Rights Are Nonpartisan

I was bullied in school. Of course I was. I was a weirdo. A freak. I preferred reading the entire encyclopedia and discussing sedimentary rock to playing hopscotch and wearing dresses. I ran around the playground barking like a dog. Why? I watched my grandmother beat the crap out of our Cocker Spaniel on a daily basis and he showed no pain. I wanted to show no pain. 

What I needed was just one kid to stand up for me and say "stop it" to the bullies. Because once one kid does it (especially a popular or at least a likable one), more will find the courage to do the same. And there are far more non-bullies than bullies, a truth we are too easily blinded from.

But that's not usually how it goes down, is it? You see, a bullied kid is more apt to be surrounded by others who look the other way due to feeling uncomfortable or fear being bullied themselves. "Not my problem." They'd say. 

All the while, they are next in line--as long as they remain silent.

My bullying experience continued until one lucky day in high school, my freshman year, a girl (a big, intimidating girl who may have been 6 feet tall) had heard a group of kids calling me names and throwing gum in my hair. I watched from afar as she approached the group. Heard a bit of yelling, saw some neck rolling, a push and a shove, and somehow, from that day forward, I was never picked on in school again. Just. Like. That. 

My guardian angel left my high school soon after that . . . don't know why or where she went, or even who she was, but I never saw her again. 

This is not a girl I would have probably bonded with or hung around with at lunch or at dances. I don't think she wanted that. We may or may not have agreed on much, but how would I know? The important thing was she recognized that I was human, that I mattered. That's all I needed to help me move through a time in my life that was painful enough.

Did I deserve to go to school without having to worry about if I were going to be beat up while walking home, or who would be waiting for me around the corner to spit on me or punch me in the back of the head? Of course I did. And so did every other student in my school and ALL schools. Just as every citizen of this country and every being on this planet and beyond deserves to have the same rights, equally. Not just the ones you or I agree with. 

Our rights are our rights and RIGHTS ARE NONPARTISAN. If some of us lose them, we ALL lose them. 

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out— 

Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out— 

Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—

and there was no one left to speak for me.

-Martin Niemoller, 

Protestant pastor who spent the last seven years of Nazi rule in concentration camps.

Think of this when you see a community other than the one(s) you directly relate to fighting for their rights. Turning the other way may stall the bullies, but it will never stop them. Speak up.  

Everyone has a story . . .

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them they should have behaved better.” -Anne Lamott

Stronger

Wanted to share a beautiful song written and performed by my gorgeous, super multi-talented, fellow aspie friend, Rudy Simone. In response to bullying (not just for those on the Autism spectrum, many others can relate), I so appreciate that it touches on this touchy subject that has and is affecting so many of us and our youth. It's nice to have an advocate that's been there. 

 

 

*Unleash the Hounds

I remember very clearly the first day it began, as if it were yesterday.  My young, hip mother had a few girlfriends over. They were laughing, drinking, and generally being obnoxious (to my taste), talking over each other and carrying on the way I see many women do when they're traveling in packs.  I wanted them to leave, so, my four-year-old brain’s solution: I became a Doberman Pinscher and ran out into the living room barking at them fiercely, as if guarding my domain with all my might. 

They laughed. They mistook me for a “monster”.

“What are you, a werewolf? Dracula? What kind of little monster are you?” they asked, with that “cutesy” tone of voice some use when speaking to children.

I have always despised that aspect of people, when they change their voice to sound cute or . . . I don’t know, just different than how they normally sound when speaking of folding their laundry, creating an excel spreadsheet, or re-fueling their cars.  When I hear that high-pitched type vocalization, I feel as if someone is pouring boiling water over my body and sticking knitting needles through my eardrums, full force.

I yelped louder and clearer, then started biting at my mother’s orange vinyl barstools (I had seen dogs do this when they couldn't get to their target, sinking their teeth into whatever was near to rid themselves of pent-up frustration). It made me feel powerful, and expressed something I didn't feel I could express with mere words.  Without barking, I was a timid little girl, sitting in a corner somewhere, coloring, doing puzzles, reading about animals, or having tea with Steve Martin (my trusty invisible friend).

The cackling hens finally exited (after insisting I was a “cute little puppy”, grrrrrrrr). I accomplished my mission, served a good duty.  I rid our home of chaos.

This barking continued, and became my way of keeping people at a distance and keeping me safe inside myself. I became an expert on dogs: training techniques, breeds (standards, groups, temperaments, origins, and vocalizations), and physical/psychological reactions. By the time I was eight, you could name any breed of dog and I could mimic its bark. 

This didn’t bode well on the playground, as I'm sure you've guessed. Kids started calling me “Sparky,” pretended to throw bones for me, then would giggle along with their friends behind my back (although, with Asperger’s Syndrome comes major sensory sensitivities—I could hear EVERYTHING on the playground).  I learned that if I could get out of class fast enough for recess and grab a swing, I could stay on that swing the entire recess period and never have to deal with other kids at all.  The sensation of the swings relaxed me, made me feel a sort of high, and I was safe. You don't have to talk on swings. If there were no swings, well, it was “Sparky” time and I was lucky enough to find one friend who didn’t mind occasionally playing “animals” with me. She was a tiger.

I had no idea this had anything to do with Asperger’s until I began researching Online Forums belonging to parents of children with AS. Days ago I began uncovering post after post regarding Aspergian children who choose to emulate certain animals rather than engage in socially acceptable, age appropriate games such as dodge ball (ouch!), jumping rope, sports, and the like. With my new found diagnosis, it makes sense to me now why I desired solitude—the loud screams of the children made my head hurt, the bright Southern California sun burned my eyes and skin, and constant buzzing and brightness of those terrible fluorescent light bulbs in the classroom made me feel like my head was going to explode. How can anyone learn with those bloody buzzing lights?!

The last day I barked was my first day of sixth grade.  We had a long summer break and I was changing schools from elementary (with a playground and swings) to a high school type setting (square buildings, some temporary modular classrooms, a basketball court, a gym, and a track). No one prepared me for this change. I was shocked. 

“No swings! What do I do? What if I get lost?!” 

We broke for lunch that brisk September day and I saw my old trusty "tiger" pal, ran up to her yelping (as this is how I'd initiate play in elementary school), and she completely ignored me, walking passed with her new group of friends, giving me that signature look of disdain teenage girls are so privy to.

“Oh my GAWD, what was THAT?! Hahahaha,” I heard one of her friends exclaim as they all three laughed and trotted by.

I then realized I couldn't swing, couldn't bark, and I had better find a new identity—and quick.  So I went home that afternoon, cried into my pillow, then put all my toys and dog books away in a box, sealed it up, and then began a life of watching and attempting to “copy” others in order to be seen, in order to be loved, in order to be accepted, in order to survive.

Excerpt from chapter eighteen | hey bulldog | Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir