B is for...

My topic today?  Well, it's one of my favourites, one I harp on almost as much as I go on about postpartum depression.  Bullying.  Bullies.  My whole life, my pet peeve has been people that are inconsiderate of others, and I guess it's pretty obvious that bullies fit neatly into that category. 

 

When I was little, I got bullied.  A lot.  It was partly because I was shy and quiet (hard to believe, I know), and partly because I was different.  I had short hair when all the kids (even the boys, back in those days) had long hair.  I had red hair, was pale and avoided the sun as much as possible, moving from patch of shade to patch of shade like a vampire.  I had an odd name that required me to correct my teacher at the beginning of every school year, since it was my middle name as well.  Confusing, right?  In short, I didn't stand up for myself, and I didn't fit in.

 

My most memorable experience of being bullied happened fairly early on in elementary school.  I was in Grade One, and two boys in my grade thought it would be awesomely fun to whip me with a broken skipping rope.  My face, my legs, my back.  After running away from them til I couldn't run anymore, I ended up collapsing on the playground, crying.  My older brother came over, hauled me to my feet and took me to the principal's office.  What the principal wanted to know was what had made these boys do this to me.  I had no clue.  It wasn't until high school that I finally asked one of them why he had done it.  "I dunno.  Just felt like it." was his answer.  Fab-o.  It was then that I learned that some bullies do what they do for no better reason than they can. 

 

Other bullies came along later in life.  Junior high was one big fun fest, considering that a group of kids in my homeroom used to make fun of me every day.  My clothes, my hair, my glasses, my lack of makeup:  it didn't matter, they ridiculed me for it.  Every.  Single.  Day.  Best part?  One of them was my brother's best friend and the other was my next door neighbour.  When I was at home, they "forgot" about how they treated me at school.  Nice.

 

By that point of my life, I understood that some bullies did what they did because they were feeling bad about something in themselves.  They hurt, so they hurt someone else.  They were afraid of not fitting in, so they fit in by making fun of others who were even more out of place.  I got it, but it didn't make things any easier.  I had kids tell me to my face how ugly I was.  I had people steal my books and throw them in the garbage.  I got pushed into lockers.  One day, two guys in my grade actually spat on me from the landing above.  This ridiculousness happened all the time, and I prayed for it to stop.  Did I bother to report it, you ask?  Nope.  Who wants to tell their principal that they've been spat on or pushed around or told they're *bleeping* ugly?  I was just glad to get to the end of it (sort of) when high school started.  Three years of misery finally came to an end. 

 

The thing about bullies, though, is that they grow up, too.  You don't leave them behind once you graduate.  Nope, they come out of the woodwork no matter how old you get.  The thing about adult bullying is that it can be much more subtle.  As such, it's sometimes hard to distinguish from run-of-the-mill constructive criticism.  Adult bullies usually  hide their bullying by saying that they are just "being truthful".  Honesty is their cover, and it can be crazy-making.  At least when you're an adult, you (sometimes) have the opportunity to respond to it and (hopefully) shut it down. 

 

Now, before you think all I'm doing is whining for no reason, I'll come (closer) to my point.  I watched a documentary with my sons the other day.  It was called "Bully", and I'll tell you, it was hard to watch.  Not only did I feel horrible for the kids in the film, it brought back so many painful memories of my childhood, it left me in tears.  It makes me livid to think that kids are still having to put up with this stupidity on a daily basis, especially after all the anti-bullying campaigns that have come and gone over the years.  I would have thought parents and administrators and teachers would be so attuned to any signs of bullying, that it would have gone the way of the dodo by now.  Or more like, there would be more efficient/effective ways of quashing bullying behaviour. 

 

Apparently, I am delusional.   As Depeche Mode put it so succinctly:  "People are people".  If they smell blood in the water, the sharks of the human variety are more than happy to take a chunk out of those who dare to be different.  On top of that the Internet, as it does with every social phenomenon, amplifies the reach of every antisocial a-hole on the planet. 

However (and here's that point I said I was coming to), there's a funny thing about bullying.   As heinous as it is, it has the potential to bring out the absolute best in people.  Bullying can transform a perfectly ordinary human being into a champ in no time flat.  Zero to hero, just like Malala. 

If you hadn't heard, Malala Yousafzai is the Pakistani teen who was shot in the head by the Taliban (those oh-so-brave defenders of honour and justice) for her activism regarding the right of females in her country to an education.  Shot.  In.  The.  Head.  For wanting the right to go to school.  Not only did Malala not die from these cowards' bullets, she was nominated for a Nobel peace prize this year.  Of course, there was a lot that went on before the assassination attempt.  Malala had done a great deal of work in her young life to that point, including writing a blog for the BBC about life under Taliban rule, and appearing in an American documentary about the same.   She knew that her stance was potentially dangerous, to her and her family.  She spoke out anyway, because that is the way to stop a bully.  Call a spade a spade and don't back down.  

I don't know if Malala was surprised at how many other people rallied to her defense, and how quickly they did so.  Probably not, because she is young and obviously idealistic.  I wasn't surprised.  When someone is so patently in the right (as Malala was, and continues to be), it's easy to support them.  Humans aren't born hating and hurting.  Their default setting is love.  Anyone who's ever looked into a baby's face knows that.  It's that inherent sense of justice that has pulled mankind back from the brink over and over again.

Bullying is bad, no two ways about it.  But as with everything in life, your response to it is what matters.  You can get bitter.  You can shrivel up and hide.  You can pick on others or kick your cat or drink or a million other negative things.  OR, you can use all that negativity and turn it around and refuse to get sucked in.  Stand up and say your piece, knowing that although not everyone is going to agree with you, YOU will know that you haven't been defeated.  And peace of mind?  There's two things about that:

1.  It's more precious than gold, that stuff;

2.  It's something bullies will never have. 

Stacy & Clinton, We'll Miss You!!

As ZZ Top once sang: “Every girl’s crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man.”  That may or may not be accurate, but one thing I know is true:  there’s no guiltier pleasure for many folks than dissing others’ fashion faux pas, male OR female.  There’s a reason “What Not To Wear” has been going strong for ten seasons, folks, and I’m betting it’s not because we’re all dying to know about how to combine colour, pattern, texture and shine.   No, we want to see the train wrecks that people regularly dress themselves as, thinking that they can pass themselves off as having a “unique” sense of style. 

Not that I’m deluded enough to think that my wardrobe is above reproach.  Please.  My idea of fashion is something that covers what needs covering, isn’t inside-out and doesn’t have (too many) visible stains.  The last time I had an outfit that was stylish, coordinated, and had crazy things like accessories, Miley Cyrus was still a twinkle in Billy Ray’s eye.  Ahem.  They say that those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.  Words to live by, for sure.  Let’s just keep the following “rocks” between you and me, shall we??

Legwarmers:  However you want to look at it, musically, stylistically, “Flashdance” did no one any favours.  Wrapping your calves with woolen sleeves is not cute.  The fact that I am seeing impressionable young women wearing these again is disheartening, to say the least.  Frankly, for me it’s just proof positive that stupid never dies. 

Ponchos:  Unless others commonly refer to you as The High Plains Drifter and you favour smoking cigarillos, this is a ridiculous (yet useless) fashion item.  Too drafty to keep you warm, just long enough to get tangled up in your arms, and vulnerable to strong gusts of wind that will leave you playing peek-a-boo with passers-by.  I’ll ‘fess up.  I had one of these crocheted masterpieces in the 70’s.  My defense?  It was the 70’s.  What else can you expect from the decade that brought the world platform shoes, ABBA and lapels the size of small aircraft?

Sandals with socks:  Really?  Is this something we need to go over, folks?  Let me ask you this:  Would you wear long underwear with your bathing suit?  Sandals are for cooling, socks are for warming.  Wearing them together is unattractive and counter-productive.  Kind of like Stephen Harper. 

Beards:  I’m tempted to lump all beards together, but I’ll refrain, simply because there are some men (my gorgeous husband included) that absolutely rock a goatee.  No, what I’m referring to is the long, grizzled variety, what I call the ZZ Top.  These are wrong on so many levels, it’s hard to know where to begin.  Let’s just say that food and long straggly hair should never be in any sort of proximity.  Ew.

Ponytails on men:  What’s the point, if you never wear your hair any other way? It’s like having a Maserati and never taking off the parking brake.  Trust me guys:  unless you are a pirate swashbuckling your way across the high seas or fighting in the War of 1812, get yourself a haircut and move on.

Yoga pants:  It’s obvious the pendulum has swung a long way back from the time when women were drowning in bloomers, petticoats, underskirts and overskirts.  I get it.  You want freedom and comfort.  Does that really necessitate you packing your coochie into millimetres-thin swaths of Lycra for display to the general public?  Call me old-fashioned but there is this crazy thing called “moderation”.  It’s not all or nothing, gals.  (See “Cyrus, Miley”.)  And while we’re on the subject of stretchy pants, can I just say once and for all to all my fellow XL (as in Extra Luscious) ladies out there:  just because you can squeeze into it does not mean it fits.  If the closest you’ve ever gotten to yoga is flicking past it on morning television, please don’t.  You are so much better than that.

Suits with runners:  Gentlemen:  unless you’re fond of looking like you’re heading to Picture Day at the local elementary school, please don’t.  Women started this God-awful trend in the 80’s, but it was because they were sick of crippling themselves with four-inch heels and pointy toes.  The average man’s dress shoe does not (as far as I can tell) have four-inch heels.  If your feet are so sensitive you can’t hack standard men’s dress shoes, maybe you should consider bedroom slippers.  And a crew of Nubian litter-bearers.  All hail the king.

Pointy-toed men’s shoes:  As with all trends, things get taken past the point of cool to a neighbourhood I like to call “Ridiculous”.  That’s right next door to “Dumbass”, I believe.  If you’re one of those poor souls who got sucked into wearing cockroach killers that make you look like you should be in a Shriner’s parade, I’m sorry.  For you.  And if you’re wearing those thin-soled little lace-ups that we used to call Capezio’s, I have one question for you:  Are you currently in a Broadway revival of “Cats”?

Golf shirts and khakis:  Just like women in over-size shirts and black stretchy pants, this outfit screams “I’ve given up”.  That, or “I never, ever want to have sex again.”  It is unoriginal, it is dumpy and unless you are Tiger Woods (or just want to look like him), inappropriate for anywhere other than a golf course.  You can do it, gents.  Ditch the Dockers and purge the polos. For me.  For you.  For the love of all that is stylish.

Stay fabulous, folks.  I’m out. J