Sans Fig Leaf
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"The company they keep"
9 November, 2006
"They're probably jealous. Just ignore them." That was the sage advice I received from several of the adults in my life when I was twelve years old and having to explain why I wasn't riding my bicycle any more.
The previous spring my family had moved back to the town in which I had been born. Having spent my elementary years in ten different schools in four different states, My sister and I had been ecstatic when Dad was promoted to a position that promised to bring those moves to an end. As homecoming presents of sorts, one of our sets of grandparents bought us new bicycles.
It was the coolest present I'd ever received. Mine was gold, with a sissy bar, a leopard-skin banana seat, the front wheel smaller than the back--which with the curved fork and the upswung handlebars were probably meant to suggest a Harley--and other cool accessories. It was also the first time that my younger sister had a new bike, instead of getting my hand-me-down.
I rode that bike everywhere: out to the river, all through the fields around town, up to my friends' house, to the library, et cetera. So when school started that fall, I rode my bike to school. On the second or third day of the school year, when I was in the middle of chaining my bike to one of the racks, three older guys came over and one grabbed the bike. For several minutes we had a bit of a confrontation, which boiled down to me--much smaller and outnumbered--stubbornly refusing to let go of my bicycle while the three of them tried to yank it out of my grasp while insulting me, kicking me, and so on.
Eventually they gave up. I locked the bike and went in to class. At lunch break I saw a bunch of kids gathered at one end of the school property. I went to see what was up, and arrived just in time to see one of my classmates coming peeling down the street on my bicycle, riding as fast as he could, and trying to jump a ditch.
The three guys who had teased and battered me in the morning had broken the chain and then dared the classmate to try to jump the ditch. He had thought the bike belonged to one of them. He was extremely apologetic. They laughed and laughed.
The bike wasn't just dinged up or dented. The frame was broken in one place and bent in another. The front wheel nearly folded in half. One pedal was bent over so it collided with the chain.
For the next week or so I had to keep explaining to people why I wasn't riding the bike. A surprising number of the adults who heard the tale gave me the "they're jealous, ignore them" advice. I understand why a lot of people assumed it was some manifestation of the "sour grapes" phenomenon, since the bicycle was the target of this particular prank. There were two problems with that explanation: The bullying started in the school hallways a couple days before the bike became a target, and I was their proverbial (and often literal) punching bag all year, long after the bike was destroyed.
It's far more likely that their motives were the usual for bullies: I was dorky and geeky and generally a misfit, I was perceived as an easy target, and other kids laughed when these guys did stuff to me. It gave them a sense of power and attention--a heady combination.
And trying to ignore bullies who (eventually) do things like take away your crutches (after you've broken your leg), and hold you upside-down by the cast on said broken leg while his two buddies kick, punch, and spit on you, is pretty much impossible. Though that's a topic for another time.
Eventually, my grandpa and I welded the bike back together, made other repairs, and repainted, but it was never quite the same. A metallic green had been the closest color we could achieve. I always remembered where the weld mark was, even though we had buffed it smooth. We had not been able to completely straighten the pedal, and I noticed it every time I climbed on. I rode the bike everywhere again--except to school. I left it locked up at home and walked to school and back.
The bullying continued all year without respite. Those three tormenters moved on to the high school (though there were plenty still in my class), and I didn't really see them again until I became a freshman. I would occasionally pass them in the halls, and did my best to ignore them.
One of them had acquired a girlfriend, and she was in one of my classes. One day she asked me why I wasn't friendly. I said I didn't realize I was being unfriendly. She replied that I wasn't specifically unfriendly, I just seemed distant whenever she tried to strike up a conversation. She had also noticed that I seemed to avoid her boyfriend whenever possible. I eventually told her about the year of being beat up by her boyfriend and his buddies. Her response was, "That's no excuse to be rude." Which struck me as too ridiculous for words.
Later that year the three guys were arrested for drunk driving and related offences. They were suspended from school because of it, and threatened with expulsion. The next day, the girlfriend was going on and on during class about how unfair it was. I didn't say a thing, but apparently I smirked or something, because she got angry and told me I was an awful person for being happy that they were in trouble.
Maybe it was wrong of me to be happy about their circumstances, but what happened to them wasn't my fault--it was entirely their own. And when someone has abused you, harassed you, devalued you, insulted and ridiculed you over and over and over again, it is not rude to dislike them. It's not rude to avoid them. It's not rude to feel vindicated when they bring trouble upon themselves.
And it especially is not rude to be wary of people who are cozy with the abuser. Particularly if they remain on friendly terms after seeing what the abuser is capable of doing.
--Miguel de Cervantes
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