An early lesson in life from the school bully

Insight on the News, Nov 11, 1996 by Suzanne Fields

I was a victim of preteen harassment. Nothing so glamorous as a kiss on the cheek by a boy I might have been able to stand that.

My harasser was Linda, a girl my age. We were 11 years old and in the seventh grade at Paul Junior High School in the nation's capital and we had been friends for years. But at age 11, something important separated Linda and me, and she never let me forget it. She wore a bra and I didn't. She needed one. I didn't.

Harassment started on the day I wore my prettiest twin sweater set, of soft aquamarine wool woven with tiny silver threads. Linda mocked me as "the sweater girl." Then she sharpened her stiletto, calling me "little titties" and "tiny nips," always in the hearing range of boys.

I ignored her at first as my cheeks flushed deep crimson. I thought that would be the end of it. The next day I wore another twin sweater set, of pink double-knit cashmere. Linda grew meaner. I became "Queen Titticaca."

I can describe every single sweater set I wore during my silent confrontation with Linda: a beige mix of different textured wools with tangerine and pea-green stripes around a crew neck, a red mock turtle, a royal-blue turtle magenta lamb's wool with a V neck, a mauve angora with two buttons and a collar. You get the idea. I was obsessed with fighting back in my own way Linda was indefatigable in her attacks and I was determined in my defiance.

Days stretched into weeks. I knew I could probably deflect her nastiness if only I wore a cotton blouse, but that would be letting Linda define what I wore. Every morning I woke up with terror and determination in my heart and put on a sweater--or two.

I never changed my route in the hallways or the seat in my classes to avoid Linda and I never said anything to her because that would show her that she hurt me. But I never gave in, either. Nor did I tell my mother or a teacher.

All this took place against a backdrop of bosomy movie stars, with wide expanses of the abundance of Betty Grable, Jane Russell and Rita Hayworth across the screen at the Friday-night movies. The Audrey Hepburn look had not yet arrived. A tiny waistline could dramatize an uplift and I had a small waistline, but there was nothing to uplift. I might as well have been a boy

Nora Ephron, the author and screenwriter, recalls that she was afraid she'd never turn into a girl until she wore a bra, and when she pleaded with her mother to buy her a 28 AA, her mother suggested a Band-Aid instead.

I didn't want a bra to pretend to have something that wasn't there. I was willing to wait, if only Linda would relent, but that was not to be, not for a while yet.

I mark the beginning of my conscious adulthood with Linda's cruelty. I learned quickly that some battles would have to be fought alone if I wanted to be proud of being me. I learned that I would have to endure slings and arrows that nobody else could do anything about. Gratuitous nastiness was a part of life and parents and teachers could not be expected to be my ubiquitous protectors.

Linda gradually grew tired of her mockery I think she also grew jealous of my sweater supply because it became clear I had enough to outlast her. I sometimes lent them to my friends, which earned a little envied popularity.

The moral of this story is that adults--teachers and parents--ought to butt out of the antiharassment business. Kids have to learn to fight their own battles. Over-protectiveness turns children into tattletales instead of letting them take responsibility for themselves, an important lesson in growing up. I'm stronger for learning how to fight back in my own way

Many children have endured far-worse teasing than I did and it's necessary to punish those who deal in really bad stuff--racial epithets, for example. But political correctness--teaching classes in how to take offense--misses the point of the lessons of growing up.

I've remembered Linda for the first time in years during the last few weeks as the newspapers have been full of stories of how silliness has become absurdity in the sexual-harassment business. The story of the little North Carolina lad who kissed a pretty first-grade miss captured the nation's attention because it's close to being the last straw. This particular little girl asked for the kiss, but little girls who get kissed without asking should be taught to tell an aggressive little boy never to do that again. Or she could even be encouraged to slap him if a slap is appropriate. Making a federal case of it--as growing numbers of school administrators are doing--merely is the response of a terrified bureaucrat.

At my 25th high-school reunion I ran into Linda and couldn't resist asking her if she remembered being mean to me. She said she didn't, and I believe her. But I remember, and in a way I have to thank her. Junior-high school is not too soon to learn an important lesson.