Sticks and stones

in #life5 years ago

The room felt safe; At least their words couldn't reach him here, the taunts, names and filth they shouted at him, not when he was inside this cocoon-like place. Their accusing eyes couldn't pierce the walls, as they did his heart, and the loneliness seemed a comfort rather than the curse it was when he was there. In their world.

It was safe here. He didn't need to look over his shoulder, to wonder what missile may be hurled at his back; A sandwich today, yesterday a book, last week the contents of his school bag, or something worse. He was safe from the insults, disparaging comments and filthy slurs; The barrage of abuse and calumny that fell upon his shoulders and sprit like a suffocating blanket. Those hours, those disgusting hate-fuelled hours, when he shared their world left him feeling small, worthless, starved of the most basic of human emotions, acceptance.

The room felt safe though, it always felt safe. Here he could live without fear; The fear of others and fear that their torment would never stop. Familiar things surrounded him and through his tears, shed silently for fear his parents would hear, he looked at them. His teddy bear, a little ragged from being played with, but dependably loyal. His toy cars, lined up on the shelf in order of most-loved, his draughts board, set up ready to play a game with his dad...And his beloved books. He could see one of his favourites, from when he was a very little boy, sticking out on the shelf, The Very Hungry Caterpillar...He loved that book. That furry brown little caterpillar was so hungry and just kept eating and eating until one day he cocooned himself up and...Emerged a lovely butterfly, resplendent, colourful and with wings to fly away...

The call for dinner reached him through the door and he put his book down after carefully marking his page with his favourite book mark. It would be the same as every night; Discuss how his day went at school, push his food around on his plate, pretend to be happy then ask to be excused. It wasn't their fault, his parents, although they made him go back each day and whilst at home he felt safe, he wondered how they could take him back there each day.

His mum and dad knew what the boy went through each day, the racial slurs, the physical abuse and open wounds, the emotional ones, that came with being vilified, ostracised, hated and shunned and for what? For being different. For having different coloured skin and a funny name. But they made him go back and he hated them for it. Well, not really, but he didn't understand how they could leave him there day after day. Didn't they care?

His father had taught him a phrase a while ago. It had been a particularly terrible day at school that day and the boy was inconsolable. His father had picked him up at the school gate and as always the boy tried not to cry but the taunts and jibes followed him into the car and he saw his father's face...His father looked like crying and that caused the boy to burst into tears himself...And the jibes and taunts from the other kids to escalate. The duty teacher shooed the boys away and the car door closed...But the boy didn't stop crying. For a long time.

Later that night his father taught him the phrase, "sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt me." That's how it went. But words did hurt, so did getting pushed, shoved, punched and kicked. It hurt a lot. Being alone all the time hurt as well. He hated recess and lunch the most because there was no teacher to tell the boys to be quiet, no one to sit with and eat his lunch, to talk to or play with. There were hundreds of kids there, but none of them wanted to be with him. None of them

Sometimes the boy would curse himself, hate himself for being him. If he wasn't him none of this would be happening. Someone would want to play with him at school, they wouldn't empty his school bag out all over the play yard, kick him in the but as he walked, or refuse to partner up to play catch during sport. Why was his name different, why did his skin have to be a different colour!? He hated it!

But each afternoon he got to go home where he didn't need to be afraid, or question who he was. Hate who he was. His books would keep him company. He'd escape into their stories and travel away to far away lands, he'd be the hero in the story rather than the hated, evil villain...

Years later the boy, now a man, would recall those days spent hidden in his bedroom, the escape his books and toys had given him. He also recalled the torment he had been subjected to. He knew why it happened now, seeing it through an adults eyes, and understood that as hurtful as it had been it had also helped to build and shape his character. Yes, it had destroyed him as a little kid, caused him so much hurt and angst, and yet he looked in the mirror now and knew that those days, those terribly dark days, helped shape the man who looked back at him now.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt me It's a ridiculous statement, because name-calling can hurt, the boy knew that then and now, as a man, knows it also. In a way name-calling, can hurt more than a shove or punch, the same way being shunned and avoided, treated like an outcast can hurt also. But the man understands...It's just what human's do to one another, it's what they know best.

The man doesn't think often about those days because they still hurt, but he does think about it. How could he not considering the pain he suffered in those formative years, through primary and high school. Now he sees it from an adult perspective though and instead of hating his parents for taking him back day after day he feels compassion for them. He knows now that they suffered along with him, that they suffered the torment their boy did. Not directly anyway, but by default. It must have been difficult for them to take their boy to school each day knowing that that day might be the one in which their boy broke completely, emotionally or physically. It must have been terrible for his parents, but he would never know because they are gone now...He wanted to thank them, but he can't. He wanted them to know he was ok now.

He didn't break though. The boy. He never broke. He cried, sure, but each day of his life brought him another day closer to the man he would one day become, the one he is now, and he likes who he is today.

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Man, this sort of story just makes my blood boil. I suppose it's a sign of good writing that this really got to me. I get why kids behave like this. They don't know any better. But adults, I feel adults should do a lot more about these horrible situations. They don't understand how much it can hurt a child to go through this and that is inexcusable, in my opinion.

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Many of those adults know full well what it is to go through that, you know, because they probably went through it as well or at the very least knew someone like that when they were kids themselves.

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But it's easy to forget when you're an adult. I've met plenty of parents who even though they were unhappy children inflict the same misery on their own kids.

Yes, they perpetuate the wrong...That happens a lot.

This entire subject is convoluted and complex with many different elements to consider. Each human has to command themselves, and an environment doesn't always have to dictate to the individual. We all have brains in our heads.

Which misery? Making them go to school?

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I agree, it's upsetting especially when the child may not know why it's even happening, the fact that they are different, for whatever reason. Kids are cruel though and pick on someone else for having glasses, being fat, thin, poor...Even tall. Yes the parents should bring their kids up right however sometimes the issue stems from the parents in the first place.

It can be character building as I wrote however can also break a kid, as I alluded to also.

I tried to write it in a way that made people feel something so I'm pleased that conveyed.

Thanks for your comment and for reading.

I agree. It is either make or break, and while i do try and think about older times in our history where there really was no room for weaklings (eg weak children make weak men) i also think it s somewhat unfair. It s a lot to ask of a kid...

I guess it's really hard just being a kid. You re trying to figure out a lot ofsocial stuff, who you are, where in society you belong etc and maybe that s what prompts kids to bully and be cruel. It does stem from inside the home often, but children of good parents can be bullies too. It really depends on the individual.

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Totally! The fact the abuse can reach inside the home through social media is a worry. I mean, my advice is delete Facebook and stuff, problem solved, but the world is different now compared to the world that lad above had to deal with...Society is different. I don't mean better-different either.

Yes, parents can do their best to raise great kids but the kid is an individual right? Despite the parents.

Like I said above, it's complex. A broad-ranging topic and not one a few hurried lines could ever clarify. A kids understanding of misery is just that, the kids. The kid in the blog thought, with every fibre of his being, that his parents sent him into misery each school day. And so it was misery.

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