When I was in the 5th grade, I had to go to the classroom across the hall for reading.  I guess that was my “punishment” for being in the advanced group.  And punishment it was.  For whatever reason, the teacher in that room put my desk in the furthest back corner facing the windows (everyone else faced the front of the room).  I was in that room every day for forty-five minutes of silent reading immediately followed by a quiz on what we had just read.  One day a week, on Fridays, I think it was, we were allowed to read something of our choosing.  I don’t remember how long this went on, but it seemed that within a few weeks, I had flunked enough quizzes to get myself back in my own room.

What happened?  Well, I was being bullied by the teacher.  He hated me.  Why?  Because I had a weight problem.  Think I am exaggerating?  Read on…

Every Friday, during that “free” silent reading hour, this teacher would lean over my desk and give me what he wanted me to read.  Now you have to picture what this was like for me.  I was a very sensitive, shy kid, my desk was wedged between the back wall and the wall of windows, and he was leaning over me, his body over my head, and each of his hands grasping a side of my desktop.  I was literally surrounded.  He would whisper that he had found another diet that I might want to read-up on because I was “getting really big now.”  The one that always sticks out in my mind is “the hot dog diet.”  It was in a magazine that he flipped through to find the right page for me, and I was forced to allow this to go on, as I had no where to go.  All the while I wanted to run away, fearing that all the kids in the room could hear what he was saying or see what he was giving me.   After he left, I felt obligated to read it – like he was going to be watching to make sure that I did.  That particular article talked about replacing all your main meals with 2 hot dogs.  That was pretty much it.  Can you imagine?  Giving an 11-year-old the advice to eat nothing but hot dogs, of all things?!

Another day, my class was playing a game of kickball against his class, which was something I feared with every fiber of my being.  I was a slow runner, a clumsy kicker, and was never able to make a single catch, not to mention the fact that I was always, always, ALWAYS picked last.  It was an all-around horrible experience.  I must’ve been the only kid in the entire history of my elementary school to hope that my fellow students would act so badly all week that this Friday afternoon ritual would get cancelled.  (P.S. – wishing for rain never worked because we would just switch to a game of indoor volleyball, which was the only thing I dreaded more than kickball!)  Anyway, one day, as I walked up to the plate to kick the ball, this teacher yells-out, “If you put all your weight into it, it’ll go right over the fence!”  Of course, everyone had a really good laugh at my expense.  The saddest part of all was that my teacher never said a word.  He just allowed this jerk to bully me in front of everyone.  (Gee, I wonder what kind of message this was sending?!)  That was the last time I ever played that game.  Somehow I managed to get up the nerve to tell my teacher that I refused to play anymore.  I assume that at that moment, the pain of humiliation out-weighed my usually paralytic shyness.  My teacher reluctantly gave me permission to bring my markers and paper outside so I could draw pictures rather than play that stupid game.  At the time, I thought this arrangement was the greatest thing that could happen to me.  But looking back, I know that deep down inside, I hated myself for quitting, I hated myself for being fat and uncoordinated, and I hated myself for being afraid.