Before I get into the difficult time I had during my seventh grade year in middle school, I would like to point out that my childhood is filled with pleasant memories. I was reasonably athletic, and so my peers admired the contributions I made as a basketball and soccer player as a kid even if they did not always understand my behavior. Similarly, my classmates seemed to overlook my social awkwardness when we had group projects, because they seemed to realize I could help them earn a good grade. Finally, like most on the spectrum, I had few friends, but I had just enough. In this case, I needed just one.
I think the most frustrating aspect of my life was not understanding why my classmates often rejected me. Neither they nor I knew I was on the autistic spectrum. I did know I was hearing impaired, but I compensated for that by sitting near the front in all my classes and asking a lot of questions. Perhaps that is what annoyed some of my classmates. “David is so smart, but he asks so many stupid questions. Why is that?” My peers did not know I was hearing impaired. I was ashamed of it and did not tell anyone. That was not a socially smart decision. I was not responding to much of what was being said. I am sure my classmates thought I was rude, dumb or both. But I was not really aware this was going on, just that my peers were rejecting me and did not understand why.
Anyway, there were also times when I could hear fine what was said, but I could not follow the content and tone of the conversation as quickly as they could. I laughed inappropriately when nothing funny was being said. I still do that, but I apologize when I do, and I understand why I am doing it. So, I am able to regain respect today. Back then, I had no clue that my behavior was very irritating. My buddy Mike, however, weathered it all, because I think he felt a little sorry for me, but also because he was quick to see my assets. He played defense and set up many goals I scored when we played soccer together.
I think my classmates grew tired of trying to understand me. So, they began to bully me. My theory is middle school children don’t have the insight to grasp the subtle behavior patterns of their peers that tick them off. So they pick come unusual characteristic that cannot be changed, and they make fun of that. In my case, that seemed to be what happened.
My classmates made fun of my hair color and unkempt way I styled it. I am platinum blond. It is darker today, but back then, it was practically white. So, my nickname was, “Mophead.” I heard it everywhere: changing classes in the hall, during lunch and in class. Oftentimes, groups of them would chant, “Mophead” as I walked by. Riding the bus home was particularly rough. Around school, I could walk away from the taunting. On the bus, I was stuck. I had to listen to it for an hour and a half, because I was the last stop on the bus route. Nobody stopped it. I was practically suicidal. But I lived through it.
The turning point was the field day we had on our playground. There was much going on: a snack bar and all kinds of outdoor games. I was wandering around when suddenly two of the regular bullies walked toward me. I walked in the other direction, but it was no good. Bullies started to come at me from that direction as well. Before I knew it, I was completed surrounded by the tormentors. I had nowhere to go. I looked for help, but none came. I figured I was about to beaten to a pulp. I was terrified.
Then, something happened.
A small group of tough kids stepped in the middle with me. These were less than average students from the poor neighborhoods. One of them remembered my helping him with classwork back in elementary school. The bullies were stymied. My new allies asked me to point out the primary perpetrator. I identified the ring leader. His arrogance was quickly replaced by fear. I left the scene in tears with sadness and relief. I felt sadness because I never felt so alone. I felt relief because I realized that not only did I have enough influence to persuade at least a few to help me, the abuse stopped when I asked for help.
Enter my buddy Mike. Over the summer, I explained the situation to him. He was furious. Mike lived in a different part of town from me. So, we didn’t ride the same bus. So during the first week of 8th grade, we decided we would have him spend the night with me on a Friday night so he could ride the bus home with me. And that’s all it took.
We sat down with the ring leader and pointed out every instance that he participated in the abuse. When we were done, I asked his primary co-conspirator if any of what we said was untrue. He said nothing. Another bus mate tried to get me and Mike to stop making our case. I quickly told her it had nothing to do with her, and she had no business butting in. She became silent. And when it was time for the ringleader to get off at his stop, Mike and I promised him that Mike would be riding home with me often.
Mike’s intervention probably saved my life. I did not want to return to these horrors. Together, we made sure the bullying stopped and stay stopped. I remember that next school year, our soccer team reached the state playoffs and defeated the team on which one of our rivals played. Mike and I had a ritual of writing the score of our soccer game on the board of algebra class. I realized as we wrote the score of that city playoff game, I had earned more than just one victory. They teach in schools today that the bystander is key to stopping the bullying that happens in school. Truer words have never been printed. Parents can’t stop bullying. Teachers and administrators can’t stop it. You need bystanders like Mike.
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