Any thoughts appreciated.
So I doubt that it would seem too unrealistic.
At that time I was significantly smaller than all the other kids, and had just moved from Virginia to Pennsylvania in the middle of the school year. Needless to say, my pronounced drawl didn't help me blend in, regardless of the fact that I'd lived in PA a few years before. And anyone who's lived in PA (southeastern, especially) knows how da** cliquey it is.
Yeah, 4th grade was a living hell...until I began studying martial arts. Toward the end of the year several of the bullies sported bruised ribs, among other things. At that time, such violence was less severely punished than nowadays (and in my case, not at all, as no one ever found out about my self defense 'incidents').
Looking back, that suprises me, since most young bullies revert to a characteristic tattling nature as soon as they are beaten. At least in high school they keep their mouths shut...mostly due to some overdeveloped sense of pride. It may sound harsh, but it only takes one incident to prove yourself to a coward. If you handle it right, they'll leave you alone. Or stab you in the back. I guess I didn't have that problem...inherited my mother's occipital eyes.
Inkwell
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"The difference between a writer and someone who says they want to write is merely the width of a postage stamp."
-Anonymous
Anyway, I didn't want to set too light a mood for the intro (although I noticed my narrative comes off glib at times), or seem so unoriginal that a reader wouldn't want to keep going. Like I said, its not an important part, but I've got a crush on my own phrases and I don't want to let it go if I don't have to.
Not that I had much physical abuse, I was in an almost fight with a kid named Steve (the closest thing to fight in my life), after he and a friend tried to break into my locker in gym. I don't know if that's the time they stole my lunch money, so I had to go without lunch. They gave some of it back in the form of change afer lunch. They said they "borrowed" it. It had the same effect, I went without lunch. Rumor had it that Steve sold drugs, but then, if he did why would he need to steal?
Of course in 6th grade, it didn't help that I was an only child, coming from a semi-rural area with no experience with people my age. Just adults. And it didn't help that my mother told me to button the top button to my shirt, or that I shot up in height, making my pants overnight "high-waters". Or that I wore glasses, or that my teeth had grown faster then my face, or that I made a superconscious effort to be polite to everyone.
Later on, I did go without lunch, because a kid had no money of his own. After going without lunch for several days in a row, I told him, no. He became very angry even insulting, not remembering that I'd done more than most people. Being overly nice sometimes got me overly used. Not that I'm advocating the absconding of kindness and generosity, I'll leave that for the politicians.
If a peer group is supportive, most physical pain can be endured. I think I read where social pain is worse than physical pain. And while I didn't really experience the latter, being the object ridicule became very crushing.
Of course, at the time, I thought I was alone. But it seems most experienced this to one degree or another. Where are the bully's now? I've yet to here anyone stand up and say, "Yeah, I was one of those guy's."
I was homeschooled and had a passion for learning in elementary school. I would get in trouble for doing more than three days of school at once, and I used to sneak my textbooks under the covers with a flashlight.
Then, halfway through sixth grade, my mom decided she was done with homeschool and they put me in a private school. Talk about cliques. These kids had known each other since kindergarten and did not look kindly on newcomers. The teachers pretended not to notice (I find it hard to believe they actually didn't see what was going on, it was often done in front of them) while the other kids ridiculed me constantly. I had never been in a classroom situation and had no idea you weren't supposed to raise your hand every time the teacher asked a question. And it wasn't okay to talk to the teacher at lunch to explore certain subjects more. So I was branded a brownnoser walking dictionary. The kids, when they saw me coming down the hall, would part like the waters of the Red sea, and go quiet, just watching me walk by. That was incredibly humiliating.
My parents moved after 7th grade, and one of my teachers threw a going away party for another kid who was also moving. I didn't mention that I was left out, but someone told her that I was also leaving. So the teacher made me stand in front of the class and have everyone tell me what they remembered about me. She just nodded and smiled while they all said they hated me, thought I was ugly, hated my hair, hated my clothes, hated my lack of sports ability, hated my family, and in general didn't really cotton to me. Of course, this was the teacher who insisted that we have leap years because of the erratic orbit of the moon.
One thing ot keep in mind is that girls are bullied differently than boys. Like autumn, I was emotionally abused rather than physically (although I did get into a tussle after school once). The teachers fall into several groups, none of which are helpful: 1.) Those that hate what they see but don't know how to help. 2.) Those that are completely oblivious. 3.) Those who side with the popular crowd and coddle them. (At least, this was my experience.)
I deal with this time in my life by trying to forget it. That could also be part of the problem.
I imagine people do get their heads dunked in toilet from time to time. It is a bit cliche, but especially as a passing reference, why not? It's believable, and if it's cliche it's probably because it actually happened so many times that it became that way.
How harrowing. Especially the leaving 7th grade experience. Then again, that's good material to work into a story. The character stands up and the kids insult her while the teacher sits there, impassive.
It's an excellent form of bullying. The victim is very unlikely to report it right away, and means are at hand for concealing the evidence, what there is of it.
Usually you find out about swirlies from the bullies, it's part of the bullying to boast of it. I've never known anyone well enough that they would admit having something like that happen to them. And what would be the point? They don't do anything about bullies that give other kids swirlies.
I think that most kids instinctively know the rules of how these things sort themselves out. The only one I knew in middle school was that I wasn't allowed to outright kill anyone. It was very difficult for me to follow that rule at times, sometimes other people noticed that. So I was fortunate enough to be left out of most of what went on. Nobody wanted me to participate in such things in any role.
I'm not a nice person, just now a telemarketer named Doofus Elkin called me and I made her repeat her name three times. The third time I was having to cover the handset to muffle my laughter. Then I told here that the person she was trying to reach wasn't here. Which happens to be the case.
But, I didn't ask her to spell her name. So now she has no idea why I asked her to repeat herself three times. She's going to keep on calling people up and saying that she's Doofus Elkin.
Oh well, even Saint Augustine had evil bits.
On the general subject of middle school... I'd rather read someone's detailed description of how awful childbirth is. I hated middle school so much that I became psychosomatically ill and managed to miss 40 days of 7th grade and 29 days of 8th grade. I was in danger of being held back at that point. So I shifted my coping mechanisms into various forms of psychological malingering instead.
I suppose my problems might be useful to you from the victims side of things. Though I did not suffer from being bullied. I suffered from finding a way to make myself a victim of every conceivable situation.
Looking back, right now this second, I realize that my problem may have been that all my older siblings went to a gifted track Jr. High and my mother didn't let me go because it was too far away.
P.S. As for everyone knowing someone who was swirlied, I never actually did. Unless you count the time my in-laws did it to their eldest son for burping at the table. But this was again hearsay.
[This message has been edited by franc li (edited October 16, 2005).]
I've seen kids drop another kids bookbag into a toilet then use said toilet.
I've known kids to poop in the corner of the bathroom. Just for kicks.
Still, a lot of this depends on where your school is set. In suburbia, things do go on - coupla my mom's students set fire to the bathroom for instance - but punishment is dire and, normally, swift and sure. In a more urban environment kids are more likely to get away with stuff. I once heard about a foodfight the staff could not break up. They had to let 'em quit on their own, wear themselves out.
Middle school might be an ideal setting. Kids have so much hormones rushing through 'em that they're practically schizophrenic. Never the same kid twice. Physically too. Boys are smaller than girls, generally, but on any given Tuesday they'll shoot up a few inches and it's literally a different story.
So maybe never quite indicate whether the 'swirly' ever really happened or not.
[This message has been edited by hoptoad (edited October 17, 2005).]
I've often wondered if the Infamous Swirly was more urban legend than actual practice...
In that case, some alternative would have to do. Pantsing in front of a large group, stink bombing, whatever. Like I said, swirlies are humiliating, but that's about all. Bullies don't feel any compunction about giving them, they just usually lack the means.
I'm loving all your stories. It reminds me of why I homeschool. As far as finding reality in your story--visit a prison or some other place where social losers dwell. The situations are only different in the level of violence and the strength of the bullies, IMO.
But what might interest me most is a story that develops the difference between the realities of REAL life and the NON-realities of surviving middle school.