The Bloody Doors Off

I was bullied in high school.

For two years.

His name was Peter.

I dunno what I ever did to elicit his wrath.

And I don’t remember much of how he bullied me. Just that he did.

Started in grade nine.

In grade ten, walking the halls between classes.

I was headed in one direction, Peter coming opposite.

He smashed the books out of my hands and onto the linoleum floor.

I’d had enough.

“ENOUGH!” I remember screaming that at him.

Before launching myself into a fight I had no chance of winning.

And I was on the ground faster than you can say Rumpelstiltskin.

But I didn’t give up.

Even after teachers pulled us apart.

I continued on to my Science class, like nothing had happened.

“Is Paul Koster in class?” crackled the public address system. “Please send him to the office.”

I got suspended for fighting. Three days.

Peter got worse, I think.

He never bothered me again.

Why do I bring this up?

I’m worried my boy is being bullied at school. He says no, but he’s adamant that he wants to change schools.

With a month left until he heads to high school.

No principal/trustee would sign off on switching, even two months ago when he first brought it up.

Even if he’s not being bullied, he is most definitely a teenager with raging hormones and no one to hit.

I remember how that felt.

I’d do anything to ease him through the coming years.

I feel helpless.

Welcome to parenthood.