Facing the Bully
By: Jon Arat
Finding my way seems like an underlying theme throughout the course of my life. Ever since I was seven years old and moved to America from the Philippines I can remember how hard of a struggle it was to feel comfortable in a new culture. At this age, I remember my experiences in the American public school system as if the memories occurred yesterday. I reached the airport in the evening. An early spring rain was falling. I waited in the lobby with my mother. I ran towards the gate after seeing my grandmother fight through the crowded Filipino faces. I felt as though this would be the last time I would see her. She handed me a handkerchief after tears ran down my face. I knew at once that I would not be able to leave.
Prior to my departure to the new land, I remember clinging desperately to my grandmother who had escorted me to the airport. I probably never felt more emotional pain in my life than the moment when my mother pulled me by the arm and dragged me across the airport lobby. Crying and screaming, I could not bare the painful agony of having to leave. Leaving the Philippines, and especially my grandmother, was similar to leaving my parents because my "Lola" (Filipino for grandma), had raised me my whole life. On the evening of my arrival in America, I felt completely lost. I had wished that my moving had been a big dream.
Evidently, America was not the paradise I imagined my new home to be. I had been welcomed with a plastic bag full of mixed fruits with a great big hug from my father whom I had not seen in five years. I remember feeling exhilarated and special thinking how everything would now be a happy ending after having my family reunited. I soon realized that I could not escape the pain of mourning over the loss of my friends and relatives back in the Philippines. The euphoric feelings of anticipation were quickly replaced with heartache and deep pain.
My first night in America felt like my first night in prison. We had to live with my cousins until my father had earned enough for our own apartment. That night, I lay in between my parents. Restless, I began thinking of my grandmother. I began to let out my sorrows by crying away with the thoughts of "Wishing she was here," or "I wish I was back home." I desperately wanted my mother's embraced as I screamed in the soaked pillow. All I received was silence. I did not know whether being emotionally ignored by my parents, or missing my grandmother, was more painful to experience that night. I was awakened in the morning by merry noises of my little cousins running across the hallway. I recall feeling so anxious that my legs were paralyzed to move down the stairs. Hoping to be invited down, I nervously sat at the top of the stairs and proceeded to slowly come down while in a sitting position. Halfway down, I hear "hurry up big cry baby!" Not only were my legs paralyzed, but now my butt was paralyzed as well. Ashamed, I desperately wanted to slide back up to hide in my room. Unexpectedly, my uncle picked me up with glee and landed me in the middle of the dining table to join everybody else. Still frozen in fear and embarrassment, I couldn't open my mouth because my cousins kept making fun of my crying and for the way I was dressed. I was teased for looking like a "FOB," a derogatory acronym meaning "fresh off the boat."
Three weeks later, I found myself in grade school. Talk about from the frying pan into the fire, this was an even worse form of torture for a lost little boy. I remember crying and hiding behind a school building each time my mother dropped me off at school. I used to run home from school each day trying to avoid being beaten-up by bullies who harassed because I looked, dressed, and talked differently than the other children. In the beginning, I was young, naïve, and lost. I figured that the key to the American life was to imitate pop culture and daytime television of the early nineties. In short, the key to learning the English language was to model myself after characters in old TV sitcoms such as Punky Brewster and I Love Lucy.
I felt like an extraterrestrial wanting desperately to be unnoticed in this new world. I said to myself, "I definitely am no longer in the Philippines," emulating Dorothy's character in The Wizard of Oz. Recalling these childhood experiences, I realize I was also similar to the character of Forrest in the movie Forrest Gump. I was unaware of how the basic protocols of the American public school system. On the first day of class, I decided to blend in as much as possible. At one point, since I had never heard of recess or lunchtime, I had not known what cafeteria tickets were. Therefore, I had no notion of how to obtain them. Instead, I simply ate my packed hotdog, the only thing my mother put in my lunch bag.
On one occasion, I had a squished hotdog in the bottom of my book bag and felt embarrassed taking it out to eat for lunch. It was either the hotdog or settling in having to sit and wait for everyone else to finish their cafeteria lunches. Although I was not a bit hungry, I didn't want to draw attention to myself sitting alone without food to eat so I reached in to grab my hotdog that my mother had packed for me. Unbeknownst to me, the hotdog was soggy with grape juice, along with the rest of everything else that was inside my book bag. A few kids pointed fingers and someone threw a milk cartoon that hit me in the head. Humiliated, I ran to the bathroom.
After the hotdog fiasco, I thought I never had to go back to school ever again. Apparently, feeling humiliated was not a good enough excuse to hold off on public schooling. Surprisingly, after deciding to face the music and set my foot back on school soil, it seemed as though the hotdog incident had never occurred. Everyone ignored me as I walked back into the classroom. My fear of being given the long stares from my fellow classmates quickly dissipated when a fight between two students broke out in the middle of the classroom. The teacher quickly took matters to hand and sent the two boys to the principal's office. The rest of the class was soon inundated with school stuff so I too casually lost myself in the assigned tasks. I felt assured that everybody's attention was on the fight and not my hotdog incident. I almost thought I had survived the dreadful day of coming back to class after the embarrassing moment when the school bully caught me. He had forewarned me that he would beat me up after school.
Evidently, during the incident when I stormed out of the cafeteria, another milk cartoon had hit him in the back. It had seemed all the more logical that I had been the one who had thrown it at him since I was seen running away from the crime after he got hit. I was clearly set up, but my English would not yet suffice to explain myself. That day I ran home as fast as I could, thinking of avoiding the bully. Eventually, I arrived home feeling a sigh of relief when my heart began to start beating fast again. Apparently, my key to the house was misplaced and I had no way of letting myself in. No one was home to open the door. I could have either waited for hours or go back to school to call my parents. Grudgingly, I decided to go back to school after assuming that the bully would be long gone. As I was walking closer to school, I froze with fear after realizing that my executioner was still waiting for me at the entrance. I could no longer turn back since the bully had seen me. I felt like an inmate walking on death row.
After walking half a block, which seemed more like a long mile due to my high anxiety, I was standing five feet away from the bully. Looking down I could not see what he was about to do. I anticipated a punch, but what I received was an unexpected pat on the back. Apparently, a fellow classmate of mine had stood up for me and had cleared my name prior to this confrontation. The bully was about to call off the fight that same day, but since I had stormed out the classroom he was not given the opportunity. I felt relieved and a little braver that day. I befriended the notorious school bully, which to me felt like befriending the president of the country.
Looking back, I realize that my own fears and worries came from within. I felt scared to confront anyone because I was too fearful to face the most significant individual, which is myself. I also realize that during this transitional phase of my life, I was suicidal and extremely depressed. Perhaps during the moment of confronting the bully I felt that I had nothing more to lose, so I surrendered. I remember thinking many irrational thoughts such as, "I'm lower than everybody else because I'm different." At times, I came to actually believe these thoughts. At other times, I rather watched TV than face my shortcomings. I followed my instincts by thinking the immigrant thing to do was to take life's punches, fight to get back up, and move forward.
I am still trying to find a constant feeling of belonging. I am just a beginner as a counselor, and I hope I don't find myself screaming in my pillow over another new culture. I must say that I feel as lost now as I once did as a newcomer to this country. The main difference is that there is no bully chasing me (at least that I am aware of). Perhaps it is not surprising that I now feel a strong need to standup for anyone who is taken advantage of by a bully and to help those who are ignored. At least now I can say that my English will finally suffice to get directions. So it does get better. As an advocate for minorities, immigrant students, and individuals coming out of the closet, I recognize myself in their struggles.
Now I am able to provide emotional support for my client's and be able to share my experiences. In addition, I challenge my Filipino-American client's to find their own way and not allow society or their parents to dictate their lives. Nevertheless, I am still learning how to comfort those who have no clear directions in life. Most importantly, I hope to revive a sense of personal belief in oneself for each client I am able to help. I know that no man can destroy my belief in myself which had sprung from all the hopes and aspirations of my "Lola". Often in my practice, I find myself in a position to do for my client's what I desperately needed, but did not receive. To me, this is exhilarating and healing.
Jon Arat is a graduate student in counseling at California State University Fullerton.
How should i say this....... blame others...yup.... thats the right word.
