Enjoy :)
If you can't be bothered heading over there, here's a copy ...
Author’s note:
although I was bullied at school, I was never able to control or influence
others this way. I never had the level of school yard support from teachers
that Greg does in this story, but much of this is based on my experience –
including the football incident. I’m glad that attempts are being made to
address bullying in schools – and elsewhere – now, although those systems
relying on the victim explaining how successful the bully was in intimidating,
scaring or upsetting the victim are, in my view, flawed … maybe the adults
behind that share the naiveté of Mr Parker …
The lead character
in this story is one of the four main characters from the Tara Dale Chronicles,
and story is intended to – in part – provide some of his ‘backstory’.
***
There
was a girl, a teenager wheedling in her best sing song voice: “Oh, please?
It’ll be just this time, I promise!”
Three
houses away, a young man in his early twenties was loudly snarling “What are
ya? A party pooper?”
The
young boy, Greg, sighed to himself, and realised he would have to set limits to
his search – the school boundaries. He firmly set his will to limit what he was
– somehow - doing at that, and tried searching again for what the adult Greg
would term ‘control’.
He
didn’t know the word yet, or much about how this was all happening, but he did
know the events earlier that had led him here.
It
had started at the morning break. He’d headed out with the other kids from his
class, but while they’d all run off to play with friends, he’d found a corner
of the sheds which looked like it might be safe, and sat on the seats which
were on the outside, underneath the overhanging roof, where he could see them.
Some
of the other kids sitting nearby had stared at him, but he was in Grade Five
now, so he’d been able to ignore them as just little kids, and they hadn’t had
the nerve to say anything, just look over and then turn back to their friends
to make snide remarks behind hands and laugh sideways at him. The others weren’t
little, though, they were in Grade Six.
Four
of them, one bouncing a footy, which left Greg wondering if it was going to be
thrown into his head as had happened the previous year. He’d tried to identify
the kid who had done it, but his nerve had run out after they’d checked Grade
Five, and the bully was probably with his other classmates from that Grade Six
being bullied in high school.
But
it hadn’t been anything physical, this time, not at first anyway: it had been
names.
“Looks
half black, doesn’t it?”
“Curly
hair like that would make a good mop.”
“What
are ya, blind? It’s hair isn’t curly, but it’d make a good wig for a girl.”
Greg’s
heritage was a mixture of indigenous, Afghan, German and Scottish, all blended
from around South Australia’s Barossa Valley. In his adult life, with his dark
hair and swarthy skin, he would be described as a blue eyed homage to the young
Omar Sharif. As a child, he would be an easy target for the mostly white kids
in his pre-(officially) multicultural Australia, he and the kids who looked
European, and a few white kids who seemed different.
He
mustered his courage –without taking a deep breath, as that, in his experience,
would be enough to set off an attack, and stood up to move away. That, and
silence, was the best his teachers and parents could come up with, the days of
anti-bullying strategies being decades away in the future. It was pretty much
useless.
The
No. 2 of the group – it was easy to pick the bosses, often the biggest cowards,
and the toadying servants who had their own hierarchy, and often did the physical
work – grabbed Greg by the coat and pushed him up against the side of the
timber shed.
Greg
was torn. He wasn’t hurt – he’d kept his head forward so it didn’t hit the side
of the shed, and the bully didn’t have hold of any skin, but he was afraid of
getting in trouble if he fought back or defended himself, and that, and fear of
not being able to stop if he started and all the bullying drove him to go too
far and get into trouble for hurting another kid, not fear of pain or desire to
do what the adults all called ‘the right thing’ stopped him from fighting back.
He
called on his inner strength, lifted an arm across his body, and leaning into
the arm, pushed across his body and swept the arms holding him off, and wedged
his way forcefully out of the bullies. He didn’t see the look of surprise on
No. 2 Tormentor’s face, but he did hear the laughter that followed him,
laughter which No. 2 joined in to cover his embarrassment of not keeping the
smaller kid locked up. Later he would brag that he’d really let him go, out of
pity, you know.
But
then, in the school yard, Greg was walking purposefully away, when he was
called by a teacher.
“Greg!”
He
turned reluctantly. At least it was Mr Parker, the best teacher in the school.
“Are
you alright, Greg?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“You
sure? It looked like those boys were giving you a hard time.”
A hard time? You bloody idiot, sir, I was
physically assaulted and threatened.
He
thought that, but aloud, despairing of the blindness, naiveté and downright
ideological stupidity of adults, only said “I’m OK.”
Mr
Parker nodded thoughtfully, and asked “Would you like me to have a talk to
them?”
“Not
really, sir. It wouldn’t change anything, and they’ll just pick on me more if
you do.”
“Alright,
then. But I’m going to have to let them know I saw something, and make sure
they know that sort of behaviour is not on.”
Greg
shrugged his shoulders, and, as Mr Parker strolled off, apparently aimlessly,
walked to one of the few trees in the school yard, and turned to place his back
against it while he watched the bullies and Mr Parker.
Greg
had to admit that Mr Parker handled his arrival masterfully. He’d simply
meandered around in a few directions until the group had smirked to themselves
and appeared to have decided that they’d got away with it. Then, within
moments, he was at their side, talking to them. Clearly Mr Parker was saying
something, and Greg could see one of the bullies look sourly in his direction.
After a few minutes, there was some uneasy laughter, and the group appeared
ready to break up.
Greg
felt anger and hate. He’d get picked on more for sure.
You idiot, Mr Parker! They’re playing
with you. Can’t you see the looks at me? They’re going to get even with me for
snitching!
And
then Mr Parker suddenly swung the leader around, and held the boy off balance by
one arm. He stooped to look directly in the boy’s eyes, a frightening glare on
his face and a snarl in his distant voice. He shook the boy, who now looked
terrified.
Good! thought Greg. Find
out what it’s really like to be on the receiving end.
He
noticed a group of girls standing nearby. They were universally loathed as up
themselves snobs who put on airs and thought themselves too good looking for
the school. Greg knew that at least one of them was terrified of her poor
performance at school and used this as a cover for her fears. Right now, he
couldn’t care less.
Hey, there’s someone weak there? Why
don’t you pick on them for once?
And
they did. They moved closer to the boys, and clearly had started mouthing off
in their supercilious, presumptuous, arrogant manner.
Mr
Parker was looking shocked.
Greg
saw the retreating boys were passing a group of small kids who were playing
marbles. One of them, in future decades, would be diagnosed as having ADHD:
now, he was just called trouble.
Wouldn’t it be good if he threw a marble
at one of the other kids?
Suddenly,
that happened.
Greg
was horrified.
Shit! I’m doing what they did!
He
didn’t have the words to explain it, but in effect what he did was relinquish
the control he had claimed over these people.
Mr
Parker snapped at the boy who’d thrown the marble, who snarled up at him, and
said something to the snarky girls, who tried to back chat him and were
evidently told to button it.
Greg
slowly sank until he was crouched at the base of the tree.
What had just happened? How did that
happen? What’s wrong with me?
He
looked at the carnage that he’d just created. The bullies were now looking at
him with fear in their eyes. Greg didn’t know that the fear was partly of
fathers who would accuse them of being weak and unmanly.
The
group of girls was clearly agitated, and marble boy was standing rigid and
ready to explode.
Oh shit. I did that.
He
didn’t know where it came from until many years later, but come it did – a thought,
a thought that, maybe … just maybe … if he had used this ability to cause harm,
he could use to do good.
He
looked at the bullies, a couple of whom were shivering, despite their coats. He
… somehow felt out towards them, and became aware that most of them feared
their fathers.
Say it. Say you don’t know what to do
about your Dads.
He
watched as the group slowly became less tense.
Greg
felt relief, and thought Good.
He
looked at marble boy next, and felt that awareness tell him that what was
really upsetting the boy was that he didn’t know where his marble had gone. Greg
became aware where it was.
He
thought to the small boy It’s there. You
can go get it, your friends won’t mind if you go around the circle so you don’t
risk standing on their fingers or moving their marbles.
The
boy looked directly at Greg, smiled and ran around the circle scratched in the
dirt towards his marble.
Greg
looked at the girls, obviously agitated. He could see Mary, the girl he knew
was scared of doing badly.
Change the topic, Mary. Change it to what
really gets you – worry about school marks.
Again,
he could see the group change, with their former leader looking at Mary, and
the group spreading to be more uniform, rather than clustered around their
leader.
And
now, Mr Parker. He could see the teacher standing, stunned, an island in the dusty
schoolyard covered with noisy, running kids, except for a small kid who,
unnoticed, had grabbed the teacher’s hand.
Greg
felt that same awareness tell him that he would have to go talk to Mr Parker,
and thank him for getting the message through so strongly, and that he didn’t
think anything further would come of it or be needed. He’d have to make the
violence a small thing, almost like pretending it didn’t happen.
He’d
also need to hurry, as the bell to end school recess was going to ring shortly.
As
he trotted over to Mr Parker he thought that he’d have to see what this … this …
gift could do at lunch break.
Copyright © Kayleen White, 2014 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit and due financial recompense, of course :)
