From Amy to Aviva: My Journey From Bullying Target to School Faculty

Two months ago, New Voices published an article about childhood bullying and its life-long effects. We put out a call for our readers to send in their own stories, of bullying and of what that bullying means to them now; of these stories, we chose the one that resonated with us most strongly. That story is what follows.  by Aviva Perlman

Then:

I can’t recall when or how the bullying started. I know something changed when I was nine and I had to start another school for fourth grade. I was finding it difficult to make friends. I was never wanted at lunch tables and in classrooms groups; I was rarely invited to birthday parties and rarely had play dates.  At first, none of this really bothered me.  I figured it was simply from being a new kid and that sooner or later things would fall into place.  But then the whispering started, and the laugh, and then the stares.  I don’t exactly know about of what they were making fun of me, but it didn’t matter.  My sentence had been written. I was marked. Once you are marked, it’s very hard to change that status.

My confidence and self-esteem—things I didn’t even know existed—plummeted, and my paranoia grew.  I no longer wanted to put myself out there or volunteer for anything, and whenever I saw someone whisper, I always thought it was about me.

Along came fifth grade; the whispers and sneering followed me. One summer away from school can’t erase the mark.  I quickly pounced on making friends with the new kids—being nice and offering them a place to sit at lunch.  However, once the other classmates deemed these new kids cool, they disappeared, having learned that being friends with me was social suicide.  I found myself wandering around the playground by myself during recess looking for people to play with.


By this point, the school administration was quite familiar with me, as I frequented their office, constantly expressing the troubles I was having with my classmates, in hopes that something would be done about it.  All I got was a figurative pat on the head and a sympathy smile.  And so, I reached a breaking point that year, writing a letter to my teacher, saying I couldn’t handle it and I didn’t know what else to do.  Naturally, it sounded an alarm and the school’s guidance department ordered me to see a psychologist.

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