What comes to mind for me is my experience as a sixth grader in my all-boys Catholic school, where I was being tormented by the other boys. The ringleader paradoxically was a boy who I thought of as my best friend and he was when we were alone together. But when we were in the company of other boys, he made me something of a scapegoat. He was the best athlete in our group, and each morning before school we’d have a game of slap ball. I’d make a point of getting there early, but he would wait until the 11th boy showed up to make sure I did not get picked for one of the five player teams. I would get demonstrably upset, and this would lead the boys to laugh. This, of course, only made me more upset, and soon the boys were having a feeding frenzy at my expense.
In those days we had to wear a strict uniform of shined shoes, blue trousers, a white shirt and a navy-blue tie. Before going into school, we would line up in neat rows to be inspected by brother Sean. Any boy whose shoes were not shined, or tie not snugged, or shirt not tucked in would be singled out to the end of the line and required to wait in the hallway while the other boys took their seats. The ritual was that brother Sean would then go into the hallway and with his famous Board of Education, whack the offending boy on the buttocks, the number of times in keeping with brother Sean’s estimation of the egregiousness of the offense. I was meticulous in my preparations to avoid this outcome. But on the day I have in mind, brother Sean pulled me out of line and sent me to the back. I stood in the hallway, bewildered as to what I could’ve possibly done wrong, and was not looking forward to re-entering the classroom, rubbing my sore butt.
When brother Sean emerged from the classroom and saw the anxiety on my face, he waved his hands at me and said, “You did not do anything wrong. But I have to pull you aside to give you a piece of advice. I see what the other boys are doing, and I see how your reaction is causing them to do it more. “ I looked at him pleadingly, and he continued, “the more you react, the worse it’s going to get. Instead of getting upset, you should find a way to laugh at their jokes. I know that’ll be hard, but believe me once you can figure out how to do that, they will quickly tire of tormenting you and move onto to someone else.“ He then wrapped his cassock around his palm and whacked himself three times and sent me into the class, rubbing my butt to validate the ruse.
I didn’t believe him, but I was willing to try anything because I felt so powerless. And sure enough, I learned to deflect the attacks with humor, and though I never became “one of the guys“, I escaped that dreaded position that most boys fear of being the scapegoat.
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