What’s all this fuss about bullying? Once in St. Charles’ schoolyard in Woonsocket, Francis Marrah punched me right in the eye.
Apparently it never harmed our friendship. We continued to attend the 1 p.m. shows at the Stadium Theatre when parish schools were let out early so public school students could attend catechism.
Another time I missed a fly ball or struck out at bat and Tommy Geruso leveled that all kids who lived in my neighborhood were rotten at sports. I met Tommy recently coming out of St. Anthony Church and we had a fine chat. It is always reassuring to see someone from my youth still practicing the faith.
Some large rock excavations on the Blackstone/Woonsocket line are left over from the failed Grand Trunk Railroad. Some kids from Blackstone used a rope to tie a group of us kids from Woonsocket and then ran off. I can’t remember how long it took us to wiggle out of those ropes. Along the Tow Path in Woonsocket, again near Blackstone, is a waterway left over from the old Blackstone Canal. In the winter kids from the North End and kids from Fairmount, rival Woonsocket neighborhoods, would skate there. I can’t remember any unhappy incidents but we were always on the alert for any funny business the guys from Fairmount might instigate.
Bullying was surprisingly a minimal part of my youth, and I was a prime candidate for harassment. I was skinny, wore glasses, was no good at sports and always got straight A’s on my report card. In fact, I get bullied more now by the monsignor at St. Augustine Church when I arrive for dinner than I ever did as a kid. “How much money did you make this week, Kiley, helping parishes all over northern Rhode Island?” I just smile and squeeze some more lemon onto my veal piccata. On the other hand, I was not exempt from inflicting some youthful harassment myself. A neighboring bungalow was empty for a time and bees made a nest in the front steps. I told my cousin Gail to go and ring the doorbell to see if anyone had moved in recently. As soon as she put a foot on the steps, the bees stung her mercilessly.
I am certain that my parents never knew about the fisticuffs, slanders, bound abandonment and prospective threats that dotted my childhood. Certainly I would not have gone home and informed them. That would have been an admission that I was not the man they expected their son to be. “You’ve got to fight your own battles,” was an axiom that parents firmly taught and that kids universally understood. Dealing with unpleasant situations was part of growing up. That was clear to all us kids. Non-interference from parents was never considered neglect on their part. We clearly understood that by allowing us to fight own childhood battles our parents were preparing us to handle more formidable conflicts in adulthood. And besides, “cry-baby” was a much worse epithet than being called “four-eyes” or “teacher’s pet.”
The astounding surge in self-pity, provoking the fuss about bullying, is clearly a result of the self-esteem movement that swept our nation in the 1980s. Children are taught to have such a high estimation of themselves that any caution, any correction, any criticism, any caustic remark, justified or not, incites a crisis in these self-absorbed youths and in their defensive parents. In a 1950 survey asking students if they thought they were an important person, 12 percent responded affirmatively. The same survey taken in 2010 revealed that 80 percent of children nowadays consider themselves important. It’s no wonder that any interference with their self-esteem sends them into paroxysms of spinelessness. I can hear my father muttering, “Grow up,” as a response to any of my gripes as he rustled the pages of the Woonsocket Call from his favorite chair.
Bullying can certainly be a problem. Lack of regard for any individual is impolite, unchristian, and possibly injurious. A regular dose of disrespect is clearly deflating and even damaging. But young people must also learn that self-pity can be an equally debilitating problem. Previous generations consoled themselves with the reminder that “sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me.” That’s still good advice. In the meantime, mom and dad should bow out. And kids: “Get over it.”
