On Bullies

Tyler Clementi, 18, Rutgers University; jumped to his death from the George Washington bridge. Larry Weinberg, 17, of Trenton, NJ hung himself with a leather belt. Jessica Logan, 18, Sycamore High School student asphyxiated herself. Jessica Train, 15, a pupil at Monkseaton High School in North Tyneside, Wallsend, England hanged herself. Phoebe Prince, a 15-year-old South Hadley High School student hanged herself in January. Hope Witsell, 13, a student at Beth Shields Middle School in Ruskin, FL, hanged herself from her bunk bed. 14 year old Samantha Kelly of New Boston, Michigan and a student at Huron High School in southwest Detroit, hanged herself. Jamarcus Bell, 14, a freshman at Hamilton Southeastern High School, Fishers, IN took his own life. Asher Brown, 13, of Cypress, TX and a student at Hamilton Middle school in Houston shot himself with his father's handgun.

All of these kids were bullied by their peers, or subjected to harrassment at the hands of classmates. All are dead as a result of this treatment; they are just a few of the hundreds that have taken their own lives in recent years. Boys and girls alike were equally bullied.

Bullying is abuse. It not a rite of passage. It is not "kids being kids." And it is leading to tragedy in numbers greater than ever before.

When presented with the opportunity to speak before school children about bullies and bullying, and how the study of Martial Arts contains specific benefits not found elsewhere, I use a personal story to illustrate my point. After graduating high school -- where I had been tormented mercilessly -- I thought I had finally left my problems behind me. I thought I was free. That turned out not to be the case. My father had helped to secure a job for me in the garage of a local trucking company. It was my first job, and one of my responsibilities was to fuel the big trucks as they came in from the road and to prepare them for their next departure. One afternoon one of the drivers, agitated from some problem that occurred on the road, decided to vent his anger on the nearest available person … me. I do not recall the exact details of the argument that subsequently started, but I do remember vividly that as the exchange became heated he hit me – a solid open-handed blow across the side of my head that sent me reeling. I also remember the rage that came over me, brought about by years of similar treatment in school. I remember thinking that this could not go on for the rest of my life, and I was overcome by tears of frustration. I knew I had to do something, and so I blindly hit back. At the time I thought it was a big mistake, since – like many bullies -- he was substantially larger. It took several of the other workers to separate us and remove me to the front parking lot for my own safety and to cool down. My head spun as much from the sudden flood of memories as from the trucker’s slap. I knew I could not live like this any longer. Within half an hour I was on the phone with a Martial Arts studio near where I lived. I made an appointment that would change my life. Upon first meeting the man who was to become my instructor, I was intimidated. He possessed all the charm and demeanor of a drill sergeant. He was a stern taskmaster. I nearly walked out the building, not recognizing much difference between his actions and the actions of those who had tormented me. Yet, as I watched the class, I was riveted. I was determined to join. I wanted revenge; I wanted to be tougher. And I knew -- I knew -- this was the way to achieve it. I made my decision.

The training was harsh – the toughest thing I had ever done in my life – sometimes even brutal. Today most Martial Arts studios are well-lit, air-conditioned, carpeted affairs and family-friendly. This studio and this specific instructor, however, were decidedly “old school.” The school had bare wooden floors with no padding; no ventilation, and smelled like the stale sweat of ages of heavy training sessions. The instructor's overriding philosophy basically boiled down to this: “Punish the body to strengthen the heart and the mind.” The regimen was intense and grueling, the pace insane. More often than not I would arrive home with my body a mass of bruises and swollen parts. My mother took one look at me and asked, “You actually pay someone to do this to you?” My only answer was, “I have to.”

One exceptionally hot summer day early in my training, my instructor closed all of the windows and turned on the heat. It was the middle of August, and outside the streets were baking in the heat. He proceeded to push us to our body’s very limits, drilling us mercilessly in basic kicks, punches, and blocks. People literally began to drop. One became sick. Several others, who could go no further, sat on a bench reserved for spectators. With no air conditioning or fan to cool us, the temperature was in the high eighties when we started, but must have reached 110 degrees in the room during that session. Cruel? Maybe. Unhealthy? Most definitely. Unthinkable in this more warm and fuzzy era? Absolutely. One didn’t pay much attention to the possibility of dehydration or heat stroke in those days. Yet such severe training forged my will and my discipline like steel. Through the sweat, sore muscles, aches, pain and blood I grew physically stronger. I was building my arsenal. Remember that phrase; it will be important soon.

A year or two after beginning lessons, I performed in a demonstration for a Fourth of July celebration at Tunkhannock Area High School, the very scene of much of my torment. By sheer coincidence, sitting in the audience that day was the trucker whose slap had been the catalyst that sent me on this path. I had since moved on from the job at the trucking company and, though I never really forgot about him I went on with my life, putting my thoughts of revenge into a dusty corner of my mind.

It was a bright day; hot and full of sunshine. During my part of the demonstration I was scheduled to break several cinder slabs with kicks and punches. My segment culminated with me using my head to shatter two that were stacked one atop the other. Head breaks are always crowd pleasers when they work (and comically gruesome spectacles when they don’t) and that one went off exactly as planned. The audience loved it and I thought nothing further of it, until days later when I happened to have had a conversation with a woman who had a mutual friendship with both the aforementioned truck driver and me. She approached and let me know that she had been speaking with the trucker and asked him if, having seen my performance, he would want to slap me now. He emphatically said “No.” At that singular moment I realized that I had changed, that I was no longer the kind of person who would be a victim to anyone. To this day, I don’t think that trucker knows or understands how large a compliment he paid me. For without throwing a single punch or kick at him, without resorting to violence of any kind, I had, in a fashion, earned his respect. It was not breaking the cinder slabs that made the difference in his thinking; it was my change in attitude, my perception of who and what I was. I had grown stronger mentally as well as physically. I walked differently than I had before and I carried myself with an air of pride. That one thing – attitude -- I tell the children in my seminars, is the essence of the Martial Arts, and it is often what makes all of the difference in the world. That was the key weapon in the arsenal I mentioned previously. The arsenal, I discovered, was filled with as many mental weapons as physical.

Bullying is an epidemic in this country, and indeed, the world. It is, however, a "silent epidemic" as many kids are reluctant to speak with parents or school officials; this may be due to shame, embarrassment, having been threatened, or fear of being seen as a squealer in addition to other abuse.

While Martial Arts were my chosen path, I respect that they may not be the way for everyone. Every child is unique, and for every child there is a unique answer. But before we can find the answers we must ask the right questions of our children. We must step up and accept responsibility for our kids, even during the times they claim not to want our help. As parents, educators, authority figures we must open our eyes to the problem and take away some of its power by shining a light on it. Scattering the shadows, real or perceived, means that the abuse is no longer suffered in secrecy.