When I was thirteen, the tiny community in which I lived decided it was time to change the education system. The town fathers felt that the 7th and 8th grade students needed a junior high atmosphere to make an acceptable transfer into the high school mainstream. They were faced with the dilemma of not having the funds or the right amount of Junior high age children to make such a plan possible. Therefore, consolidation was considered the only solution to a problem most of us children never felt existed in the first place.
Consolidation meant merging our rural students with the street wise kids from the city. The expenses of the school building and the teachers' salaries could then be shared by several communities. Unfortunately, no one considered what the merging of morals meant to the naive students of the farming districts like myself. It was a culture shock that I never really recovered from.
My first day in the 7th grade began with the usual long bus ride. The only difference was that this time I would be one of the last students picked up on an already overcrowded route. As I stepped onto the bus, I discovered the only seats available to me were those that remained in the very back. Those seats were already half filled with obviously undesirable "tough guys". They concealed their cigarettes and foul language from the driver by hiding in the the furthest regions of the
bus. I soon learned there was no need to hide their behavior, because the driver simply didn't care enough to concern himself with anything other than the road before him. Student safety never entered his narrow scope of thinking.
Scarred to death, I sat in one of the few remaining spaces next to a young man who began immediately to verbally assess every physical attribute I possessed. When he finished verbalising, he began to physically assess parts of my upper body that I had been taught to believe belonged to me. Even through the fear, I could feel shame and humiliation for the assault I endured. The ride lasted approximately thirty minutes, but it was a lifetime to me.
When I got home at last that afternoon to the safe haven of my little rural neighborhood, I poured out my heart to my mother. I wept and explained in detail the assault I had endured. I pleaded with her to do something, anything, before the next morning. I simply could not imagine facing the same situation again. She sat me down and explained that new schools were always an adjustment for everyone. She rationalized that if she called the school authorities and reported the incident, I might possibly be singled out as a tattle tale . That kind of reputation could make the abuse worse. She believed it was best if I learned to work out these "social problems" on my own. She was wrong, and I'm not certain I have ever quite forgiven her.
At thirteen, my religious beliefs were limited. Jesus/God was a character in history to me, no more. I believed there was some kind of God out there somewhere but not one who cared personally about me. However, like a soldier in a fox hole, I lay awake most of the night praying to whoever would listen; begging for protection.
The following morning as I mounted the steps of the bus, I was hailed by a skinny boy with thick glasses who was sitting in the front seat. He asked me to sit with him, and promised to save me a seat every day. He had seen what had happened the previous day and didn't want the incident to be repeated. I rode the entire year beside him in complete safety. To this day I say with great shame, that I don't even remember his name.
One afternoon later in the school year, I was forced one last time to occupy a back seat on the bus. I made it a habit every day after school to be one of the first students aboard, so that I could choose a front row seat for the return trip. An unexpected delay forced me to accept a less desirable seat.
Just before the driver pulled away from the school yard, a disturbance broke out in the seats ahead of me. A young girl, with a questionable reputation, was being assaulted by three boys. Her short tight skirt had made her a choice victim and easy prey. As I watched in horror, she was trapped roughly between two seats and held motionless while one of the bully's used his hands to rape her. She never made a sound, but her eyes held mine the entire time. I will never forget the pain we shared in those moments of terror.
In silent agony she pleaded with me to rescue her. My eyes must have reflected my own fear, and she realized that I was too paralyzed to intervene. I would have been their next victim and we both knew it. As tears spilled silently down her cheeks, her plea for help changed to a plea for understanding. I knew in that brief second that she wanted me to confirm that it wasn't her fault. Regardless of her choice of dress or lifestyle, she had not asked for this humiliation. She was just a frightened girl of thirteen, trying to fit in with the rest of the crowd. She deserved protection from the cruelty that was forced upon her by her peers.
When I looked up toward the front of the bus, in hopes that perhaps just this once the driver would come to our aide, I saw his eyes in the rear view mirror. He was watching the assault.
No one reported the incident; not the victim, not the driver, not a single student and certainly not myself. I never even bothered to mention it to my mother. I already knew where she stood on the issue of Junior high. This must be just another one of the "social adjustments" we had to endure. The sad part is that she apparently was not alone in her philosophy, because too many of us suffered that year at the hands of our cruel peers, with no adult intervention. Certainly others like myself had gone to their parents for help and yet no single adult ever came to our rescue. We all survived the year, but many of us were left with permanent scars.
Three decades later, I was forced to relive the nightmare of Jr high through my own children. My youngest daughter, Sarah, brought back the horror and the helplessness of those years by sharing a similar testimony of humiliation and fear.
During her final week in the sixth grade, many of the young boys in her class, became increasingly difficult to discipline. Eager to be out for the summer, they seemed to unleash their frustrations on anyone unfortunate enough to get in their way. One day in particular an innocent prank of de-pantsing began to get out of control. As the afternoon wore on, the prank became more and more violent and less innocent. By the time school let out for the day, gangs of boys were literally ripping the pants from their victims.
On the way home, one such gang surrounded a twelve year old girl and tore the shirt from her body. They ran away with their trophy held high, leaving the shattered girl to walk home half naked.
As Sarah recounted the incident to me, my mind flashed back to that scene on the bus so many years ago and I was sickened once again. I began to seethe with anger for the senseless injury to such a vulnerable child. I imagined that the girls parents would be livid and would demand justice. To my shock, Sarah informed me that no one but the students themselves knew of the assault. The girl arrived home ahead of her working parents and never reported the incident. Neither did anyone else.
I could see the panic rising in Sarah's eyes, as she feared that I might be considering actually reporting the incident myself. Society had done a thorough job of indoctrinating her into the belief that tattling is a social taboo. It was this taboo that had allowed an innocent child to be stripped in broad daylight while her tormentors went free.
I wanted desperately to be ignorant of the incident, so that I could ignore the rage that was building inside of me. I didn't want to betray Sarah's confidence in me either. She tried to reassure me that such violence could never happen to her because, "She had friends." I was shocked at her total inability to believe that an adult could or even would intervene in such matters successfully. For just a moment I began to believe what my mother had said about "social adjustments". Then I remembered the pain in the eyes of the rape victim twenty seven years ago, and I knew I had to report the assault for the sake of all the children, both past and present.
Without hesitation, I called the school principal and repeated the story just as Sarah had told me, including the names of two of the boys involved. I was given no guarantees of confidentiality, in fact I wasn't certain my testimony was believed. It did not appear to be well received by the woman in charge of school discipline.
I was overwhelmed with doubt at the wisdom of my intervention. What had seemed so right only moments ago now seemed gray and uncertain. I spent the morning worrying about the possible consequences of my actions. I didn't want to lose my daughters trust or put her safety at risk. Would she pay the price for my sense of civic duty? But someone had to protect the children from themselves and from the apathy of over worked parents. If not me, then who?
At long last, I received a grateful call from the school principal . She had indeed checked out my daughters story and had found it to be true. She had called a general assembly of the student body, and pressed home the fact that no one has the right to victimize another person in such a violent manner. The boys involved were taken before their parents for discipline. I don't know if the little girl ever told her parents, but at least she knew that what had happened to her was an act worthy of discipline and not her fault.
My call to the principal was kept in strictest confidence, for which I was eternally grateful. Sarah had no idea that it was my testimony that brought about the conviction of these class bullies. I don't know if she would forgive me if she were told the truth. But certainly she must have felt just a little bit safer, a little more loved and protected. I never want her to have to look into the eyes of fear as I did so many years ago.
