Bullying is a horrible thing. It sticks with you forever. It poisons you. But only if you let it.
— Heather Brewer (born in 1973), an American author best known for her paranormal and horror novels
IF you have ever been bullied verbally or physically, either as a child or as an adult, the story that I’m about to tell you should be right up your alley.
The story covered about half of the 1960s. I’m being a bit vague here because there’s no real need to state a specific date. I fear the descendants of the characters in the story might recognise their forebears and misunderstand or misinterpret my intentions. They might even accuse me of being a word-processing bully with a newspaper platform.
My cousin who passed away several years ago at the age of 50-something is one of the protagonists in this story. I think about him from time to time, particularly about the fact that he was often bullied when we were in primary school. We were in the same class. He was not too bright; often failed his tests, and always ended at the bottom of the class. As a result, some of the nastier kids mocked him or made snide remarks aimed at hurting his feelings.
As he was a strong muscular boy and could easily beat any of them up, nobody dared to bully him physically, but he was helpless against subtle verbal abuse, especially by some of the brighter kids. Even when he did or said something right, someone always managed to come up with a backhanded compliment to belittle his achievements.
I still remember one lesson during which our English language teacher conducted a round of oral exercises on singular and plural nouns. He wrote singular nouns on the board and asked each pupil to give the plural forms. When answering, we must stand up and whoever gave the wrong answer must remain standing. The first words were pretty simple and most of us knew the correct answers. After that, the words became more and more difficult until finally, we reached the impossible.
The word was ‘ox’. There it was in the centre of the blackboard and we had no way of finding out what the plural was as nobody had any dictionary. In any case, even if we had one, we would not have been allowed to use it while being tested. As directed by the teacher, going from the left side of the class, the front-most pupil in the first row stood up and confidently said, “Oxes!”
I thought the answer was correct because she was among the bright ones in the class. The teacher, however, shook his head and the whole class responded with a loud “gasp” and a long chorus of “Wooo!”
In the end, most of the answers given were either “ox” (that is, no plural) or “oxs”. The last person to answer was my cousin as he was one of those sitting in the back. As he was right behind me, I turned to look at him. He was trying to make himself as small as possible by bending down lower than the top of his desk. To encourage him and shorten his agony I kicked his leg under the desk and whispered, “Just say anything!”
In that fleeting moment, I looked at his pleading eyes, and they reminded me of the expression of a little puppy that had been kicked for being a nuisance.
Somehow he managed to summon enough courage and suddenly blurted, “Oxen!”
Taken back, the teacher said, “Say that again!”
My cousin was not even looking at the teacher. He was looking at his toes.
“Oxen!” he repeated.
“Yes!” said the teacher loudly. “Oxen is correct … the plural of the word ox.”
Just then, the school bell rang. It was 3.30 pm, the end of school for the day.
We rushed out the door and ran towards the village and onward to the mountain stream behind my house. It was almost a ritual for my cousin and me to bathe in the stream before getting something to drink or eat.
“How the hell did you come up with the correct answer?” I asked him as we stood in neck-deep clear, cool water.
“I didn’t know it was the correct answer,” he laughed. “It was the only word that came to mind.”
The next day, the first thing that the chief bully said to him was a backhanded compliment.
“Oh, here comes yesterday’s genius!” he said loudly, and the members of his gang snickered with their hands over their mouths. “For a person who is at the bottom of the class, you did well.”
The bullying finally came to a head one day after a particularly vicious round of subtle and not-so-subtle verbal abuse. The teacher could have stopped it but did not.
That year, my cousin’s desk was not behind me. It was in the same row as mine so I was able to watch his face. Judging by the way he pursed his lips and the taut muscles in his cheeks, I knew he was crying inside, yet his eyes were dry. He had learned how to cry without tears.
The chief bully was particularly cruel, leading and egging on the gigglers and smirkers who sneered as the teacher read out the results of the term examinations. As always, my cousin was at the very bottom.
Two other pupils were among the bottom three but nobody paid any attention to them. For some inexplicable reason, my cousin was the centre of attention. Oddly enough, even the pupil at the top was ignored.
That night I could not sleep soundly. I was troubled by a strange dream in which I saw my cousin in a misty morning landscape hanging his mosquito net to dry on a bamboo pole tied between two wooden posts.
I was about to pass under the pole when he stopped me.
“Go round the post,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Don’t argue! Just go round the post,” he said.
He looked so serious that I did as he told me.
“Passing under a washing line or a pole such as this will bring bad luck,” he said as we stretched and pulled his mosquito net evenly on both sides of the pole.
“You’re just making that nonsense up,” I said.
“I did not! My father had a smoke with some old folks outside our house one day and I heard them talking about it. I never pass under a washing line after that.”
“Just washing line? Nothing else?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask them. I don’t know whether or not to believe it, but better don’t take unnecessary chances.”
Well, that was that and I woke up wondering what the heck the dream was about. As I went about my morning routine before going to school, I forgot about it. It would have stayed forgotten but for the bullying. During the fifteen-minute mid-morning recess time, with all the teachers taking a break in their office, the verbal abuse was not so subtle anymore; it was wicked and relentless.
To this day I still can’t understand what happened to me that day, but I felt a lump rising in my chest and going up my throat, and hot blood was rushing to my face. For fear that I might take hold of a chair and pound the chief bully’s head with it I turned to my cousin and told him to look at me.
“Am I red in the face?” I whispered.
“Not really,” said my cousin. “Why do you ask?”
“I turn red when I’m angry.”
“No. Your cheeks are not red, but your ears are.”
“Okay, before the teacher comes back, just watch me.”
I called the chief bully’s name to get his attention and when he turned to look at me, I announced that I had a story to tell him. Quickly and without any frills, I told him about my dream, and I made sure that my voice was loud enough for all to hear.
“I tell you, from today onward, don’t ever pass under a washing line or any pole or stick where people hang their clothes to dry.”
“Why?” he asked, a look of unbelief on his face. “You must be joking.”
“I’m not. I’m just telling you about my dream,” I said. “To believe or not to believe is up to you.”
“Okay, but why?”
“You will get bad luck.”
“I can avoid all washing lines and I’d be okay.”
“The worst of all washing lines are the metal wires. Stay away from them.”
“Why?”
“You might fall sick. You might even die, who knows? My dream suddenly ended because my mother pulled my foot to wake me up.”
Just then, someone announced that our teacher was coming. I picked up my chair and quickly returned to my desk. For the rest of the afternoon, the whole class was unusually quiet except for the droning sound of the teacher’s voice and the occasional answers when someone was asked to answer a question.
A few days later as I was about to pass by the chief bully’s family home, I slowed down my walk to give myself time to watch him and his big sister dry some blankets in the sun. He took particular care not to pass under the washing lines. In the evening when we played football, he refused to be a goalkeeper. He did not want to be under the goal-post beam and threatened to go home if he was not allowed to play upfield.
While I took no pride or satisfaction in planting a dodgy superstition in his head, I justified it in the name of fairness and peace for the downtrodden, especially for my cousin. Even today, six decades later, I sometimes cringe when I think about the abuse my cousin suffered, both in and outside school. I still carry a lingering sense of helplessness and regret that I was unable to do more to support him during those difficult times.
Now that I am much, much older and perhaps wiser as well, I want people to recognise that bullying can have serious and long-lasting effects on a person’s mental health and well-being. I wish that I have only fond memories of my cousin, but the not-so-good memories always manage to crowd out the good thoughts. It’s okay, though, for I have learned to live with them.
The views expressed here are those of the columnist and do not necessarily represent the views of New Sarawak Tribune.
