Henry was in the computer room, hunched over his laptop when I came home
last night. His body language told me most of the story: slouched over, his
eyes were downcast and his cheeks, puffy. His tone told me the rest.
"Hi dad," he said, his voice thick with recent tears. "I had
a bad day today."
Bullying had reared its ugly head.
"I heard," I said. "What happened?" Then I winced at his
frustrated, clipped account of the day that was punctuated by a very rare bit
of profanity and, even more heartbreaking, additional tears.
Not to get too graphic or profane in the recounting of that, but he had
another encounter with a kid at his middle school: some flung food and laughter
at lunch and then a shouted insult implied when he was in the middle of a
presentation and his teacher was out of the room. Maybe they were not big
things, or dangerous things, but they had been building up for some time.
I had been expecting it, as I guess every parent should. Bullying is a sad
part of growing up and middle school—which Henry started this year—is where
some of those patterns start to develop. Even so, I still felt unprepared for
the discussion. I wasn't in the best of moods myself, after my usually
frustrating drive home, and I don't feel like I'm the best person in the world
to tackle this subject to begin with. I'm sure other parents will identify with
the white hot rage I feel when someone—no matter how old—threatens or picks on
my kid. At the same time, the adult in me knows there's an appropriate measured
response that will be more productive than simply saying: Well, throw it back.
It can be hard to distinguish between the kind of general joking around and
teasing that all children engage in and bullying behavior. It's also hard to
know the appropriate response. Henry knows how to defend himself, verbally.
He's got a couple of uncles that keep him on his toes in that regard, and we
usually engage in some playful back-and-forths ourselves.
It becomes a problem when it's consistent, habitual and mean-spirited. If
you're looking for it, the symptoms are easy to see: a gradual loss of
enthusiasm about school; slipping grades; being quiet and withdrawn. Henry
hadn't shown those signs yet, thankfully, but he said something during our
initial discussion that stood out like a beacon: "it had been building for
some time."
The thing is, I know the kid in question. He's one of Henry's friends. When
Henry went to sixth grade camp and I volunteered as a parent chaperone, this
kid was the one Henry chose to bunk with us and be a part of our group. He
didn't seem like a bully; he was friendly—funny even.
So what can you do?
Well, first of all, don't let it build up. When you're talking with your
children about school, listen for things that might have upset them. Make a
mental note. If you see patterns emerge, ask them about it.
Hear them out. Remember, 'silent' and 'listen' use the same letters. If you
are shocked by the language they use when talking about it, keep that to
yourself—at least at first. It's important for them to be honest and open about
their feelings and the kind of language they use, however harsh, may be an
indicator of how serious the issue is and how upset they are by it.
Talk about some different courses of action, but let them make the ultimate
choice. And, as much as you might be tempted to say it or suggest it, telling
them to 'hit them back' or 'you can come up with a better insult than that'
isn't sound parenting.
In our case, we talked about if the child was trying to impress a new group
of friends, if he was jealous that Henry was doing better in school, if there
was a mutual friend—i.e., a girl—involved, or if he might've done something to
set the other kid off, or if there might be something going on at his house
that we didn't know about.
Henry didn't want to go to a counselor. I, recalling an episode of The Brady
Bunch, stopped short at suggesting I go talk to the other boy's dad. We came up
with a couple of different ways to approach the subject and decided a phone
call would be best, but Henry came up with the solution on his own.
"We're good," he said, a little later, walking out of his room
with a relieved smile on his face.
"Oh, you called him already? What happened?" I thought he was
still thinking about it.
"I told him we had both a little hard on each other lately, and asked
if he wanted to start over and go back to being friends," Henry said.
"He said 'yes'."
Problem solved, for now. Perhaps that's a lesson we can all use: a little
honest communication and admitting your own responsibility can go a long way
toward resolving anything.
