One morning, in first grade, I was painting outside the classroom when this huge hand appeared out of nowhere and jammed a rotten apple into my mouth. Like a roast luau pig returned to life, I spun around and spied a notorious schoolyard bully – stringy blonde hair, STP Motor Oil windbreaker, and tall as the sky – 4’ 10” at least – laughing his ass off as he sauntered back toward the playground.
The apple was hopelessly lodged between my teeth – my lips having formed a perfect vacuum seal around its skin. If my sinuses had been clogged that day, I’d have been dead on the ground before anyone had noticed.
I urgently wiggled the putrid mass back and forth till it was mushy enough to remove (along with several asphalt particles and half a Eucalyptus leaf) from my mouth.
After several rounds of additional spitting, I walked into class and did exactly what I’d been counseled to do in situations like this.
I told.
Mrs. Smith promptly grabbed my hand, and together we marched onto to the playground, where I confidently fingered the culprit, and it was off to the Vice Principal’s office.
So far, so good.
The Vice Principal asked me what had happened, and I told him the whole story. The bully made no effort to dispute my account. The Vice Principal then leaned forward and sternly asked, “Do you promise never to do this again?”
“I promise,” the bully said convincingly.
“Okay,” the Vice Principal nodded as he ushered us out of his office and shut the door.
And that was the end of that.
Sure, it was.
Stepping forward, the stringy-haired wrongdoer brushed his skyscraper of a body against mine and looked down. “Better watch out,” he snarled. “Cause I’m gonna get you.”
It was exactly like that Flintstones episode where Fred’s the jury foreman and he convicts The Mangler of robbery, and The Mangler viciously vows revenge while being dragged from the courtroom, leaving poor old Fred to shit a plethora of bricks.
As the bully walked off and disappeared behind the handball courts, I stood there frozen – struck senseless by the feeling I’d been supremely railroaded.
The system had failed me.
Next recess, I immediately befriended the yard monitor and remained glued to his side the entire semester – no tetherball, no rings, no hopscotch – no nothing – my eyes perpetually peeled as if I were in Witness Protection.
And I told no one of my predicament for fear they might say something in earshot of the bully that might piss him off even worse.
Several months later, I became distracted for a millisecond by this really cute girl jumping rope, and by the time I’d refocused, the bully was heading straight toward me. I gritted my teeth and prepared for the inevitable, but the attack never came. Instead, he just walked by – his eyes to the sky as he mouthed the words to Sweet City Woman. Clearly, he had no interest in any further retribution. Beyond that, I’m not even sure he remembered me.
Luckily, that’s how the story ends, and I’m able to recount it more as a humorous anecdote than one steeped in lasting trauma. But it was also my introduction to cynicism. I had blindly adhered to the rules set forth by those entrusted with guiding and protecting me without any inkling that doing so might potentially harm me in some way. And from that moment forward, before following a particular rule or protocol, I’ve always taken at least a split-second to consider the potential ramifications of doing such.
So I get it when people don’t tell, just as I applaud anyone courageous enough to stand up to an injustice perpetrated upon them. Either way, I sympathize. In either case, it’s merely a reaction to a previous negative act.
Which is why, with any polluted situation, it’s so important to be able to identify the center – the corrupted source from which all negativity emanates – so that the focus remains on the initiator, and the victim is not made to endure any needless scrutiny from the court of public opinion.
In my case, the bully’s the center. Inciting incident? The apple-stuffing. Any response on my part to the apple-stuffing would never have been necessary were it not for the apple-stuffing.
Well, wait a minute, some might argue. What if the bully hails from a long line of apple-stuffers? In that case, couldn’t someone else – the bully’s father, for instance – be the center, and the bully another victim? And I would say, yes, in that case, the bully is also a victim – but the victim in an entirely different blame bubble with his father at its center. Here, though, the bully was old enough to know better, and he did it anyway. Period. New blame bubble – bully at the center. Same goes for me had I gone on my very own apple-stuffing rampage. New blame bubble – me at the center. Victim and violator both.
Confusing?
Not really.
A mirror pointed at a reflective surface creates an infinite number of additional reflections. But pull the mirror away, and the reflections go away with it.
So fight the urge to finger point, and follow your nose to the central abscess.
From there, if you can fix it – fix it.
If you can’t – remove it.
And if someday you happen to stumble upon a first-grader painting outside his classroom, toss the rotten apple in the trashcan and let the kid complete his masterpiece.
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