Of Heathers and High Roads
The problem with girl bullying is that the aggression is rarely on display. It’s easy to spot the classic bully; while he may be subtle enough not to conduct a playground shakedown in front of the teacher, his actions are rarely left as a matter of perception. He’s generally very up front about his motivation and tends to take a hands on approach with his victims. Not so with the Heathers. Unlike Butch, a Heather is rarely up front, and she never gets her hands dirty. Her brand of mean is best accomplished at a distance and under the radar. It depends not on direct confrontation, but on a far more subtle campaign of terror that is based almost completely on perceptions. Whispered insults and secret clubs, not fists, are her weapons of choice, and the damage, while just as real as a black eye, is often far less visible.
When it is, though, it’s heartbreaking. I think I would have rather come out from my talk with Mr. G to see a battered and bloody Diva Girl than the beaten, dejected child who was sitting in line, oblivious to the he happy chaos of the playground swirling around her. She’s the crybaby, but I was the one near tears as I watched her sit with her head down and her shoulders slumped, desperately trying to keep the hurt in and not care that Heather was making it a point to stand right beside her, deep in conversation with 3 other little girls in their class.
Sabrina wasn’t the only one feeling defeated on the playground. My meeting with their teacher left me feeling angry and frustrated. To say Mr. G was less than understanding about the problem would be an understatement. Mr. G “doesn’t see a problem.” He doesn’t see a problem because “Heather and Sabrina really don’t interact as far as he can tell.” And, to top it all off, he “can’t do anything unless Sabrina brings the problem to me herself.”
Yeah. Clearly Mr. G was never a little girl. And possibly, given that last statement, never even a kid. Of course you don’t see it! That’s sort of the point of bullying–it doesn’t make it hurt any less just because the scars are on the inside. And of course they don’t have anything to do with each other; that’s the way this scenario works. The entire point is to have nothing to do with Sabrina–to make her as much of an outsider as possible. Which brings us to point number 3. She’s already been labeled the crybaby. Now he wants her to be the tattletale too? And what exactly is she supposed to tattle about? “Jenny won’t play with me?” I know what my response to that would be.
I walked out of the school frustrated by the teacher’s utter lack of empathy and understanding of the issue, but bouyed by the fact that there was at least one glimmer of hope in this whole mess: Sabrina’s budding friendship with Madyson. When I went in, Sabrina and Madyson were together, catching up on their weekends; when I came back out, Bree was on her own and Heather had Madyson. I don’t know what happened in the five useless minutes I spent inside discussing the situation with the teacher, but I can guess. Social pressure is a hard thing to stand up to, even when you’re an adult. As a child, it can be near impossible. And it’s just human nature that when the Alpha in a group invites you in, you accept. I don’t blame Madyson for crumbling under the pressure; I blame Heather for applying it.
I’ve been trying to to teach Diva Girl about taking the high road through this, but when my daughter ran to me and buried her face in my back, clinging to me like a 4 year old on the first day of school, I cracked. As the bell rang, I bent down and whispered, “She’s a vicious little snot.” It wasn’t much, and it certainly wasn’t mature of me, but the grin that spread across Sabrina’s tear stained face told me that for that moment at least, it was enough. That’s all that really matters to me right now.