There is the garden-variety little-boy, schoolyard bully and for as long he poses no
imminent threat of physical violence to anybody, that’s okay, because characters like this are intrinsic to boyhood. There is the uber-dominant, over-powering boss and for as long as he is perfectly qualified for his position that’s okay too, because he probably didn’t get to where he is by having a benign personality nor for being a mother-figure who would hold his subordinates’ hands as they go about their duties. I don’t intend to discuss moody husbands or wacky boyfriends because aside from it being none of my business, I believe that all relationships are essentially power-based; the dynamics of which are much too complex to read into and most often the cliché “it takes two to tango” does apply, so who’s to judge?
What I am concerned about are those random acts of bullying by strangers unto fellow strangers, most especially those of men towards women.
Take my eight-year-old daughter, Pippi, who is peace-loving and quiet—hardly ever speaks. I was in the kitchen once when she trudged in and launched a gushing waterfall of tears because a boy her age from school, who belongs to another section and whom she has never spoken to before, told her casually and for no reason, that she was “a stupid girl”—twice. They were apparently in the school clinic: she, getting a band aid for a scraped knee and he, for unknown reasons.
It bothered her for days, making her want to skip school. So I spoke to the guidance counselor who helped her processed the incident. This prompted a mass-briefing in the family on random bullies and how to deal with them. Some days after, my nine-year-old son, Bidi, who was most disturbed about what happened, came home with his own story to tell. He said that he actually went in search of this bully, gave him a piece of his mind and demanded that he apologize. According to him, the little perpetrator was all-contrite and speechless. I asked how the whole scenario ended and he said that he made like Robert De Niro in “Meet the Parents”. He stared the little bully in the eye at close range, pointed two fingers (pointer and tall man) straight at him, and then turned them around to point at his own eyes, miming the threat of “I’ll be watching you!” No wonder he kept asking Pippi how big this bully was! So there’s the end of that story.
Three years ago, Belli, my then nine-year-old daughter, came home wanting to quit the school chess club. This was unsettling because she was initially adamant on joining in spite of the fact that she was the lone female among 15 or so male members. It turned out that a middle-schooler, a boy five years her senior, was repeatedly calling her a loser and taunting her each time she sat down to a chess match. I explained the situation to the chess club moderator. He said he was only there to teach chess and was not much concerned about class management because boys were naturally rowdy. So I acquiesced and told Isabel to try to toughen it up hoping that the bully would eventually tire off.
A week later, she called me from school bawling and breathless because the bully was relentless. Against my better judgment, I trooped to her school fuelled by anger and sought out the bully. He turned out to be like a full grown adult—much taller and bigger than me.
I unleashed what must have been the wrath of a middle-aged woman, still grappling with the psychological barrier of ageing, because he stood there stunned like a whole platoon of green berets had descended on him! I realize that what I did was wrong; parents are supposed to let their children fight their own fights but the sight of that big, bad, bully was too much of a temptation to resist. And boy did that feel good! I basically told him to pick on someone his own size and threatened that I would call his parents if he didn’t stop bullying my daughter. And to that he delivered a speedy and heartfelt reply, “yes Ma’am!”
Last March, on a flight to Vancouver with my entire family, I sat in front of a male passenger from hell. He too, was with his brood—wife and two young children—as I espied when I took a glimpse of row 37 directly behind ours. Immediately after the plane was airborne, I felt several nudges from the back of my seat. I turned around and saw this male passenger from row 37 thrashing about. I had not suspected that the nudges were intentional at that time.
In the successive minutes, what initially felt like nudges quickly escalated into violent knee thrusts on my seat back. They were forceful enough to have sent my head and upper torso bobbing back and forth. I stood up and nicely asked him what seemed to be the matter and his retort was a curt “Ang kulit mo kasi eh.” Dazed and disoriented I said “excuse me?” He repeated smugly and this time even louder, “Ang kulit mo! Galaw ka ng galaw!”
How could I have been moving when my seat belt was snuggly fastened, when there was no way of wiggling around in the aircraft since we were ascending on take-off? How could my movements, if at all, have affected him when my seat back was not reclined owing to aviation take-off regulations? I was still mulling these points over when he blurted several expletives like: “s *** and b****.”
Anyway, after this barbarian from row 37 volleyed those pretty nasty words at me, the good old Davaoena warrior attitude of “patay na kung patay” was fighting to unleash itself out of my system. But all my girls were watching intently. Having just recently spoken to them about how to handle bullies, I needed to be a good example and not an embarrassment. So I strained and struggled to use the Queen’s proper English and not spew out expletives on impulse. I gave barbarian 37 a lengthy lecture on good manners and about controlling one’s temper in front of minors. I punctuated this with a stern demand for him to apologize to me, to each of my kids, one at a time; and finally to the husband at the very end of our row who at this point was telling me to tell barbarian 37 that if he was having problems with leg room, he should dish out the extra cash for a seat over at First Class.
And so he did apologize because he got spooked by what might have seemed like an epileptic fit from me. We all sat and settled down but I couldn’t act fine and dandy like nothing happened. Sure, he probably ate something bad for breakfast and was suffering from a severe case of gas; or he could have been fired from work the day before; or he could have had a big fight with his wife who was a few seats down; but heck, he dumped it all on me! So I stood up, faced the barbarian and said, “I’m not done with you yet.” I marched off in search of the chief purser and relayed to her what had transpired, replete with actions—it may have been a little exaggerated at this point but, hey, I was still smarting from all that. The purser, very kindly appeased me and then had a word with barbarian 37 about disturbing the peace. She gave each of my children airline kiddie bags and goodies and promptly apologized to me and my family.
Conan from row 37 was contrite, quiet as a mouse and motionless like a corpse for the rest of the flight. I, on the other hand, kept my seat back at a full recline all the way to our destination and heard not another peep from the big, bad Conan the Barbarian on 37.
Victims suffer consequences from bullying. Fear, anxiety and poor self-esteem can be attributed to persistent bullying. They develop a sense of powerlessness. It is a well-established behavioral pattern that a bully’s tendency is to fold-up once his object of ridicule returns the aggression or fights back. So if you or any of your children are confronted by a bully, go into an epileptic fit of anger, give him an epic tongue lashing, dance the flamenco and stomp your feet as though there were roaches on the floor, do whatever you feel like, be creative and original, just as long as it conveys a strong message of courage and a threat of retaliation. Chances are he will squirm and burrow himself under the ground. If only male bullies would pick on someone their own size and their own sex, middle-aged mothers wouldn’t have to spend a bundle on anti-wrinkle creams and blood pressure maintenance pills.
Their very own media vans
My lunch at USC's The Lot: Wolfgang Puck's barbecue chicken pizza. Yum!
Happy duck, Maverick and her chili cheese fries
Maverick's classmate and good friend, Tara, whose mom is an honest to goodness rocket scientist for NASA. I can actually boast that I know a rocket scientist! Imagine that!
Annenberg lobby
maverick in perfect stride with grad school life
