I saw a picture on Facebook today. It was a black and white photo from the 1978-79 school year of a group of beautiful smiling girls from the Varsity basketball team all dressed up and ready to head to a sports banquet. "Wow, that brought back a lot of memories!" a classmate commented. Indeed it did. For me, it was this:
I was a sophomore and one of only two sophomores chosen to be on the Varsity team. That night we met at the school, and the older girls with cars were asked to help carpool to the banquet.
Come ride with us!" one of the drivers shouted to me, smiling out the window of her almost full car. I was confused because I knew the girls in that car didn't like me and had made bullying me nearly as much of a sport as basketball that year. But I naively thought that maybe they were feeling some goodwill, so I headed for the car. As I reached for the door handle, the driver hit the gas and peeled out - the girls inside laughing and waving as they sped away.
As I stood there, humiliated again, I contemplated just going home, the same old questions running through my head; What had I done to them - why is it like this?
But it's not in my nature to quit, so I found another ride. I went to that banquet, fake smiled, and pretended to have a good time while I battled with that familiar giant pit in my stomach - that weird, off, "I don't belong here" feeling that is just so hard to shake. Then I went home, crawled into bed, stared at the ceiling, and willed the tears not to fall. Even though they wouldn't see it, letting the tears out felt like letting them win.
The next day, and every day after that, I got up, went back to school, and back to basketball practice, and acted as though nothing had happened. But the bullying continued, and I was eventually called into the Guidance Counselor's office.
"I just wanted to talk to you about how your school year is going," Mr. Clarke said, "Is there anything you'd like to talk to me about?" My eyes darted around the room, searching for any answer other than the one I knew he was looking for. I met his eyes, then quickly looked down and lied. "Nope, not that I can think of," I shrugged with fake "everything is fine" enthusiasm.
I'd like to say it was out of the goodness of my heart that I didn't want to throw the girls on the team under the bus - and maybe a small part of it was - but I also didn't want to make the situation worse. Mr. Clarke wasn't giving up, though. After a little more small talk to try and make me comfortable, he zoned in. "Tell me about the basketball team," he said. "What do you want to know?" I replied, struggling to keep eye contact but barely holding it together at this point.
I was only 15, but I was a pretty tough 15. The youngest of four girls, an extrovert and a tomboy, I had fought my share of fights, stood my ground, and held my own countless times - including the time my Mother made me meet with the Catholic priest on my own and tell him face-to-face why I didn't want to be confirmed. But when Mr. Clark rose from his chair, offered me a tissue, placed a hand on my shoulder, leaned down, and said, "Kim, what's really going on?" - the dam burst. A flood of pent-up emotion rushed out like water from an unplugged hydrant.
I'm not sure how long I sobbed in his office before I spoke. "I - don't - know - why - they - hate - me," I finally blurted out in halted, blubbering words as I grabbed more tissues and tried to control my heaving shoulders.
He's gone now, but still, God bless Mr. Clarke and whoever went to him about the situation. I still don't know for sure who it was, but I owe them both a debt of gratitude. (My Mother claims it wasn't her, and my coaches were tight-lipped.)
I needed that gentle guidance and helpful conversation that day more than I knew. I needed some perspective, and I needed to be heard. That meeting changed the trajectory of the rest of my high school years, and it might not even be an exaggeration to say (in some ways) my life.
Of course, that was only a season for all of us, and I'm sure (and I know in some cases) that those girls went on to live beautiful lives full of love, compassion, and generosity, and I hold nothing against any of them. But, even after all these years, seeing that black and white photo brought back the old familiar feeling, just for a moment, of how alone I felt that night in the school parking lot. And it reminded me that, tragically, some kids don't make it through that season.
Please, never underestimate the impact that your words and actions carry. Be a force for good in this world. Lift people up, see the good, be an advocate, and believe that you can make a difference.
In a world full of bullies, be a Mr. Clarke.
If you know a student struggling with bullying, anxiety, depression, or mental health issues, here's a good organization and some great resources. https://projectspreadpositivity.com/help/</span>