“Hey, Stacey.”
His loud comment was not inherently malicious, but his tone was. As Stacey walked into class late but with a pass, he greeted her facetiously in front of everyone. The elongated “heeeeey “ disguised as friendly was undeniably mocking. His tactic was brilliant; subtly outspoken. Even if the teacher had been remotely aware enough to attempt to penalize him, there was nothing to scold him for. After all, he was only saying “hi.” He had been doing this sort of thing a lot lately, usually saying worse things. He attacked in the morning and in the afternoon during the three classes they share. Stacey hurried to her assigned seat. She looked upset by this.
That was her first mistake; showing weakness. If someone is picking on you, you have to be as unabashed as they are merciless. I thought that this was something that everyone learned while growing up. Somewhere between tying shoelaces and not cutting in line, we should have learned that not everybody wants to be our best friend. It is safer to assume that other people want nothing to do with you and to stick with those you know best.
Evidently, Stacey never learned this. I never knew whether or not to scoff at her immaturity or admire her idealistic outlook. She had only wanted to be friends with him. He had crushed that possibility very publically. Initially, I was not sympathetic. She should have known better.
Then I saw him turn his head to a friend. He sat right in front of me, so I caught every sarcastic remark he murmured and every movement he made. I saw a smirk spread across his face. He was beyond satisfied. He was ecstatic at her pain. He was so smug, and that was his mistake.
I had only ever intimidated people as a defense mechanism. I had not derived any joy from it. Sometimes I felt badly about it. I only allowed myself to feel this guilt when I was alone, of course, because I could not show weakness. This was necessary, though. I had to tower over certain people and glare at others so that they would not find ways to hurt me.
I had not shown this side of me in years. I had only revealed pieces of it, enough to be left in peace without being known as an ice queen. I was a nice person but I could be chilling if I wanted to be.
Now I wanted to be.
I tapped him on his back. He turned around unsuspectingly, thinking that I had a paper to pass up or something.
“You need to tone it down.”
I said this in an ordinary, even tone. There were no accusations, no vulgarity. I did not proclaim his cruelty. I doubt anyone else even overheard me. I expected him to write me off since I was not cool and did not matter.
“I know,” He said, shrinking into himself a little. “I’m sorry.”
So the most popular guy in our sophomore class was not so tough after all. He had bent under me like all the others. I saw shame in his eyes, a shame familiar to me. He was not heartless; he was human.
It has been a couple of years. Stacey does not know that I stood up for her. She has, however, been kind enough to talk down to me on several occasions. She speaks to me dismissively. She seems to be under the impression that because I am single and do not fry my hair with a flat iron daily that I could not possibly know anything about life. When I introduced her to my then-boyfriend, she told me that he needed a haircut while he stood right next to me. She told me how her eighth grade boyfriend told everyone that she was fat. She told me this like she had survived a shooting or some other trauma. Stacey could not believe my lack of understanding for her hardships. I wanted to tell her that your perspective changes when an older threatens to punch you in the face randomly. I wanted to say that someone calling me fat in middle school would have been preferred to the kid who told everyone that I was in therapy because I was pregnant. I have never been pregnant, but he happened to spot me in the waiting room at my last session after a year of depression treatment. That is the sort of thing you just have to tell the entire student body at the school dance later that night. While you are starting rumors, why not throw in a fetus? I wanted her to feel bad for complaining about her “misery.” I had it worse and I was dying for her to know it. Instead, I returned the disinterestedness she regards me with:
“That sucks.”
That is the difference between Stacey and I. I do not let these bad experiences weigh me down. I am not a survivor either, because there was nothing monumentally challenging to survive. So how can she claim to be a victim when we have both had such good lives? What is the appeal in acting like somebody whom the world is out to get? Lots of people have actually been bullied so viciously that they are left emotionally crippled. Stacey, though, is not one of them.
Interestingly enough, the boy who picked on her was not so different from us. Some questions left on his Formspring page suggested that he was not the most popular guy in his old school. He was “a nobody.” I think that maybe that is why he was so aggressive when he got to high school. He was determined not to be that kid anymore and he knew exactly how to do it. He knew not to show any weakness. Maybe I relate to him better because he sensed that Stacey was a hollow person. Maybe it is because we are the way we are for the same reason, even though we are nothing alike. Regardless, my respect is his: the one who reforms his ways rather than relives his past. He has grown into a polite person whom I enjoy having class with. He no longer deliberately bothers anyone. Apparently, he gives the best pep talks. My best friend swears that he could talk a jumper down.
I hardly talk to either of them now; the boy who grew up and the girl who thinks that she did. They have skewed my perception of an issue that is usually so definitive, so black and white, to a dense grey.