I love the layers created by sand, surf, sea, and sky.
Some news stories catch my attention and won’t let go. So it has been with the sad story out of Massachusetts, where 15-year-old Phoebe Prince committed suicide after relentless bullying from peers. This is an admittedly horrifying story—terrible teen brutality, adults who ignored the parents’ concerns—but sadly, we don’t lack for horrifying stories in the news.
So what is it about the Phoebe Prince story in particular that both attracts me and repels me? Why has it taken up residence in my mind, refusing to let go? Apart from the appalling facts, something more lies underneath, something that is speaking to me personally. As always, when a story sticks to me like this, I am feeling a link with my own life story. Who was I in my story—the bullied one, the bully?
I was not bullied as a child. I was the recipient of fairly standard childhood teasing, being the fat kid at a time when fatness was an anomaly rather than the emerging norm, but although the teasing caused me considerable anguish, it did not rise to the level of bullying. As for being a bully myself, I simply was not designed for it. I worried about people, about fairness, about being good and correct, about following the rules. Bullying would have violated too many codes already well established in early childhood.
So what is the pull of this story, if it is not being bullied or being a bully myself? What am I remembering as I connect so deeply to this story?
I am remembering being witness to bullying.
I was in third grade, a heavenly year in the class of my favorite teacher, Miss Petersilge. I was friends with a band of four other girls, and although I was counted as a member of their group, I had a vague sense of being on the edge, as if my inclusion was shaky. At some point in the year, these girls decided to start picking on another girl. Was this other girl new to the school (as Phoebe Price was)? Was she somehow viewed as different (as Phoebe Price was)? I remember that she may have been mixed race—unusual in those days, despite the school being fully integrated with African-American and white students.
My friends decided that this girl had cooties. Cooties. (This was gentle, 1950s bullying.) They started saying mean things to her, then running away from her. Their goal was to shame and isolate her. I did not participate—even just remembering through this writing makes my stomach feel uneasy—but I didn’t say anything to my friends, either. I was increasingly upset, and at home I talked with distress about the situation. I don’t remember if my parents suggested I go to the teacher, but I am sure I felt like I couldn’t. I didn’t want to make my friends angry. If they were angry enough, they’d kick me out of the group and then I wouldn’t have friends. So I chose upset over honesty and preserved my spot in the social order.
Then one day after lunch Miss Petersilge made an announcement. She said, “I just had a visit from Barbara Stone” [my sister, who was two grades ahead of me in the school]. Miss Petersilge proceeded to tell us that she knew what was going on—what did she call it? bullying? harassment? unkindness?—that she had been informed that some students were treating another student poorly. She said, with a terrifying sternness, that this behavior was to stop immediately, and that if it did not stop, she would march the students involved straight to the principal’s office. The class was silent and motionless while she spoke.
Afterwards I rushed to find the girls in my group and breathlessly told them I did not know my sister was going to do this. I was still worried about me. I was worried my friends would blame me.
Truth is, they didn’t really seem to care. The bullying stopped and everyone moved on without further discussion. As far as I remember, I was still within the circle of friends. I don’t know what happened to the girl they were taunting, but my friends no longer bothered her. And I was no longer witness to bullying.
What do I take away from this story today? Why do I think it has stuck with me for so many years, stuck with me emotionally as well as in factual memory? Even while writing this I have felt close to tears. This is one of those stories that stick: a story that lingers in one’s mind and heart with an intensity beyond what is expected. It is a story that has a past and continues to live in the present.
As a child I was afraid to speak up if someone might get angry at me. In the story of bullying, I avoided anger and protected my social standing at the cost of hurting another girl. It is a part of myself that I have struggled with over the years: being willing to say what is true or what needs to be said, regardless of others’ responses and possible consequences. I still don’t like making people angry, disappointed, or disapproving.
This, then, is the message of my story that sticks: I have to be alert for my tendency to avoid speaking up, to want to stay clear of others’ anger or even their criticism. I have to remember that I pay a price when I try to protect myself through silence and inaction. And if I forget? Then I will have more stories to tell. We all have stories that stick, and we create more of them as we make our way through life. The stories are part of what makes us human; the retelling and reflection are part of what makes us grow.
Postscript
I regret that I never thanked my sister for acting with courage when I could not. Along with the emotions I remember are admiration that she was willing to come forward and solve the problem for me. (I should also have thanked Miss Petersilge, who was willing to listen and then act authoritatively.) We all need someone who can be braver than we are at our weakest moments.
Questions for Reflection: What does this story make you think of in your own life? Who do you identify with, either in Phoebe Prince’s story or the story I recounted about my childhood? Do you remember stories from your childhood? Are there any stories that stick?
Writing Prompts: While I read this entry I found myself thinking about __________ (then keep writing); the emotions I am aware of are _____________ (then keep writing); I identify with __________ in this story because ___________ (then keep writing).
Suggestions for Writing a Story that Sticks: First, write down the story in as much detail as you remember. Then write the feelings and associations that emerge, or ask yourself questions:
- What part of this story causes you the most emotion? Write about it.
- What do you recognize in yourself as you look back? How are you the same or different now?
- If the story happened now, how would you like to see yourself? Do you want to rewrite the story?
- Now that you’ve written, does the story feel complete or incomplete? Is there anything else you’d like to do to finish this story and make it less sticky?
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