like a bag of jelly with all of his bones broken. Her words, not mine. I felt sick. I felt relieved. And I felt guilty for feeling relieved.
That night, I dreamt of the accident. I saw it all so clearly: I smelled the exhaust from the motorcycle and saw how the sun shone like fire through his hair when his body was thrown into the air that split second before it came crashing down on the asphalt. It was the worst dream I had ever had and to this day can see parts of in my mind’s eye. Part of me thought I was the reason he was dead. I wished something bad to happen to him and it did.
That week at school, we had an assembly where we had a moment of silence for Seth with an enlarged picture of him next to the principal as he spoke. I found myself really sad for Seth. No one cried or seemed too upset by the situation. That was the saddest part for me. I have never told anyone that story, and I am not sure why. Maybe it’s because a small part of me still thinks I’m the reason he died. Like my hate caused the accident. Thanks, Stephen King.
My second bully had no name. He was just some asshat on a bike who, on occasion, would jump off his bike and punch me a few times and call me fag. I was in fourth grade and we were living in Garland. The walk from Helen Vial Elementary to our house was a long one. I tried every day to save a quarter from lunch so I could play Pac Man at the Circle K, but after that it was a mad dash to get home before the jerk cycled by.
One day, he caught up to me right at the yard of my house. He jumped off his bike and wailed on me a few times. He had to have been in high school. I swung back but never connected. I honestly have no idea why he picked on me. I guess I was low-hanging fruit but now he knew where I lived.
The next day, written in chalk on the sidewalk in front of my house, was the word “fag.” I had no idea what it meant. I thought it was a cussword I had never heard. I went back inside and got my chalks. Whoever wrote the word did it in basic straight lines, so I decided to beautify it. I used my chalks and my artistic flair to make it better. It still said “fag” but it was surrounded by vines covered in every color flower you could think of. I was actually sad when it rained that evening. Funny thing is, I never saw that bully again.
My high school bullies could not have been more different. One was a goofy-looking spike-haired freshman when I was sophomore. He looked like Sid from Toy Story. I’m not even sure I should consider him a bully. He would call me faggot in the hallway and I mostly ignored him. Then one day, he caught me in a mood. He called me a faggot and I just casually turned to him and said “Duh!” He was flabbergasted, he didn’t know what else to say so I blew him a kiss and told him to call me. He never spoke to me again.
My last bully was a senior when I was a sophomore. She — yes she! — rode the bus with us sometimes. One day I was her little nugget, the next I was a white devil whom she would push with her finger. I don’t know if you have ever had a full sized woman, anger push you in the forehead with her finger and call you “ignint,” but it’s scary. She was like Jekyll and Hyde. One day my friend, one day my nemesis. She was an easy fix; my best friend Adam got a car so I always rode with him. Looking back now I see she had to have been bipolar. Poor girl.
The point I am trying to make about bullies is, yes, they are bad but I also feel they helped shape who I became and how I handled things. I also know I wasn’t bullied as much as other people because I was funny. It was hard for them to hurt you if they liked you. I’m funny and my humor became my defense mechanism. Without humor, my life and bully stories might have been very different.
Remember to always love more, bitch less and be fabulous! XOXO, Cassie Nova.
If you have a question of comment, email it to AskCassieNova@gmail.com.