Bullying. One word that used to have a simple meaning, as well as a simple solution. Now, it’s been twisted, perverted, and inflated to such villainous proportions, that it’s been blamed for everything from suicide to acute acne, and soon: explosive diarrhea. One has to wonder how much of the issues that children face, with school shootings, the above mentioned suicides, kids still living with mommy, well into their 20’s and 30’s, and the general pussifying of the general public, has to do with the way that we handle bullying. It might not be PC to say so, but I personally believe that boys who respond to bullying in teacher- and school-approved ways—by seeking assistance from a teacher, for instance—are actually more likely to be bullied. As a matter of fact, in my day, it would have been a sure way to be ostracized and picked on, even more. It could be argued that “fighting back” is a sign of emotional maturity. Common sense tells many people that prohibiting kids from fighting back is the same as teaching them to tolerate abuse. Parents coddle, teachers counsel, principals scold, suspend, reprimand, and often, criminalize someone for physically defending themselves. No one teaches their child how to pack a fist, or the vital, soft places to land a punch, and end an altercation. We now have sensitivity training, and phrases like “use your words”. USE YOUR WORDS? REALLY? How about a nice pop in the nose, or solar plexus? Hard to bully, when you can see, or breathe. Kids today, play on soft playground equipment (if they even have recess). No swinging gates on concrete to fall from, and skin your knee. No tetherball, to determine who has the heavier, faster hands. Slides? What, and get friction burns? Teachers are contacted, and berated for giving less than stellar grades. Kids are slathered in hand sanitizer, carry their own water in approved, sterilized containers, have cell phones at 8 years old, to call mommy every hour on the hour, and I’d risk that at least 50%, can’t make a sandwich, or their own after school snack on their own. As a child of the 80’s, our days were simple, due to the way that we were raised. We got our asses out of bed, and did our chores, ate breakfast, got dressed, got our books and went to school. We had our friends, or “cliques”, if you will; and we all had the others back. There was always some asshole kid who was bigger than the rest, and wanted to pick on you. SO? Deal with it! I was much more worried about the ass whipping I was gonna get, for going home with a bloody nose or black eye, without a single scratch or scrape on my knuckles. I was generally one of the smallest kids, all the way through Jr. High, and believe me; I was a master at taking an ass whipping, but I was just as good at giving one back. We played football, baseball, and basketball. We wrestled, and ran track too. You may, or may not make the team. If you did; this didn’t mean that you saw playing time. If you were better than the guy beside you, then you got to play. Otherwise, you were warming the bench, and took pride in being part of the team. If your team lost, you didn’t get a ribbon, or trophy for participation. You were born equal, but you weren’t all physically equal. You accepted this, and worked to improve in order to garner the accolades afforded the better players. You learned how to be part of a team, and how to be a leader through these processes. You got to be part of something bigger than just yourself, and learned what it meant to be a guy. You learned the sting of failure, and the pride of success. You learned to spit correctly, throw farts, make and blow the perfect spit wad, cuss, fight, argue, sling insults, and take them from someone else. In the summer time, we had bikes. We learned mechanical aptitude by working on these bikes, which was handy later in life when we had to work on our own vehicles. We left the house that morning, and we came home when the street lights came on. We drank out of the neighbors hose, and swam in ponds. We’d ride horses to the creek, and hang out with friends, shoot bottle rockets at each other, have rock fights, take a pull off a bottle of rot gut whiskey or vodka that someone swiped from their folks, and think we were James Dean cool, with cheap generic cigarettes, hanging from our lip. We’d fight each other, and laugh about it later. We’d come home, wet, sweaty, filthy, and bloody, smelling of stink bait, stray dogs, horse shit, and snuff. When we were asked “where ya been all day?” It was a simple answer: “At the creek”, or over at ________ house” It was a part of growing up, and your folks didn’t care as long as you didn’t need medical attention, and the local police didn’t have to drive you home. You’d do your chores, wash up, eat dinner, and play in the yard til bedtime. Then get up, and do it all over again tomorrow. By the time I was 15, I had developed a pretty good set of fighting skills, and I could take a punch with the best of them. One summer, my mom stood and watched me, on 3 occasions inside of a 2 week period, beat the shit out of a 19 year old punk, that decided he was gonna bully the small kid (ME). This incident, in turn kept every other kid in the apartment complex where she lived, in check. On the 3rd and final occasion, I was hit from behind, by one of his larger friends, and pummeled in my head, ears, and neck. IT sucked, but hey – it was a fight. I got what I gave. Did I go get a gun, or knife and chase him down? Not hardly. I took the bruises proudly. I worried about nothing. I didn’t have her sitting me down, and asking me how I felt about it, and if I needed to talk to a professional. This would have been the same, had I won or lost. We fought for the honor, and defense of our Moms, sisters, female cousins, girlfriends, or just any girl that needed us. We weren’t reprimanded for this. We were celebrated. We would have been hard pressed to sit without a grimace, had we let and dishonor, or abuse go, without standing up to the aggressor. Suspension? In school suspension? Detention? Because we stood up for ourselves, or someone else? We didn’t get in trouble at home. It was just a natural occurrence. We were boys. Learning how to be men. Quit turning your sons into PUSSIES, and let them make mistakes. If they get in a fight; GOOD! Let them get hurt and deal with heartbreak and failure. Teach them to be self-sufficient, and do for themselves. Every child will bully someone. Every child will get bullied. This is just a fact of life, and it has been going on since the beginning of time. You’re not going to change it, and you’re not going to make it easier for them with counseling, sensitivity training, hugs and kisses, or bubble wrap parenting. Send them out in the world, encouraging them to fight back, and earn their place. When they come home, clean the blood of their face and knuckles, throw a steak on their black eye, and let them be young men. In my personal, closing opinion; we can stop a lot of school shootings, stabbings, and mortal assaults by letting them fight it out. If you have no defense with your hands; you’re gonna find the next thing to defend yourself with. Even with gun racks in our trucks, stacked with a rifle or shotgun, and pocket knives on us 24/7 – I can’t recall a single school shooting or stabbing from 1986-1990, but I still remember what the blood from my nose tastes like, what a swollen black eye feels like, and the boyish satisfaction of swollen hands, and busted knuckles from giving as good as I got. Jut my own simple, narrow minded opinion. I could be wrong, and completely out of my mind. After all, Im the same guy that once bought a watch in Mexico, that also had a knife, and cigarette lighter built in. Ive still got the scar where it exploded and the knife gouged into my wrist, so theres that......
Posted on: Tue, 08 Jul 2014 10:41:31 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015