6 ways to fight back against bullies
Headlines have brought us disturbing stories lately about kids being pushed toward suicide by unrelenting bullies. This trend, kids victimizing other kids, is nothing new, but the internet has made us all more aware. Some of these teenagers were targeted for being gay.
Suicide is heinous, and among young people it’s especially tragic. Dan Savage started a terrific internet campaign, “It Gets Better” to reassure kids that adult life doesn’t always resemble high school. The Trevor Project, among other suicide prevention groups, has been credited with helping kids who feel alone and in despair. Anti-bullying groups are gaining in popularity. As a former teacher, I can vouch for school groups like the Gay-Straight Alliance. They do a tremendous job helping all kinds of kids who feel stigmatized. In addition, studies show their very presence in schools lowers incidents of intolerance and intimidation.
I don’t see much out there, though, in the way of advice for fighting back. These groups are right to focus on ways kids can make it through difficult formative years and emerge as victorious and well-rounded adults.
But sometimes bullies need a taste of their own medicine. Angry and mean people don’t disappear from sight when we grow up. They are still everywhere. And they can smell a victim a mile away.
When I was fourteen years old, I faced my first potential bully. Our interaction ended after I stood up to her and spit a mouthful of ice in her face. Since then I have used similar, albeit more grown-up, methods to defend myself or loved ones. These methods have even helped strangers and one or two Republicans.
Confrontation isn’t fun. I don’t always enjoy putting people in their place, but sometimes we’ve got to whip a demon’s ass.
Here’s how.
The lemonade stand that never was, and other disappointments
My kids were bummed the Red Sox didn’t advance to the playoffs, but thrilled the Rays made it. As everything was unfolding earlier in the week, they got an idea.
“How about Youngest and I earn money to buy playoff tickets?” Oldest asked. “We want to host a lemonade stand.”
Unlike the Bucs, Rays’ tickets in certain sections aren’t too expensive. But feeling all proud that my kids wanted to earn the money, I agreed to it.
That is absolutely the last time I agree to anything two ten year-olds suggest, especially in the morning, when defenses are down and hopes are high.
I woke up Sunday at the crack of dawn to make lemonade and raspberry iced tea. Happy to do it, I enjoyed helping my little boys take a shot at fiscal responsibility, even if they questioned my iced tea recipe and the wisdom of squeezing 30 lemons by hand.
I was happy, goddamn it.
But apparently *happy* wasn’t meant to be.
Dad sat at his computer and mentioned, several times, that a) tickets weren’t available, b) we wouldn’t make much money on a Sunday, c) football is on Sundays, and d) it’d be nice, while I’m at it, to chop some celery for his chicken wings later that day.
I wasn’t deterred.
I stayed uncharacteristically chipper and even-keeled.
“If playoff tickets aren’t available, we’ll buy Lightning tickets instead,” I sang. “If we don’t make enough money, Husband and I will chip in the rest. Their lemonade stand is from 10am-1pm, so football isn’t an issue. And chop your own fucking celery. Love you!”
It’s not Dad’s fault he’s negative. He was raised in Wisconsin.
October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month so…
How does a humor writer deal with this conundrum? There’s nothing funny about one person beating the shit out of another, so I won’t even try to make a joke.
I’ll do this instead.
During the month of October, I am donating 100% of my profits from the sales of Olivia’s Kiss ($3.99 on Kindle) to The Spring, a local Domestic Violence Prevention and Emergency Shelter Agency. I will keep everyone updated and present The Spring with a check on November 1st.
If you own an iPad, iPhone, or Kindle, (or even if you don’t!) you can buy this book and help survivors of domestic violence at the same time. You can read Olivia’s Kiss on any device, including your Mac or Windows machine.
Anyone can participate, so please forward to all your friends and help spread the word.
Olivia’s Kiss is my first novel:
Olivia Foster is a beautiful, headstrong killing machine, shocked to find herself yearning for something different.
Olivia discovered a talent for killing men while in her teens, after shooting her abusive father in the head and watching him die. Unapologetic and dedicated to helping victims of domestic violence fight back, she built a wildly successful business. Now, a sophisticated young woman, Olivia travels the world pursuing bad men and making them pay.
When an unexpected vacation leads her home, Olivia reconnects with childhood friends and finds herself envying them. Like so many women approaching their thirties, and despite her most-wanted status, Olivia is startled by the unfamiliar urge and intrigued with the idea of settling down.
When Max, her longtime love, proposes marriage, Olivia dares to wonder: Can she really trade guns and glory for gold bands and bath towels?
And thank you.
Don’t want my kids raped or shot: One mother’s search for the perfect middle school
Perhaps I should start this post with a clarification. Tampa Bay/Orlando/Lakeland has plenty of perfect middle schools. I happen to be looking for one that’s perfect for my kids.
And while we’re on the subject, what the hell? I’m not old enough to have kids in middle school!
Oh wait, my Oprah arms beg to differ.
That’s right, lovers. I’m about to begin yet another distressing and guilt-inducing mommy ritual, where only ice cream and rum topping can soothe my frazzled nerves. I’m researching middle schools.
I still cannot believe that next year, my children will leave elementary school to embark on a long agonizing trail that leads to acne, braces, and back hair.
20 lessons learned in New Jersey
Leaving the classroom and becoming a “former teacher” is scary.
Two years ago, I did it anyway.
Since then, more than a few times, I’ve questioned the sanity of getting back into business after such a long time away. I’m now in a completely different industry and again reminded that learning a whole new set of skills, letting my teaching certificate lapse, and starting over again at the age of 40 is risky and frightening.
But I did it anyway.
After five weeks of training, I’m happy to report no regrets. Spending some of that time away from family, during the holidays no less, added to my angst.
But I did it anyway.
Here are some lessons learned on the road:
1. Six pounds melted away, leaving me thinner than I’ve been since 1986. By the way, this is the only good thing about being away from home. And that was the only good thing about 1986.
2. You haven’t used your nostrils to their full capacity until you’ve smelled Newark.
Whip the parents instead: End the exploitation of children like Willow Smith
Apparently, while in New Jersey ready to kill the next person who honks at me, I have been missing out on some interesting news.
For example, the web has been blowing up over someone named Willow Smith.
She’s a 9 year-old with a record deal. Her parents are rich and famous and coming under fire for poor parenting skills.
I’ll say. Get a load of Willow’s hair.
Yes, the Internets have been all aflutter over Will Smith and his lovely bride Jada whoring out their daughter for some glory and a music career. Before you all start going on and on about the talents of children and allowing them to soar to the stars, zip it.
I’m with the cranky bloggers.
Nine year-olds should not be worried about branding and drop dates. They should be anonymous and enjoying a stress-free youth. It’s bad enough this poor girl has wacky parents who dabble in cults and encourage irrational thought patterns. Now those same adults want to gamble on a parenting style made famous by the same people who brought us Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears.
Great choice, Hancock.
The usual suspects in the entertainment industry have already descended on the girl, ready to make money off of her, until nothing is left.
Sadly, they will most likely succeed.
Should we start the countdown now? Eight years, five months, and two days until Willow poses nude for Penthouse?
Meanwhile, certain Smith supporters have called naysayers a bunch of sexist pigs because no one complained when the first kid, Jaden, with fucked-up hair of his own, started getting pimped out to movies a few years ago.
I’m not complaining about either kid, but I will write about the trend. Putting children in front of a microphone or camera is a growing problem and a dangerous one. It’s glorified child abuse.
And we are all accomplices.
How to say you’re sorry – apologies before Yom Kippur
For me, the high holy days this year sorta suck. I can live with the reason, though.
I got a great new job.
Still, Rosh Hashanah came quickly and I couldn’t take time off. Now I’m in Jersey as Yom Kippur approaches and tomorrow will spend The Day of Atonement in Philadelphia, surrounded by goyim and starving.
But I’m not complaining.
Yom Kippur is still Yom Kippur, and I’m going to observe as best I can. A yearly review of life and circumstances and reactions is one of my favorite Jewish customs.
…besides parenting with a potent mix of guilt and manipulation.
Before Yom Kippur begins, I usually assess my behavior over the previous twelve months and make amends. You, too, can participate. Here’s how.
Multiple winner in Creative Loafing’s Best of the Bay Readers Poll
I couldn’t attend The Loafies Wednesday night, because I’m stuck in New Jersey, drowning in a sea of “apples to apples,” “soup to nuts,” and “not for nothin’.”
No disrespect.
My editor back in Tampa wondered if anyone was willing to go to Creative Loafing’s annual awards show in my place.
I asked around and people made fun of me. “Sure Kate, I’d love to waste my Wednesday night accepting an award that has nothing to do with me.”
Julie tossed around the idea of letting her hair get curly again so she could go *as* me. We laughed about how many people might fall for it.
It never worked in college, but ever since her boob job…
Last Saturday, Dad stepped up to the plate. I don’t know whether he was just numb from a painful USF loss (he’s not a liberal and therefore not as acquainted as I am with humiliating defeats), but he offered to go if I wrote a speech for him to read.
This is what I came up with:
The joys and sorrows of being away from home
From nine to five, I can usually be found in downtown Tampa and surrounding areas, unruly mop of hair fashioned into a semi-unruly bun on top of my head, curls cascading down to mask an unusually large forehead. I wear suits and wedge heels, all the while cursing whoever invented suits and wedge heels.
I am thankful I do not have to wear pantyhose.
You see, by day, I’m a mild-mannered businesswoman. I work hard and smile a little from time to time. When not working, I spend an inordinate amount of time with my family, reenergizing myself and feeling at peace with the world. When I put my boys to bed, all three of them, I let down my hair and write about the things that make me laugh, cry, and cringe.
I do not write about my day job, primarily because I’d like to keep it.
Right now, my business takes me to New Jersey.
Leaving my family behind in Tampa is a daunting exercise. I miss them terribly. Many professionals deal with the drama of traveling in their own way. Some find solace in Scotch. Others keep to themselves and the latest John Grisham novel. Still others make friends with colleagues and socialize the time away.
I am different. I do my job during the day and Skype at night so my kids remember what I look like and how the veins in my head pop when they question bedtime rituals or the importance of flossing. If I find myself homesick, I write.
Today, I made a list of things I *don’t* miss about home, Tampa, and the people I love. I did this so as not to wallow in despair and loneliness.
Sounds fun, don’t it?
This is my list.
I don’t miss:
Remember when our kids were cute and adorable and almost bit each other’s faces off?
Cause the good old days weren’t always good, and tomorrow ain’t as bad as it seems
All it takes is a stubbornly independent preteen and easily accessible photo albums or home movies for moms and dads to slip into the warm tub of nostalgia. Parents often find themselves thinking back and reminiscing about when their kids were younger.
Remember how sweet they were? Remember how they talked and sang songs? Remember how they were endearing and loveable and well-behaved?
Come on, folks. You and I both know they weren’t *always* asleep.
If you’re like our family, the kids didn’t always behave beautifully when we turned on the webcams or video cameras. If they had, maybe we’d be exploiting our little Justin Biebers right now instead of living with my parents and sharing one shower.
But really, thank God they didn’t always perform baby tricks on cue, right? As a result, we can more realistically remember things as they sometimes, not often but sometimes, were…
Catherine Durkin Robinson
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