A Substack writer I follow wrote a piece on being bullied as a kid: My First Bully Wore a Training Bra and a Scowl by The Mouthy Renegade Writer
It prompted me to write this in response.
My bus bully had red hair. My class bully also had red hair. Both called me “faggot.”
I thought my bus bully was hot and I had a big crush on him. His hair was cut in that 90s Edward-Furlong-in-Terminator-2 style. Shaved on one side, and on the other side longer with straight, half-bangs covering an eye. God, he was cute. Every time he made fun of me it stung - not because of what he said or how he said it, but because he didn’t like me, and I really wanted him to like me.
I remember this one time I was listening to The Black Crowes on my Walkman. He asked me what I was listening to. I pulled off my headphones to answer him.
“The Black Crowes,” I said, hoping it was rock and roll enough for his liking, and also a little excited that we might have something in common because then he’d realize I was cool after all, and then he’d start talking to me, and then he’d start sitting next to me on the bus, and then he’d accidentally brush my hand with his hand, and then he’d look at me kinda funny, and then he’d start to question his sexuality, and then he’d decide maybe he was “bi, but don’t tell my friends”, and then he’d ask me to hang out, and then he’d take me out behind the school building on the west side by the soccer fields, and then he’d put his mouth on my mouth.
In that order.
“What’s that?” He goaded me. I repeated myself, knowing my answer to his question was going to set off the likely chain of events mentioned above.
“The White Doves?”
Well I’m sure I was just devastated.
Needless to say, we never talked about music again.
I did not think my class bully was cute.
He was an annoying show off. His hair was longer and had a curl to it. He was one of the soccer bros, most of whom were much cuter and more athletic. We called them “White Hats” because they all wore white ball caps. Back then, you curved the bill so it would follow the shape of your forehead. Never would a White Hat have left the bill starched and straight with the sticker still on.
As an adult, and back when I was on facebook, class bully sent a friend request to me. “Uhm, okayyy,” I thought. I let it sit there for few days or weeks.
I decided I was going to accept it, but before I did, I sent him a message telling him how I still remembered a specific time when he made fun of me in front of everyone.
It was on the Monday after the gay march on Washington in the 90s. Real loudly, he called me by my last name. (I fucking hated it when other men and boys called me by my last name.) He said he heard there was a gay march in Washington DC over the weekend. Then he and yell-asked, “Were you there?”
You know, because I probably was gay so I probably was there. Real clever stuff.
Nevertheless, it stuck with me.
When he responded to my facebook note, he said he didn’t remember doing it.he expressed remorse and told me he felt terrible about it. He offered a sincere apology. I believed him, and so I accepted it. I forgave him. And I told him so.
It was the first time as an adult (maybe ever) that I felt the lightness that comes of truly forgiving someone.
It’s hard for me to let things go when those things hurt me. It’s hard for me to extend forgiveness when it hasn’t been explicitly requested. It’s hard for me to conjure that kind of resolute peace through held resentment and fear and so much unresolved-ness.
But it does happen once in a while.
And when it does happen, once in a while, it is a beautiful unburdening.
