I was every elementary school teacher's dream, when I was a girl: a quiet kid who kept a poetry journal and made an A in every subject. By the 3rd grade, I was tasked with reading poetry aloud to a group of slow readers on a weekly basis; by the 5th grade, I was the sole recipient of the school's special award for the only child who hadn't missed a single day of school. IN SIX YEARS. Got it?
(All of this good girl business eventually landed me in a mosh pit in combat boots in college, but for now, let's get back to the story at hand).
My mother, who had been the captain of her high school's cheer squad and who I have never seen read a book in my entire life (no judgment, Mom), started to become worried. Not worried about my well-being, necessarily, more like worried I was going to be a loser.
She pushed for me to try out for cheerleading as 6th grade loomed, and, overachiever that I was, I made it onto a team. I didn't hate it, but I was so quiet, I was always lousy at making noise for the boys as they did whatever the hell they were doing out on the field, and I spent more time eavesdropping on the fast girls' stories. (Yes, some girls as young as 6th grade are giving blow jobs for social status, parents, tragic but true).
Before I knew it, I got swept up into the most popular clique at my school. These girls were never impressed with my pathetic wardrobe (my parents were hopelessly cheap Midwesterners), but I was the only cheerleader in the group and it turns out, snarky, too. The “Queen Bee” of the group was a pretty girl who was boasting a “C cup” by the 5th grade and whose parents were devoted to her every desire. Right around the time I turned TWELVE, we were drinking Kahlua and creams after school, and ripping apart every girl who had the audacity to be lower, socially, than we were.
Then came that fateful day when the girls invited some boys over and, to my horror, took off their shirts and started permitting second base. I stood up and announced to the room that they were all acting like a bunch of whores.
By the next day at school, I had both “prude!” and “lesbian!” written on my locker. Not one of my former friends would speak to me and they spread nasty rumors about me at school. At home, they cherry bombed my house and then made a VOODOO DOLL of me and SET IT ON FIRE outside my window.
My parents did nothing, my teachers did nothing. I had headaches and stomachaches for most of the remaining school year. As Patricia Polacco writes in the Afterword of Bully, “if email, text messaging, blogging, and tweeting had existed in my time, I would have felt the entire world was scrutinizing and passing judgment on me.”
Thank God I did not go through this at a time of social media, but many girls today DO, and this book, Bully, is not only incredibly upsetting, it is basically a true story that all too many girls and women can relate to.
I have been both bully and bullied. Most girls have. Most women are aware of the pitfalls.
In my opinion, far too many fathers, including my own back in the day, are oblivious to girl politics and how vicious girls can be.
This is not cute behavior; it's not a “girls will be girls" thing. This is a type of dehumanization that can inspire suicide.
As usual, Patricia Polacco's courage to tackle some our toughest social issues continues to amaze.
I think this is an extremely important book for the middle grades.