Bullied - Part 2

I went to my Dad about it—sort of. I was ashamed to tell him the full extent of the hazing Stephen gave me—it would have been an impossible confession of weakness—but I do remember asking him if anyone had ever teased him and how he’d handled it. He mentioned that in the Navy some guy had hassled him until Dad had learned the guy’s embarrassing middle name and began calling the guy by that, which shut the guy up. Stephen’s middle name was Lynn, so I tried calling him that. He failed to see the point. He just kept razzing me.

I went to a school counselor one day, practically in tears, going there on some pretext or other simply to avoid math class, when Stephen sat next to me and the teasing was at its worst. The counselor vaguely supposed that my upset stemmed from being in a middle school rather than an elementary school. I couldn’t volunteer the real reason and waited for her to drag it out of me through some adroit series of questions which, of course, she never did.

My grades got steadily worse. By this time other kids had begun jumping on the bandwagon and I became fair game for anyone who wanted to acquire some inexpensive status. I couldn’t concentrate in class and when I got home I wouldn’t even glance at my schoolbooks—they reminded me too oppressively of school. Nobody did anything but scold me: students, teachers, parents. Nobody made a move to help. I felt completely alone, completely useless, completely worthless.

By the time Stephen’s incessant teasing had slackened, or at least so it seems in memory, and my chief problem shifted to grades. It’s hard to relate to this episode on either count—I’ve long since grown indifferent to teasing and grades alike—but it was far from being so back then. Plummeting grades were horrible by definition. In memory every day seems gray clad, gusty, bleak, and my stomach feels like lead. Happiness is a myth; my life is one huge gob of humiliation and bile.

Eventually this reign of misery subsided, primarily because it finally dawned on Mom and Dad that my lousy grades demanded something more than a scolding. One day Mom went to my teachers for a private conference and returned, vaguely scandalized. It had surprised her when they told her that I would probably flunk the next grading period and it had appalled her that she had the sense they relished the prospect. She told me what they said and both she and Dad began helping me with special projects—it became a sort of family conspiracy to show those teachers up.

I have not thought for years of these events, at least not in any detail, and memory plays tricks. But from the nuggets of solid remembrance it seems to me that for the most part this practical interest in my schoolwork was very much the exception on my parents’ part. By that stage they had grown used to the idea of having a smart son and expected good grades as a matter of course—and usually that was reasonable of them. Still, I remember vividly that one reason my science grade was so low is that I turned in a lousy project when all the other kids were turning in telegraphs, homemade electric motors, and the like. And the reason mine was lousy was that I could never work up the nerve to ask Dad to take me to the hardware store to get the necessary materials. Come to think of it, the fact that I remember worrying exclusively about Dad’s negative attitude, and don’t know why I didn’t just ask Mom, argues that Mom may have been in the hospital during this time.

Be that as it may, once Mom and Dad did begin to take an active interest, my academic career was saved. I got an A in science next quarter and an A in language arts, and probably A’s in most of my other courses as well. I also entered a science fair and won honorable mention. I don’t think Stephen Quayle ever teased me anymore, either. Success generates its own dynamic.