This is a powerful article about the effects of bullying. The best thing you can do for a child is to give the gift of Brazilian Jiu jitsu or Wrestling to build confidence, self esteem and empathy.
A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; it is the prerogative of the brave.
Mohandas Gandhi
The Bleakness of the Bullied
By CHARLES M. BLOW
Published: October 14, 2011 in the New York Times
I have watched with a heavy heart these last few years as one child after another has committed suicide because he or she was bullied. I know that pain. I, too, was bullied as a child. And I, too, considered taking my life. I was 8 years old.
It happened one night on a trip to the local skating rink. I had a pounding headache, but, still, I wanted to go. After all, a trip to the skating rink was a rare treat. So I grabbed a bottle of aspirin, put it in my pocket and jumped into the car.
Inside the rink, the mass of skaters propelled themselves with synchronized lunges, dipping and swaying to the rhythm of disco tracks blaring from giant speakers. They lapped the rink in unison, like a dog chasing its tail and with the same mesmerizing delirium — laughing and dancing. Lovers held hands. Learners held on.
After a few rounds, I left the skating area to take some aspirin, and there, from the railing looking out onto the scene, all the world went quiet — the only remaining sound was the thump of my heartbeat now felt in my temples.
I was having fun, but, even in the happiest of times, sorrow lurked just below the surface. A combination of traumas I had endured in my young life, not the least of which was a period of rather relentless teasing and bullying from all directions — classmates as well as extended family members — was eating me hollow. As a thousand flecks of light raced each other around the walls, I felt my spirit begin to cleave from my body. I seemed now to be watching the scene from beyond the pale of my own humanity, and, in this place, the weariness of pushing back against a wall of sadness melted away. For a moment, I was free.
And that was the thing. I felt free only when I could separate myself from myself — when I could imagine that I was apart from my life and body. There, in the ephemeral nothingness, in the quiet space of the mind, I found peace.
I liked it there. I didn’t want to return to the world. Life was too hard and treacherous. I was too weak and vulnerable. I couldn’t live in sorrow forever. So, in that instance, with no forethought, I decided that that night would be my last. No note. No nothing.
I had never thought of suicide before and had never remembered ever speaking the word, but, in that moment, the idea fell on me so completely and so agreeably that it was as if I had planned it.
I dug the bottle of aspirin from my pocket. I was going to take them all. I had no idea if they would kill me, but I hoped that they would. Then the questions came. Would it hurt? How long would it take? Would my mother be sad? Would I go to hell for committing suicide? Heavy questions piling up like boots at the bottom of a dark closet.
Before I could form answers, one of my mother’s songs came to save me.
It was one of the songs she sang when we were alone together in the car, the songs that helped me drift off to sleep. She had often said that she wished that she were able to sing and was very disappointed when she realized that she lacked the gift. So she rarely sang.
But there in the car, out of earshot of everyone save me, she sang. She sang about runaround men and hold-tight women, about sticky-sweet love and salty-dry longing, about rest stored up in the next life and the weight pressing down on this one — songs like the gospel standard “This Little Light of Mine,” Mel & Tim’s soulful classic “Starting All Over Again,” and Betty Wright’s rhythm-and-blues hit “Clean Up Woman.”
They were the kinds of songs that dug down until they hit something raw. They set the story of her life to a melody, and she sang them from an honest place with little regard for talent or judgment. With these songs she tapped into a more tender part of herself, one we rarely saw, one where she didn’t have to be stoic and phlegmatic, where she could release the tension that drew back her shoulders and just be beautifully human — Freddie Mae in the whole.
That, to me, was the gift.
And so there it was, not summoned and without warning, pushing its way through the crowd of questions, “Precious Lord, Take My Hand,” one of my mother’s songs sang hard and true, out of her heart and into a steering wheel, coming to save me.
Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on, let me stand
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn
Through the storm, through the night
Lead me on to the light
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home
I didn’t know why it was in my head, but I took it as a sign that God would somehow make a way for me to survive, that I had to be brave and patient, that this was not to be my last night.
So I swallowed two aspirin and flung myself back out onto the hardwood to the life-affirming sounds of Earth, Wind and Fire’s “Shining Star.”
A couple of years ago, when two 11-year-old boys killed themselves after enduring years of homophobic taunting, I wrote on my blog:
“Children can’t see their budding lives through the long lens of wisdom — the wisdom that benefits from years passed, hurdles overcome, strength summoned, resilience realized, selves discovered and accepted, hearts broken but mended and love experienced in the fullest, truest majesty that the word deserves. For them, the weight of ridicule and ostracism can feel crushing and without the possibility of reprieve. And, in that dark and lonely place, desperate and confused, they can make horrible decisions that can’t be undone.”
I wrote that because I knew it — personally. Bullying isn’t just a harmless game. It can be a deadly one, and we need to be reminded of that constantly. You never know how your words are affecting another person. Sometimes they don’t tell. I never told.
Like many children, I suffered in silence. I never even told my mother, and I am only here to share my gift with you because she coaxed me to sleep with a gift she didn’t believe she had.
So, Mama, when you read this, I want you to sing.
I invite you to join me on Facebook and follow me on Twitter, or e-mail me at chblow@nytimes.com.
Meekness, in my mind, is having complete control of one’s own power. This is patience at its best. We’ve all heard the saying, “Patience is a virtue” at some point, usually when we did not care to hear it. But it is true. Virtue is strength, and by extension, patience is, also. This means that being meek is being strong. And that is not what most people seem to think when they hear of someone who is meek. Superman is meek. That is why he is the greatest and the best, the most popular super hero of our times.