Notes from Day Seven: How I feel about Mitchell Wilson's death
The worst thing about being bullied that I
can remember is the feeling that my grade
five classmates thought I was dirt. Most of
the bullying I experienced came from a violent
kid named Ricky, who was a kind of
ringleader in the rural elementary school
where I had just started.
Before that, I don't recall being intentionally hurt by other kids, though I did have a hard time fitting in. That could have been because I had moved from the Maritimes to Ontario. There were at least three moves in rapid succession, the third resulting in my being placed in yet another school — and in a class with Ricky.
The first bullying I can remember from him was verbal. Once, during a lull in class, Ricky leaned over to one his friends, and making sure that I could hear him, set his eye on me and said, "I heard that Veenema picks his scabs and eats them."
Maybe I was (and am) more sensitive than most, but I can still feel the cut of those words. The bullying was more than verbal. There were several times during the next five years when, accompanied by a pack of his friends, Ricky would catch me alone and punch me in the stomach. The last time that happened I was in grade nine. And Ricky was not the only perpetrator.
I wish that I could say that I received a lot of support from my family. But that was not the case, and I don't really want to say much about that here. I now know that my parents, to whom I looked in desperation for help, were having a difficult time finding their own path in terms of work and financial security. Dutch immigrants, they did not find the promises of the Canadian immigration service (or whatever it was called) coming true for them. My father, who had grown up in a rough and tumble family of eight boys where there was lots of play fighting, didn't seem to understand that there was another kind. He thought that by telling me to stand up for myself I was getting all the support I needed.
Mitchell Wilson, already a victim of muscular dystrophy, was just about my age when another child decided that, like me, he was fair game. According to his dad, the bully smashed his face into concrete so hard that some of his teeth were knocked out. An online article quoted the father as saying that his son could not stand the idea of going "to court to face these criminals. He wasn't going to do that anymore."
I can completely understand the feeling of helplessness and dread that could have overcome Mitchell. Just a few hours after learning he would have to go court, Mitchell's body was found, a plastic bag tied around his head. Apparently, he killed himself in his bedroom.
I can think of several things that got me through grade five and the years that followed. First, there was my church and the youth group of which I was a part. I did not dare to share my anguish with them, but it was a safe place, a place where I was accepted. And there was prayer. And this too, was a help, even though the source of my pain was not fully removed.
Second, I had a fantastic teacher in grade five. A caring Baptist lady, Mrs. Noble, she seemed to understand how much I wanted to be accepted. Once, when she went into the city to buy a present for the outgoing principal, she took me and another student with her. She treated us to a chocolate sundae. I will never forget that, or her.
Finally, I would say that my home was a help. We were not abused there so I knew that it was not necessary for me to be punched and ridiculed. I could see that my parents were making good things happen, and from this I knew that the long-term picture for me did not have to include being beaten and made fun of.
Actually, I think there were other things that helped. I had a wild crush on a girl with long blonde hair, so going to school was not all bad. She never returned the favour even though I kept drawing pictures and giving them to her all year long. It was also the year the Beatles came to North America and I discovered music in a new way.
What else could have helped? Probably the biggest thing would have been if my parents had understood and could have stood alongside me, speaking with the school staff and the parents of the abuser. And, secondly, I think that if the teachers and principal could have reacted more directly to put a stop to the bullying that took place in that school with some well placed, swift punishiment, I would have felt that, indeed, I was not the one with the problem — that the bullies and their families were.
I am with Mitchell on this one. Little kids who are victims of bullies should not have to return to environments to face their destroyers. Bullies must be stopped swiftly and expelled. Going to the courts is not likely to help many victims. The wheels of the Canadian justice system often turn too slowly.
It's been a long time. My being a victim of bullying forced me later on (and continues to force me) to deal with the issue of forgiveness when the perpetrator will likely never ask for it. And, I think, it has also helped me to understand the pain of other victims, and that is not a bad thing.
Editorial opinions or comments expressed in this online edition of Interrobang newspaper reflect the views of the writer and are not those of the Interrobang or the Fanshawe Student Union. The Interrobang is published weekly by the Fanshawe Student Union at 1001 Fanshawe College Blvd., P.O. Box 7005, London, Ontario, N5Y 5R6 and distributed through the Fanshawe College community. Letters to the editor are welcome. All letters are subject to editing and should be emailed. All letters must be accompanied by contact information. Letters can also be submitted online by clicking here.
Before that, I don't recall being intentionally hurt by other kids, though I did have a hard time fitting in. That could have been because I had moved from the Maritimes to Ontario. There were at least three moves in rapid succession, the third resulting in my being placed in yet another school — and in a class with Ricky.
The first bullying I can remember from him was verbal. Once, during a lull in class, Ricky leaned over to one his friends, and making sure that I could hear him, set his eye on me and said, "I heard that Veenema picks his scabs and eats them."
Maybe I was (and am) more sensitive than most, but I can still feel the cut of those words. The bullying was more than verbal. There were several times during the next five years when, accompanied by a pack of his friends, Ricky would catch me alone and punch me in the stomach. The last time that happened I was in grade nine. And Ricky was not the only perpetrator.
I wish that I could say that I received a lot of support from my family. But that was not the case, and I don't really want to say much about that here. I now know that my parents, to whom I looked in desperation for help, were having a difficult time finding their own path in terms of work and financial security. Dutch immigrants, they did not find the promises of the Canadian immigration service (or whatever it was called) coming true for them. My father, who had grown up in a rough and tumble family of eight boys where there was lots of play fighting, didn't seem to understand that there was another kind. He thought that by telling me to stand up for myself I was getting all the support I needed.
Mitchell Wilson, already a victim of muscular dystrophy, was just about my age when another child decided that, like me, he was fair game. According to his dad, the bully smashed his face into concrete so hard that some of his teeth were knocked out. An online article quoted the father as saying that his son could not stand the idea of going "to court to face these criminals. He wasn't going to do that anymore."
I can completely understand the feeling of helplessness and dread that could have overcome Mitchell. Just a few hours after learning he would have to go court, Mitchell's body was found, a plastic bag tied around his head. Apparently, he killed himself in his bedroom.
I can think of several things that got me through grade five and the years that followed. First, there was my church and the youth group of which I was a part. I did not dare to share my anguish with them, but it was a safe place, a place where I was accepted. And there was prayer. And this too, was a help, even though the source of my pain was not fully removed.
Second, I had a fantastic teacher in grade five. A caring Baptist lady, Mrs. Noble, she seemed to understand how much I wanted to be accepted. Once, when she went into the city to buy a present for the outgoing principal, she took me and another student with her. She treated us to a chocolate sundae. I will never forget that, or her.
Finally, I would say that my home was a help. We were not abused there so I knew that it was not necessary for me to be punched and ridiculed. I could see that my parents were making good things happen, and from this I knew that the long-term picture for me did not have to include being beaten and made fun of.
Actually, I think there were other things that helped. I had a wild crush on a girl with long blonde hair, so going to school was not all bad. She never returned the favour even though I kept drawing pictures and giving them to her all year long. It was also the year the Beatles came to North America and I discovered music in a new way.
What else could have helped? Probably the biggest thing would have been if my parents had understood and could have stood alongside me, speaking with the school staff and the parents of the abuser. And, secondly, I think that if the teachers and principal could have reacted more directly to put a stop to the bullying that took place in that school with some well placed, swift punishiment, I would have felt that, indeed, I was not the one with the problem — that the bullies and their families were.
I am with Mitchell on this one. Little kids who are victims of bullies should not have to return to environments to face their destroyers. Bullies must be stopped swiftly and expelled. Going to the courts is not likely to help many victims. The wheels of the Canadian justice system often turn too slowly.
It's been a long time. My being a victim of bullying forced me later on (and continues to force me) to deal with the issue of forgiveness when the perpetrator will likely never ask for it. And, I think, it has also helped me to understand the pain of other victims, and that is not a bad thing.
Editorial opinions or comments expressed in this online edition of Interrobang newspaper reflect the views of the writer and are not those of the Interrobang or the Fanshawe Student Union. The Interrobang is published weekly by the Fanshawe Student Union at 1001 Fanshawe College Blvd., P.O. Box 7005, London, Ontario, N5Y 5R6 and distributed through the Fanshawe College community. Letters to the editor are welcome. All letters are subject to editing and should be emailed. All letters must be accompanied by contact information. Letters can also be submitted online by clicking here.
