When I was in grammar school, I was bullied by the “big kid” in class.  As I recall it, this bullying was very specific — he wanted my lunch and he got it.  Now, mind you, I usually had pretty great lunches: Homemade sandwiches, homemade baked goods and from time to time, fresh lobster rolls (this is a story for another time, but my grandfather was a lobsterman and during the times my father, a union worker, was out on strike lobster is what sustained us as a family — tough, I know).

So for several weeks I went without a lunch.  One day this came to a head.  I was both physically hungry when I got home from school as well as emotionally exhausted from my daily submission to this bully.  I do not recall who else was aware of it in my circle of friends and classmates – certainly not the teacher because it would have ended with her, I’m sure.  My mother pressed me as to my apparently obvious condition and I caved, letting all the stress, tension and sense of near starvation pour out to my great protector.

And protect me she did, because never once again to I recall having my lunch taken from me by this person.

I’m sure you all agree that bullying is bad.  Bullying can leave a young child with a lifelong fear of aggressive behavior, with pent-up anger, with a great sense of harm done and self-righteousness earned.

I’ve carried this story with me for nearly 6 decades, repeating it many times, most often with the details about lobster rolls, which seem to lend a sense of justification to the bully’s behavior and give a warm touch to the tale.

But the knife cuts both ways, doesn’t it?  As an adult, I came to realize that so much of the bully’s behavior was driven by his own family’s poverty.  He came to school in old, dirty clothes — no matter how financially-strapped we were, our mother would never ever have let us go to school in something torn, stained or ill-fitting.  He came to school without lunch.  Whereas the rest of our small class had paper sacks and cartoon classic lunchboxes, he was most always empty-handed.  That meant he was hungry.  Had he even had breakfast?  Or dinner the night before?  And he was a large (big-framed) boy, so he clearly was wanting for proteins and carbs.  So he did what he needed to do; he identified me as his provider, or his victim, and he took from me what he no doubt felt he needed more and that he deserved.

His circumstances didn’t justify his tormenting of me.  But it certainly has made me see his aggressions in a different light.  Of course I would have shared (maybe), had he only asked nicely (unlikely).

It’s so easy to armchair quarterback this.  The lunch was mine, provided by my mother and 100% totally belonging to me and provided for my personal sustenance.  Taking my lunch, particularly taking it in an aggressive manner, wasn’t justified by his circumstance, no matter how hungry he may have felt, no matter how right he was that food was easier for me to get than for him.  The food was mine.  And because he chose — or only knew — an aggressive path toward acquiring what he wanted and felt he deserved, we both ended up suffering.

I wonder if he remembers this today, and what has become of his life given the challenges he faced in his upbringing.  I wonder if only I wonder how we could have navigated those moments better, together, for a more mutually rewarding result.  Would 10 year old me be willing to share his sandwich?  Would 10 year old him be able to say, “I’m hungry, can you help me?”  

And what happened after I told my mother the truth?  I don’t recall speaking with the teacher or principal, so it’s likely someone else in my family did.  Did the teacher then reprimand the bully? Was he put on warning for his behavior and “theft?”  We had no food kitchen available where I lived (I don’t think – not that I am aware of).  Was he just made to feel shame or anger or “less than” and wrong?  

Oh to be able to go back with my full adult self in that first moment when everything could have (possibly) gone differently.  But that’s the cruel thing about life, isn’t it.  There’s no going back, there’s only going forward and hoping that we carry forward these experiences and these thoughts into a better world for tomorrow.  

One last thing.  If you think this is about Venezuela, you are likely right.  I’m not totally sure.