A Story About Bullying, Survival and a Missing Child

I was an ugly child. There are people who don’t believe that now, but it’s the truth. It was the 60’s, when long, straight hair, parted in the middle, was the only acceptable look. I had short, frizzy, white hair, braces at age 10, chapped lips, shredded nails, and I wore clothes that were hand-me-downs from the neighborhood women, which I had learned how to tailor on my mother’s sewing machine to make them fit me. I was way too tall, way too clumsy and a year younger than anyone else – actually, a year younger to the day than my “primary bullier.” I was considered a “genius” (a useless attribute as a child, for sure) yet I also had trouble speaking, and if I were a child today I would have been diagnosed with something called “selective mutism,” which in the 60’s was called “painfully shy.”

I was never called by my real name; my nickname was Bird’s Nest, and it was usually shot in my direction with a hiss or a spit. I was punched, kicked, spat at and knocked out of place when waiting on the playground after recess to go back inside, when every other girl in the class would “headsie” or “backsie” their way in front of me until I was last. I lived at the end of the line.

Each day I went home crying, and my mother, who was tired as she had four kids and a full-time job, told me I was making it all up to get attention.  My father believed me, but had no idea what to do about it. I retreated into the world of fantasy and books, because reality was far too harsh a place to live.

By age 13, I was suicidal, but no one noticed. I would sit in the basement with a loaded gun across my lap (we had lots of them in the house,) making lists of what I had to live for as opposed to reasons to kill myself.  The “kill myself” list was very long. The “reasons to live” list had one thing on it . . . my dog, Gretchen. It is not an exaggeration to say that dog saved my life on many occasions.

Last night I was talking to my young friend, Julia, and she told me that the little girl who was missing from Orange, Isabella Oleschuck, had been bullied and that she’d told several kids she was going to run away from home because she didn’t want to go back to school, which she was sure her parents would make her do. I hadn’t heard anything about that, so I called Orange Patch Editor Terri Miles and asked her if she knew about it. Moments later I was on the phone with the Orange PD telling them what I knew, and they were shocked; no one had said anything along those lines.

I could hardly sleep last night, I was so worried about this poor little girl. If what Julia told me was true, I understood her desperation; yet as a mother, I was destroyed for her parents and couldn’t bear to think about how they were suffering.

This morning I got a text from Terri, who had gotten more information on the bullying. “The kids call her duck girl because she quacks like a duck and hisses at people. Some say they don’t think anyone even knew her real name before yesterday.”

Terri went on to say as a child her nickname was “dog.” She understands what Bella was going through. God knows, so do I.

This morning I am sitting with my cup of coffee in total disbelief. Yesterday, an entire day went by, dangerous minutes ticking away, while people kept the secret of Bella’s bullying and her intent to run away from it all. Perhaps I am permanently affected by my childhood, but even today, if I see anything that resembles bullying, I leap to my feet, jump into the fray, and go after the offender with clenched fists. NO ONE should have to endure that kind of abuse. So why do most people glance at the floor and find an excuse to look the other way when they see it happen? WHY ARE PEOPLE SO AFRAID OF BULLIES?

Today, I believe we are all trained from childhood to react to them a certain way. Those who were bullied, cower. Those who stood behind the bullies and jeered along with them, well, they knew if they didn’t join in, they were next on the hit list.Today, I think many of them avert their eyes.  And a bully, well, we all knew them as children and know plenty more as adults. This kind of imprinting from childhood is hard to undo, and I’m not quite sure how I tore myself out of that rut. I think it was my tremendous luck at having a lot of animals in my life to reinforce that I was not, indeed, a pile of garbage to be kicked around, but rather, a unique and special individual who was worthy of love and admiration. Animals didn’t care that I was ugly, nor are they at all affected by the fact that I outgrew my ugliness; they see me for who I am inside and my hair is inconsequential, as it should be.

Inside of every battered, bullied child is a beautiful, elegant swan, just waiting for a reason to emerge. How many times did I read The Ugly Duckling as a child, hoping it was a prophecy of my ultimate destiny? A thousand? A few years ago I asked my friend, Amie, to draw a tattoo of swans for me, necks intertwined, as I always look to these elegant birds as my ultimate role model, showing me how to gracefully glide though life. Amie obliged, but she also sent a sketch of two giggling ducks. Today, I have those rolley polley ducks in black ink on my shoulder, because as much as I like to think I grew up and molted out of my dingy, duckish feathers to become that elegant swan, in my heart I know the truth – I’m still an awkward, ungainly duck who is lucky enough to have come out the other side of a really terrible childhood and learned to love exactly who I am. In fact, my next tattoo will be one of a laughing duck rising from the ashes (ala the Pheonix,) compliments of the talented Amie.

Bella – you are a duck girl, as I am a duck lady. I, along with thousands of others, am praying for you to come home safely. I want you to grow up and learn how very special you are because of your differences, and how much you will do to make the world a better place because you understand what it’s like to be in a dark place . . . and because in a few short years you will understand what it’s like to break out into the light and soar with the rest of us giggling ducks. Real “revenge” is not making them feel bad for what they did to you . . . revenge is surviving and growing up to be happy; that’s how you crush those childhood bullies.

And everyone else, well, it’s time to wake up to what’s happening around us. Heads out of the sand, stop looking away. It’s not just Bella who needs us to pay attention, there are thousands more just like her on the verge of making a run for it, or worse. Terri and I are lucky to be here to talk about what it’s like to come out the other side of that very scary, lonely place, but too many others are not.

I have my candle lit for Bella; if you have one, please light it and send a prayer that she comes home safely. And when she does, we all promise we will work harder to make sure that she, and the rest of the children we know in her position, stays safe.

Here is a follow up to this column