A Whack on the Head

I’ve heard a number of speeches about bullying over the years.

The speakers had good intentions. They presented statistics about the frequency of bullying. They explained the psychological roots of bullying and its effect on the victim. They gave well-considered prescriptions for combating bullying, on the personal, institutional and cultural levels. And yet none of them have had the impact of a speech I heard the other night.

The speaker, my friend Takami, addressed the question of why bullying and harassment are so often suffered in silence. It’s a complex issue that intertwines threads of fear, shame, powerlessness and a lack of self-esteem.

In her speech, she told us the story of an incident from grade school. A classmate next to her was making noise, while the teacher was writing on the board. His back to the class, he warned whoever was talking, several times, to be quiet. Finally, the teacher, a man that Takami liked and trusted, turned and grabbed Takami’s pen case and whacked Takami hard on the head.

Takami told us she just hung her head and said nothing. She didn’t protest her innocence or blame her friend. She didn’t tell her parents or report him to the principal. She just sat there burning with shame and resentment at the injustice of it.

The specifics of Takami’s story were unique to her. I’ve never been hit by a teacher. But as I listened to her story it brought back memories of my first grade teacher, Mrs. Anderson.

In our classroom, above the blackboard, was a construction paper train and each boxcar had a student’s name on it. When one of us finished reading a book, we took fold of colored paper, wrote the title of the book on it and tossed it in to our boxcar.

I’ve always loved to read, so I took to this project with enthusiasm. Within a couple of months, my boxcar was filled to overflowing.

One day, as the class was rushing out to the playground for recess, Mrs. Anderson asked me to stay behind and talk about the book train. I was so sure that she was going to praise me for my reading skill and probably offer to make a second boxcar for my books. It seemed only fair.

But instead of a pat on the back, I got a smug lecture on the evils of dishonesty. Mrs. Anderson said she didn’t believe I could possibly have read that many books so quickly.

That happened 47 years ago and I’m still angry about it. But at the time, I said nothing.

I KNEW exactly how Takami had felt at that moment, not because she had described or explained it to me, but because I had been there. That feeling of betrayal, anger and injustice was seared into my memory.

After the speech, we were talking to another friend, Drian, and he told us the story of a time in school when he was working diligently in the midst of a group of boys who were screwing off. In exasperation, the teacher finally punished the entire group, including Drian. As he told the story these many years later, I could hear in his voice that same burning resentment. He had been there too. HE knew that feeling.

Who hasn’t felt the sting of being unjustly accused? I’ll bet that every member of the audience that day was feeling the same thing Drian and I were, each through his or her own unique experience.

More than any dry lecture on psychology or statistics could have, Takami’s story had taken us straight to the root of the experience, not by explaining it, but by triggering our memories and emotions. It made her speech so much more vivid, powerful and memorable.

That’s how you make an impact on your audience.

That’s how you lead people to a deep understanding.

That’s how you make them care.

That’s how you move them to act.

And that was a damn fine speech, Takami-san.