Being Bullied: The Effects that Can Last a Lifetime.

About two weeks ago, I randomly received an email from a woman who works at an elementary school in Asheville. She informed me she had received my contact information from the program director of Easter Seals in Asheville who spoke very highly of me. She then told me there is a book club at the elementary school, and in the book the children are reading, the main character has Cerebral Palsy. Based on the high remarks she received from the Asheville Easter Seals program director concerning me, she asked if I’d be willing to come speak to the third through fifth graders about my experiences with CP. Specifically, she asked if I could speak about my experiences of being bullied during my school years.

The email was completely out of the blue, and I was stunned. To have received this kind of opportunity without searching for it is incredible, and I am excited for such a wonderful opportunity. However, the tricky part comes with the focus of the talk: my bullying experiences in school.

It is safe to say my bullying experiences were the worst part of my childhood (excluding my intense surgeries and physical therapy, obviously). As a child, I could not understand why I was being targeted out of everyone in my class. I understand now that children are especially curious about those who are different from them. However, I didn’t know why it always had to be me. During those times, I also didn’t understand why I was so different. All I wanted was to fit in, and by getting bullied I stuck out even more.

I got my hair pulled in kindergarten because I had no way of running away, I got pelted with a dodge ball in middle school because I couldn’t move away from the ball fast enough, and every day in gym class, I was picked last. Though I know those experiences helped me to develop a thicker skin very early on in life, many of the experiences were just plain cruel. There is no other way to say it. They resulted in me coming home from elementary school crying to my parents on a daily basis. I cried over more than just the bullying though. I cried over hating I was so different. I cried over not being able to fit in because my experiences were so different from most of the other kids my age. I cried because it wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. I was a nice kid. I smiled at other kids, I laughed with them, and yet I still didn’t ever really fit in with them.

The complex social aspects of school are difficult for any kid. However, they are especially difficult for any kid who may be a tiny bit different from their peers. I only hope to try to convey this to the children I’ll speak to at the elementary school in Asheville. I don’t want to berate them or tell them to stop being mean. After all, they are kids. Kids are curious, especially regarding things they don’t fully understand. I only hope to explain how children with disabilities should be treated just like any other kid. Yes, they are different, but pointing out their differences and excluding them from activities because they are a little bit unique only makes it that much more difficult for them.

Despite growing a tougher skin due to being bullied, I have carried my bullying experiences with me ever since I was a kid. I remember the specific moments in detail. I remember who targeted me, and I remember exactly the way I felt when I came home and cried. I know now that many of my bullying experiences were not intentional. They were just moments of kids being kids. However, that does not mean I still don’t remember the feeling of walking into gym class with my fingers crossed, silently hoping I wouldn’t have to be pelted with a dodge ball by the one girl who always got so much satisfaction out of being the one to hit me.

The Summer of the Lightning Bugs.

When I was growing up, summertime in the mountains of Saluda, North Carolina, meant catching lightning bugs after dark. To some they are known as fireflies, but ever since I’ve been coming to the mountains since I was a kid, I have always called them lightning bugs.

When the summer nights rolled around, I’d go into my grandmother’s kitchen in her mountain house and find a jar for lightning bugs, which often turned out to be easier said than done considering all the different things that could be found in my grandmother’s kitchen. Though it would seem like finding a jar for lightning bugs was easy, in my grandmother’s kitchen, the one thing you were looking for was often the one thing that you couldn’t seem to find. Most of the time I just used a regular mason jar and then poked holes in the lid using a knife. That way the lightning bugs couldn’t escape, but it would still allow them to stay alive.

Catching lightning bugs is a lot like looking for shark’s teeth or pieces of sea glass on the beach. You’ve got to let your eyes adjust to your surroundings before you can focus on your goal. When searching for lightning bugs, that goal is a flicker of a greenish-yellow light that can be found anywhere from the right of an old tree trunk or to the left of your hand that’s clutching the mason jar, waiting for the moment when you can open the lid and put your treasures inside.

When I first started catching lightning bugs, the only thing I really understood was that I had to wait until it got dark to catch the bugs that light up when you cup them in your hands. In those days, my mom or dad would come along with me to hold the jar so that I could focus fully on spotting the lightning bugs. Once I caught one, my mom or dad would be right behind me with the lid already open so I could put the lightning bug inside. Sometimes, however, I’d get tricked. I’d think that I caught a lightning bug, but then I’d open my hands a little bit to place it inside the jar, but my hands would be empty. Even though I got frustrated when that happened, I’d turn back around and keep looking for the green flicker that was my sole connection to warm summer nights in the mountains.

Even when I got old enough to carry the mason jar and look for lightning bugs by myself, the experience held the same excitement as the early days. I’d eat my dinner as fast as I could, and then my eyes would dart from the window to my one of my parents, eager for the go-ahead that I could go outside to catch lightning bugs. When I reached the age where I didn’t have to have one of my parents go with me, I developed my favorite spots around my grandmother’s house to catch lightning bugs. My favorite spot was the “mini garden” right above my grandparents’ house that had 3 bushes in a row, flowers dotted all around, and a bench off to the side of the grassy area. This was one of my favorite spots because even though it was part of the yard, it seemed secluded in its own way. Plus, since it was a grassy area rather than gravel or pavement, I could comfortably sit down on the ground and look at the lightning bugs that I had caught. For me, the evening of catching lightning bugs was over when I was tired and yet completely content. I didn’t base the length of time that I was outside on how many lightning bugs I caught. If I did that, I probably would have stayed outside until my parents would have to come get me for bed. I never cared how many lightning bugs I was able to catch. As long as I had one, I was happy.

For me, one of my favorite parts of catching lightning bugs was after the whole experience outside was over. Then, I’d get to curl up in bed and place the jar of lightning bugs on my bedside table. When my mom or dad would turn out the lights, I’d star at the green flicker in the jar that meant life, looking at the simple insect that had the power to hold my childhood concentrate for hours outside. And after one last look at my lightning bug treasures, I’d roll over and let the hum of the cicadas rock me to sleep, anxiously awaiting the next evening to arrive so that I could once again, however briefly, catch a little bit of magic.