Tyler
Clementi, 18, Rutgers University; jumped to his death from the George
Washington bridge … Larry Weinberg, 17, of Trenton, NJ hung himself with a
leather belt … Jessica Logan, 18, Sycamore High School student asphyxiated
herself … Jessica Train, 15, a pupil at Monkseaton High School in North
Tyneside, Wallsend, England hanged herself … Phoebe Prince, a 15-year-old South
Hadley High School student hanged herself ... Hope Witsell, 13, a student at
Beth Shields Middle School in Ruskin, FL, hanged herself from her bunk bed … 14
year old Samantha Kelly of New Boston, Michigan and a student at Huron High
School in southwest Detroit, hanged herself … Jamarcus Bell, 14, a freshman at
Hamilton Southeastern High School, Fishers, IN took his own life … Asher Brown,
13, of Cypress, TX and a student at Hamilton Middle school in Houston shot
himself with his father's handgun.
All
of these kids were bullied by their peers, or subjected to harassment at the
hands of classmates. All are dead as a result of this treatment. Unfortunately,
they are just a few of the hundreds that have taken their own lives in recent
years. Boys and girls alike are equally bullied.
Make
no mistake: It is not a rite of passage.
It is not "kids being kids."
And it is leading to tragedy in numbers
greater than ever before. We cannot and should not expect kids to “just suck it
up.”
When
speaking with school children about bullies and bullying, and how the study of
Martial Arts contains specific benefits not found elsewhere, I use a personal
story to illustrate my point.
My story.
Upon graduating high school -- where I, like the kids
above, had been tormented mercilessly -- I thought I had finally left my
problems behind me. I thought I was free.
That turned out not to be the case.
My father had secured a job for me in the garage of a local
trucking company run by one of his friends. It was my first real job, and one
of my responsibilities was to fuel the big trucks as they came in to the lot.
Late one afternoon a driver, agitated from some problem that occurred on the
road, decided to vent his anger on the nearest available person … me. I do not
recall the exact details of the argument that followed, but I do remember
vividly that as the exchange became heated he hit me – a solid open-handed blow
across the side of my head that sent me reeling. I also remember the rage that
came over me, brought about by years of similar treatment in school. I was
overcome by tears of frustration. But this was a trucking company, where “Real
Men” don’t cry; and he laughed.
That was all it took.
I blindly hit back. At the time it didn’t register that I
had probably made a huge mistake, since – like many bullies -- he was
substantially larger. Fists flew from both sides and it took several of the
other workers to separate us and finally remove me to the front parking lot …
more for my safety than his.
My head spun as much from the sudden flood of memories as
from the trucker’s slap. It was as if I was back in school. I could not live
like this any longer. If I didn’t do something – now – I was condemning myself to being a
lifelong victim. Within half an hour I was on the phone with the only Martial
Arts studio near where I lived. I made an appointment that would change my
life.
Upon
meeting the man who was to become my instructor, I was intimidated. A stern
taskmaster, he possessed all the charm and demeanor of a drill sergeant. I
nearly walked out the building, not recognizing much difference between his
actions and the actions of those who had tormented me. Yet, as I watched the
class, I was riveted. I was determined to join.
I
wanted revenge; I wanted to be tougher. And I knew -- I knew -- this was the way to achieve it. I
made my decision and enrolled.
The
training was harsh – the toughest thing I had ever done in my life – sometimes
even brutal. Today most Martial Arts studios are well-lit, air-conditioned,
carpeted affairs and family-friendly. This studio and this specific instructor,
however, were decidedly “old school.” The bare wooden floors had no padding;
there was no ventilation, and it smelled like the stale sweat of ages of
rigorous training sessions. The instructor's overriding philosophy basically
boiled down to this: “Punish the body to strengthen the heart and the mind.”
The regimen was intense and grueling, the pace insane. More often than not I
would arrive home with my body a mass of bruises and swollen parts. My mother
took one look at me and asked, “You actually pay someone to do this to you?” My
only answer was, “I have to.”
One
exceptionally hot summer day early in my training, the sensei closed all of the windows and turned on the heat. It was
the middle of August, and outside the streets of our small town baked in the
heat. He pushed us to our body’s very limits, drilling us mercilessly in basic
kicks, punches, and blocks. People began to drop. One became sick. Several
others, who could go no further, sat on a bench reserved for spectators. With
no air conditioning or fan to cool us, the temperature was in the high eighties
when we started, but must have soared to 110 degrees in the training room.
Cruel? Maybe. Unhealthy? Most definitely. Unthinkable in this more warm and
fuzzy era? Absolutely. One didn’t pay much attention to the possibility of
dehydration or heat stroke in those days. Yet such severe training forged my
will and my discipline like steel. Through the sweat, sore muscles, aches, pain
and blood I grew stronger.
I
was building my arsenal. Remember that phrase; it will be important soon.
A
year or two later I performed in a Fourth of July karate demonstration at
Tunkhannock Area High School, the very scene of much of my torment. By sheer
coincidence, sitting in the audience was the trucker whose slap had been
the catalyst that sent me on this path. I had since moved on from the job at the
trucking company and, though I never really forgot about him I went on with my
life, putting my thoughts of revenge into a dusty corner of my mind.
It
was a bright day; hot and full of sunshine. During my part of the demonstration
I was scheduled to break several cinder slabs with kicks and punches. The
segment culminated with me using my head to shatter two that were stacked one
atop the other. Head breaks are always crowd pleasers when they work (and
comically gruesome when they don’t) and that one went off exactly as
planned. The audience loved it and I thought nothing further of it, until days
later when I engaged in conversation with a woman who had a mutual friendship
with the aforementioned truck driver and me. She let me know that she had been
speaking with him and asked if, having seen my performance, he would want to
slap me now. He emphatically said “No.”
At
that moment I realized that I had changed, that I was no longer the kind of
person who would be a victim to anyone. To this day, I don’t think that trucker
knows or understands how large a compliment he paid me; for without throwing a
single punch or kick at him, without resorting to violence of any kind, I had,
in a fashion, earned his respect.
The point is: It was not breaking the cinder slabs that
made the difference in his thinking; it was my change in attitude, my
perception of who and what I was. I had grown stronger mentally as well as
physically, and it showed in the way I walked and carried myself. My head was
held high, my shoulders squared. CHARACTER – who you are -- I tell the children
in my seminars, is the essence of the Martial Arts, and it makes all of the
difference in the world. It was the key weapon in the arsenal I mentioned
previously. The arsenal, I discovered, was filled with as many mental weapons
as physical.
Bullying
is an epidemic in this country, and indeed, the world. It is, however, too
often a "silent epidemic" as many kids are reluctant to speak with
parents or school officials; this may be due to shame, embarrassment, having
been threatened, or fear of being seen as a squealer.
There is an
alternative to taking one’s own life; there is a pathway out of the darkness. While Martial Arts were my
chosen path, I respect that may not be the way for everyone. Every child is
unique, and for every child there is a unique answer. Through education, kids
who are bullied must be made aware that there is hope.
Before
we can find the answers we must ask the right questions of our children. We
must step up and accept responsibility for our kids, even during the times they
claim not to want our help. As parents, educators, authority figures we must open
our eyes to the problem and take away some of its power by shining a light on
it. We must get involved.
Scattering the shadows, real or perceived, means that the
abuse is no longer suffered in secrecy.
(This
article first appeared in a slightly altered form in the November 2010 edition
of the “A Mindful Journey” blog. Copyright, November 20, 2010 by Gary R.
Barnes. All rights reserved.)
