I ran away from it all. Sometimes I thought about running forever and never looking back.
In rural Mississippi, the youngest of four boys growing up far out in the country, I found solace in my daddy’s barn.
It was there I felt strong in my thoughts while alone with the surrounding pine trees, the pond just beyond the hill, the noise of the world hushed.
It was my escape from the scrutiny of those who for some reason beyond my young understanding took great joy at my expense. The teasing, the laughing, the name-calling, and worse things — they caused me to withdraw.
School was an absolutely horrific experience for me. I remember trembling when I saw the yellow school bus rounding the curve, moving slowly through the morning fog.
I wondered how an otherwise bright and happy color like yellow could be such a damning reminder for a little boy of the hell he would be subjected to once inside.
The kids at my school refused to sit by me most days, especially the boys. I was always the last one standing on the playground waiting to be picked for the team of kickball or baseball.
Imagine what that does to a child’s self-esteem.
I rallied behind the kind faces of a few of my classmates, the ones I sat next to through my elementary years only because we were assigned by the first letter of our last names.
Usually I was sandwiched between Leigh Ann Cowart and Renee Dykes, and I wondered later in life if we were friends by chance.
If their last names had started with another letter, would they have been across the room pointing at me like the others?
If elementary school was bad, junior high was even worse, almost unbearable.
Charles and Darren chased me through the dark halls during every break trying to hurl me like a helpless sheep into the girl’s restroom to humiliate me because I was a “sissy.” I grew more and more isolated and introspective, alone with my dog, George, who always accepted me with unconditional love.
In high school, I was nominated for Homecoming Queen by a group of boys, the hot flush of shame flooding my body.
With apology for the distasteful words I am about to use, they called me faggot and queer bait at the pep rallies and once picked me up by my belt loops and put me into the trash can.
The teachers watched silently, said nothing, did nothing, the saddest commentary of all.
This is not, however, about “poor pitiful me,” because I am no longer to be pitied. My adult life is richly blessed and full. I love and am loved.
This is about the fact that such atrocities are still happening today, routinely, other children shamed and victimized because of their race, gender, sexual orientation, religion.
This list of otherness goes on and on.
I have learned not to blame my abusers, the bullies. Neither do I vindicate them.
They were children, too, looking to make themselves feel better in the age-old way of making someone else feel worse. I do blame and call to account those who turned and looked away—my older brothers who should have protected me, Coach Ready, the cafeteria lady, a dozen other adults who let it happen.
A bully is a bully, whether on the yellow school bus or at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. They must no longer be allowed to hurt our children, and the voices of survivors and our advocates must not be hushed.
David Creel is a Mississippi native and a syndicated columnist. You may reach him at beautifulwithdavid@gmail.com.