There was Columbine. Then there was Virginia Tech. Northern Illinois University. The theatre opening of The Dark Knight Rises.
And now there’s been another one. This time, it’s much closer to home for all of us in Baltimore.
On the first day of school, Monday the 27th, a 15-year-old student opened fire in the crowded cafeteria of Perry Hall High School. When the first shot fired, hundreds of students fled the scene, running for the double doors and getting cuts and bruises from the stampede.
The scary thing besides knowing one of my friends went there is I could see it happening. I went to that same school as a freshman 10 years ago. Though I had some good times as a teenager, my first two years there were not the happiest. The stories from my freshman and sophomore years are definitely not for the faint of heart.
Google Maps: https://maps.google.com/?mid=1346280412
Freshman year, it started on the bus. I had high hopes about this new school, such as men lining up to date me. Instead, they were lining up to give me verbal punches in the face.
They laughed at my gait, my voice, my writings when I tried showing them off to befriend them, and even the way I pronounced words like Aeropostale. They even laughed when I bounded off after exchanging numbers with a guy I hoped to be my boyfriend, but he never called.
My grandmother told me this was the time people matured and stopped bullying for good. Maybe in her time, not mine.
Classes were the same. By the end of the school year, I had been called “Pippi Longstocking” because of my wavy red hair that caused my bangs to curve and stick out like the character, “Rolling Rachel” and above all, “Crazy”.
The pain really came down on me when the seniors did their senior Christmas song when I was a freshman. I had a book bag with wheels on it to take the stress off my back and shoulders, hence the nickname “Rolling Rachel”. So the seniors went, “The ninth year of school that was cool to us… Nine rolling book bags!”
They had a girl with a book bag on wheels walk across the stage, dragging her bag behind her as a tall brawny guy threw himself on her bag. She gasped at the sight.
I could have ran to them and caused a fight to end the senior skits forever. I was furious and humiliated at the same time. Instead, I dashed out the auditorium door, crying.
I was such a coward.
It got much worse in my sophomore year. We’re talking sexual harassment charges gone awry—anonymous people who didn’t want to tell me who they were so I could report them going, “Happy birthday, my present’s in my pants!”—and a couple of boys from my neighborhood sticking chewed gum in my hair. The name calling and the bullying became too much along with my parents declaring bankruptcy and my friends from middle school, who I needed most, becoming more distant.
Most of my teachers were uncaring, especially my assistant principal Mr. Arnold and my guidance counselor couldn’t help because A) he had no idea what went on in the hallways where the most humiliation happened, and B) he didn’t even ask how.
One day, as I was being trampled by a huge crowd of students in the Smith hallway intersection, I screamed. No one heard me. So I burst into my Foods and Nutrition class and threatened everyone to kill myself.
The classroom was silent when I exploded. The substitute teacher didn’t know what to do. I even explained why: that everyone in school hated me and everyone would be so relieved if I died. I tried so hard to be popular, but no one showed that they cared.
In the end, people laughed like I knew they would, and then I ran and hid under the stairs. But the authorities found me and suspended me from school until they could have a “meeting”. It was really a hearing with my parents, the school nurse, my counselor, my English teacher and 504 contact person, one of the police officers, and both the principal and my assistant principal as the authorities.
Even outside of school, I attempted suicide at home. I took one of my dad’s kitchen knives and tried to stab it into my heart…
…I didn’t have the guts to do it. Again, coward. Any day.
The suspect who might have pulled the trigger two days ago had guts to follow through. But with the knife in my hand, I was actually thinking. I thought of my friends at school who said they cared about me.
My psychotic family, my crush, Emily, Savannah, Ashley, Alex (who died a year later from a car accident), Brittany, Tiffany, Lexy, Jena, Delian, Josh, Abby and the Peters, Christina, Megan, Kate—they would have all attended my funeral. Some of my friends would even cry when my name would be mentioned as another suicide casualty.
I put down the knife and ran upstairs, crying again. I knew there was something wrong with me and I had to do something about it.
I later found out what was wrong with me was a mild case of Generalized Anxiety Disorder, meaning I needed a professional to work out my feelings. Once I started healing, it turned out my friends, coming from every angle, were there to help.
I’m 24 years old. It’s been nearly a decade since my nervous breakdown that landed me in the nearby hospital. I take a milligram of Haldol a day and I’m a college graduate. I still have the support of my friends and family to become a successful writer.
And you know what? Those people who used to hate me? They probably don’t have a resume like I do:
Performed at the Meyerhoff Symphony Hall with the County Honors Choir and sang a solo in my high school’s production of Carmina Burana at 17-
Voted in the top 10 candidates for Perry Hall Homecoming Queen in 2005-
Elected secretary of Essex student government for two years-
Awarded Dean’s List status for three straight years-
Wrote stories for the Towson Campus newspaper The Towerlight–
Graduated from Towson University with a Bachelor’s degree in journalism-
You get the idea.
If I actually succeeded at killing myself nine years ago, none of this would have happened. So honestly, cowards are heroes and bullies can suck it.
This is the reason why I’m still working on my semi autobiographical novel Crossing Conformity. Hopefully I’ll finish it by this year so everyone will realize after reading it that bullying should never be treated as a joke.
You never know if someone could hurt you back for what you do, or worse, that person could commit suicide and you would be the one to blame… like what happened to Phoebe Prince and the nine bullies who harassed and raped her in 2010.
My novel will get everyone to see that bullies never prosper. They only get canned.
For more information on how you can fight bullying, go to LoveIsLouder.com or any anti-abuse center in your area.
The Joy in Journalism 