Playground Justice: A "Good" Kid

I wasn't ever ferociously bullied growing up.  If I think about it, I probably fall into the category of predator rather than prey.

I think God knew I would have a tough go at it as a short skinny child with little athletic prowess, so he gave me a sharp tongue to keep my head above the fray.  In elementary school I was never the funniest or most popular, but I spoke sarcasm fluently and the witty comeback quickly became my weapon of choice on the playground.

I think anyone who says children are sweet little angels was never a child himself.

Childhood - at least around other children - is war.

In fifth grade I had I think the closest thing to an arch-nemesis I can expect to get in life.  We'll call him Chris.  He bugged me.  He made fun of me.  A lot.  He wasn't particularly threatening, he didn't tower over me in a menacing way.  Prepubescence has a way of evening out the playing field - I used to be on the basketball team before everyone around me started shooting up 6 inches a month.  We just rubbed each other the wrong way.  I hated how he always singled me out as the cause of his annoyance.

The antagonism rose and rose until one day the bell rang to signal the end of recess.  I jumped off the swings and ran back around the back of the building where the back door to our class was (a more direct route between the classroom and the playground)  Other classmates trickled in, then most of the class entered through the main door connecting to the hall.  The back door closed and automatically locked.  Then who should come a-knockin' but dear old Chris.  A classmate of mine (also not a particular fan of Chris and his antics) brought Chris's predicament to our attention.  He would be counted late coming in unless someone opened the door for him.  He didn't have time to run around to the other side of the building before the tardy bell.  It was up to us.

My classmate and I had no choice.  I sighed in surrender; we knew what was the right thing to do.

"Get the door," I commanded.

She secured the door handle to make sure it was shut tightly.  I pointed at a sweaty Chris through the window, laughing silently with an impish grin.  Mwahaha.

Flushed with fifth-grade rage, he turned on a dime and bolted for an alternate route.  He had just rounded the corner out of sight when the tardy bell rang.  My partner in crime and I shared a look of triumphant satisfaction as we returned to our seats.

Not five minutes later Chris arrived.

With the principal.

He pointed his pudgy finger accusingly at my partner and I, explaining with righteous (albeit winded) indignation that we two had intentionally shut him out from class, causing his tardiness.  The look my fellow conspirator and I shared now was of a very different nature.

"It was his idea!" she squealed.

I shot daggers at her silently while the principal studied me with surprise.

You see, I was a "nice kid."  Having a little brother had given me years of trial-and-error experience disguising my brattier side from adult eyes.  I looked great on paper, I made sure of that.  I got good grades, I paid attention, I excelled in things like spelling and vocabulary.  The only transgression I could be accused of was a habit of doodling during lessons.  I, with my cowlicked bowl cut, hand-me-down tee shirts tucked into my grass-stained faded jeans from Sears, didn't exactly fit the look of "troublemaker."  It's not my fault adults profile who's "good," I just learned how to work the system at an early age.

In an attempt to use my principal's obvious incredulity to my advantage, I spun a plausible alibi on the spot.  My heart in my stomach, I responded demurely, "I was just over there to sharpen my pencil."

Ya know, like a liar.

Believable enough.  There was a pencil sharpener right below the window I had used to mock the indignant Chris minutes earlier.  The "crime" had happened when only I and my now obviously disloyal conspirator had been in the classroom; it was my word against hers. I waited tensely to see if they'd all buy it.

Or at least I would have.  But before anyone could take in my story, my squealing classmate erupted into what I can only describe as a sass-storm. (were z-snaps a thing back then? We were fifth-graders, so "tantrum" seems too juvenile)  Imagine a 9-year-old Raven Symoné in all of her That's So Raven, campy, head-bobbing, overdone sassy splendor and you've got a pretty accurate picture.

She could not be-leeeeeve I wasn't gonna fess up, shoo... 

When at last her outburst was quelled by the principal, he called her into his office to discuss detention details.  I, however remained in class.

They bought it.

Well, except Chris.

He scrunched up his pudgy face into an inscrutable mess of putty that I'm sure he meant to be threatening, but all I could do was steal another quick smile as he returned to his seat in tardy defeat.  I felt too good about escaping detention (which would have ruined the rep I had been building in elementary school since first grade) to be too concerned.

It didn't end there.  We fought on through the rest of fifth grade, once it even escalated into both of us sitting in the principal's office shooting each other death glares while spitting forced, insincere apologies at each other through clenched teeth.  I'm sure the principal didn't miss us.  Or our rivalry.


I never beat kids up.  Well, except my brother but he doesn't count.  I got beat up a few times, but I think when it comes to verbal abuse, I outbullied any who tried to defame or slander me.  Lies, name-calling, immature limericks, all of these were weapons I implemented to survive on the playground with a surname like Bugg. 

I don't defend my actions, it's just fact.  Kids are mean to each other, I wasn't above the rules of playground justice.  I regret that in order to socially survive, I felt compelled to resort to verbal meanness.

But Chris kinda had it coming that day...




How did you survive as a kid?  Were you the bully or the bullied?   



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