Ignorance: Self-Esteem and Bullying:

As a writer, I see symbols, meanings behind many things.  My own name, for example, has three parts.  I was named after one of my uncles on my dad's side, Michael Raymond Maloney, who died while on the way to the hospital from smoke inhalation caused by a fire he started in a closet.  He was only four.  My first name, Micah, is slightly different but the same root word and meaning.  It's Hebrew, meaning 'Who is like God?'  Hell of a lot to even try to contemplate, let alone live up to.  My last name is Maloney, which, to the best of my research merely means 'Descendent of the Disciple St. John', and has many spelling variations due to the poor education of the Gaelic people at the time it came into being.  John, on the other hand, means 'God is Gracious', meaning courteous, kind and pleasant, which I have to say some of my family fits while another part might be burying it a bit deep down.  My middle name, however, is Raymond.  It's not Gaelic or Hebrew, it's Germanic, which, a lot of my blood is, though less than the Irish/Gaelic percentage.  Its root parts are ragin (Advice) and mund (Protector).  When I was of a certain age I used to use my entire name when introducing myself, as many children do, but I quickly grew out of it to only using my first name or first and last if asked to introduce myself.  I started becoming deeply into writing in high school, and my passion for it and symbol grew out of my love for reading both prior to and during that time.  It was during my junior year that I started using my full name again online, and there's a story behind it, one which I didn't realize was linked at the time, but looking back even a couple years later made perfect sense to me.  It all happened because of a revelation, a friend, a bully, and a mix of apathy and friendship.

Alright, I'll admit that before my sophomore year of high school I cared way too much what people thought about me, and got bullied quite a lot.  Then I had a startling revelation one day that changed my outlook:  Who cares?  I was slow on the ball socially in my early years, but in high school I made five times more friends after making those two words my motto.  Who cares?  I realized I wouldn't see ninety-percent, and in fact more than that, of my fellow student body after graduation, and if they had some weird stories to tell each other about me further on down the road, oh well.  It wasn't like I'd be around them to be jeered at or have spitballs and rolled-up papers thrown at me, tripped in halls, or shoved against a locker or wall.  In fact, once I stopped caring about my own image, almost all of that stopped.  I let it all slide off me and those bothering me before didn't get the reaction they wanted.  So did I go and moon teacher I wasn't too fond of or spread rumors about a bully's questionable relationship between their extracurricular activities and the unmarked bottles they got from other students?  Pfft.  No!  That was between them and their team, between them and the teachers and staff and truancy officer.  It didn't matter to me in the long run since they weren't hurting anyone but themselves with their stupidity.  Armed with this new motto and worldview, did I merely tell one of my friends to buck up and not let it get to them when he started contemplating suicide?  FUCK NO!

One of my friends had been bullied an entire year, some of which I saw during the same time I was being bullied and some of which happened when I wasn't around.  I didn't know all the circumstances surrounding his home and his life in general, but I knew he at least didn't have any visible bruises or anything like that.  He wasn't physically fit, and while we shared interests, he wasn't as easily able to do the coursework as myself or our mutual friends.  He was picked on because of his weight, and because of his slowness to come up with comebacks or react in general to verbal taunting, and his inability to keep someone from shoving him even harder if he tried to resist.  Bully bait, as some of our group called people like him.  While I didn't have much in the way of muscles, I still had my height and less bodyfat, so it was harder to shove me around, hence, if it was him or me, the bullies would go after him.  Self-Esteem for me came as a breakthrough in the form of focused apathy.  I stopped caring about anyone I wasn't interested in being around, so I started doing things I wanted to do, stopped trying to dress like other groups, stopped trying to fit in.  While I don't have much of a 'personal style' even now, I had none then, just wearing whatever felt comfortable or had a coordination that I liked.  For most people, self-esteem takes small steps before the breakthrough I had, and the progression to seeing any difference is much slower.  For my friend it was still going on when I graduated two years later, but it almost was cut off entirely.

Between a couple of friends and I, we talked our friend contemplating suicide out of thinking about it, or at least out talking about it.  Getting him excited about manga, anime or games coming out in the upcoming months helped a bit, keeping a linked interest present to show others liked talking to him about such things, and hanging out in general.  Having spent years at non-suicidal (I never even contemplated it, just far too much I want to do with my life even at a young age) levels of low self-esteem, I knew that alone wouldn't help without some assistance in other areas as well.  Some of my friends told him to tell a teacher or staff member if it happened again, while I kept silent on that issue, already knowing how little good that did, usually causing a backlash after a worthless talk.  Especially since most of the bullies had parents who donated a lot to the school.  So, I took a different approach.  One that could have gotten me expelled or even sued.  I told my friend I'd see what I could do to get them to stop.

I caught the arm of the ringleader of the main bully crew in the hallway a couple days later and told him that he could do whatever he wanted to me, but to leave my friends alone.  I said that otherwise I would make him stop.  He laughed and pulled his arm away, continuing on to class.  Two days later, my friend was in the hall before classes and I saw him shoved in a circle by the ringleader and a few others.  I started heading toward him, but as the first bell rang, everyone had to go to class, including the ringleader.  Luckily for me, we shared a class.  As I passed him to sit, I glared and merely told him I saw what he did.  He rolled his eyes and we continued with class without another word or glance.  Between classes, however, I called his name as he started to ascend the nearest stairs.  He turned to face me, and what I did next changed my life and my friend's experience at my high school for that period in our lives.  I stupidly curled my thumb under my fingers and threw the first punch I'd ever thrown in my life, hitting the ringleader square in the nose, knocking him backward onto his backpack to the surprise of all the students around us.  I shook my hand for a moment at the pain and then just clenched it to keep from causing more, pointing at him with my other hand.  I told him that I had warned him, and that he could tell the staff or his friends or try to sue my broke ass or try to get me outside school, but that if I saw him mess with my friends again I'd jump him without another warning.  He looked at me, then checked to make sure his nose wasn't bleeding and I left, going to my next class.  For a week I expected retaliation, something, anything other than what I got.  Silence.  It took a full three weeks before that bully started giving half-hearted jeers and shoves, throwing paper balls that just harmlessly bounced off.  Did he stop bothering my friend?  Not completely, but the few times I did happen to see him messing with him he caught my eye and gave a grunt before leading his crew elsewhere.  Between that and what happened with another bully I felt on top of the world my following two years, and the number of people who regularly talked to me about things other than homework grew considerably.  Whatever happened to my friend?  Well, I never told him what happened between the ringleader and I.  I've not seen nor heard from him since high school, but two things I do know:  I never again saw him crying after being shoved around, and he didn't talk about contemplating suicide again.