Bullying is Everyone's Business

Last week, we discussed Gaslighting and how it is an entrenched part of school bullying. But, what can we realistically do about it? How do we stop it? The truth of the matter is bullying will be around as long as two human beings exist on the Earth. It will never go away entirely.

Let’s look at some things that we can do, individually and as groups, to stem the growth of bullying:

Live Authentically:  Be the person you want children to grow up to be. We have to live as examples of how people should treat each other. Behave the same way in private as you do in public. No one is perfect, but when effort is applied it can make a world of difference.

Actively Listen:  When a child/tween/teen is telling you they are being bullied, whether you are a parent or a trusted adult, actively listen to what they are saying. Many times, we listen only to respond. We need to turn off our phones, computers, or other distractions and take part in the conversation. We need to allow children the space to express their fears and their feelings.

Make Bullying Your Business:  We’ve all heard that domestic violence is everyone’s business. On the same token, so is bullying. Regardless of whether the victim is your child or just some random kid on the street, make it your business. If you see something, say something. When I say make it your business that does not include giving the bully a beat down. It means be the adult on the scene. When you take action, it allows the victim to internalize that they are not alone and people do care. Even if you only suspect a kid is being bullied, take the initiative to ask them; and then actively listen to what is being said. You could save a life, just by asking.

Put Bite in Your Policy:  How many times have we heard the policy statement, “Zero Tolerance”, only to find that it doesn’t really mean anything? How many kids have experienced bullying, and brought it to the attention of the school only to have the administration poo-poo it away, or claim their hands are tied and they can’t do anything? Or, worse yet, blame the victim? If we’re going to claim Zero Tolerance then it has to mean something. There has to be consequences for bullying that are applied continually and consistently across the board. No exceptions.

We Are Not Their Friends:  When we GenXers became parents, we made a huge mistake. You might think I’m speaking to the “helicopter parent” issue, but no. Our mistake was trying to be our kids’ friends instead of being their parents. We tossed our authority as parents out the window. If you are doing this now, stop it. Your kids have friends. They need you to be Mom or Dad, the people who are in charge. If everyone is behaving like juveniles, we have created nothing more than an environment akin to Lord of the Flies. It’s hard being a parent. Your kids are not always going to like you, but they will always love you.

There are those who kowtow to teaching kids how to be resilient, which although it is important, it is just as important to teach kids not be bullies in the first place. Yes, it is human nature to bully, but at the same time, there’s a fine line between bullying and criminal behavior.

Bullying has one objective: Abusing another to gain a sense of power and control. Today, we have an epidemic of violence and suicide, the direct result of bullying.

Unfortunately, we can’t stop it entirely, but together we can make a difference. We just have to want to.

If you are being bullied in school or online, please, please seek out a trusted adult in your life. Maybe a favorite teacher, or a coach, or a friend’s parent, or your own parents and tell them. Tell someone. Talk to someone. You are not alone in the world, and people do care. You matter in the world and you are loved.

National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255

Comfort and Joy ~ A Prairie Story

The bitter cold of winter hangs in the air as the icicles dangle from the evergreens that grow on the sides of the road. Snow laden hills roll in crescendos of triumph while the sunbeams reflect high into the morning air. The sleigh glides across the prairie while the jingle of bells shatters the brittle breath of winter. It is visiting day in the small village nestled in the valley at the edge of the river.

Marny has a new baby, born in the depths of the night two week ago. I am excited to cuddle the little bundle. It is a boy, a strong baby boy that will grow into a man someday, a man just like father. Father has grown old in his bones. That is what he says when he sits down at the supper table long after Lily and I have been sent off to bed in the room behind the hearth. He is a tall man with eyes that twinkle in the firelight and hands rough as raw wood from the yoke and the plow.

There hasn’t been a baby in the family since Lily was born, almost eight whole years ago. You wouldn’t know it by her carefully chosen words, but Mother is delighted at the idea of a new baby in the family. She has spent months knitting blankets from the softest yarns sold at the general store. Whenever Marny and her husband, John, would come to the soddy, Mother has been sure to give strict instructions on the care of infants. It isn’t that Mother doesn’t think Marny will be a good mother, it’s the idea this is Mother’s first grandchild. She is delighted.

Lily and I snuggle close in the bottom of the sleigh as Father drives atop the snow drifts. Lily clutches her dolly that is swaddled tightly in a blanket by Mother. My sister isn’t as happy about the new baby as the rest of us. She worries Mother will love the baby more than her, but Mother assures her that she will always be the baby of Mother’s life. That’s what she said to me when Lily was born. She loves us both the same. I’m sure of it.

The steeple of the church comes into view as it always does when we mount the rise just above the village. On Sunday mornings the bell can be heard as far away as the soddy. I can hardly wait another week when the bell will ring and we all stand together to sing Christmas hymns, accompanied by the new organ that comes all the way from Minneapolis. My favorite is God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman.

Marny was a teacher in the school house at the edge of town, until she and John got married. Marny is a full grown woman now and a wife. There is no time for teaching among her many obligations, especially now that there is a baby in the house. Mother says that babies take a lot of time and special care. The slightest draft can cause them to take with the croup. Mother says that winter babies are the most difficult, because of the cold. If babies are so much work, I don’t think that I want one. I don’t think that I want to be married either. Father says I will change my mind when I get a few years older. I don’t think so.

Smoke curls from the chimney of Marny and John’s white wood frame house. John has built Marny a picket fence and dug a garden for her in the backyard. In the summer there will be rose and lilac bushes. While she waited for the baby to arrive, Marny made the yellow curtains that hang in the windows. She says that yellow makes the room sunny and warm. I hope so. Despite the piles of blankets, I am cold from the long sleigh ride.

Father tethers the horses to the hitching post outside the house, and helps Mother from the sleigh. Lily and I scramble from the blankets and stand next to Mother. Lily slips one hand into Mother’s while she holds dolly tight to her chest with the other. John opens the door and shakes Father’s hand as they exchange hearty hellos. Father likes John and thinks he is a good man for Marny. He hasn’t always thought that, but he says no man will be truly good enough for his daughters. I don’t think I will love any man. I have my, Da.

The smell of brewed coffee wafts out into the brisk air, mingled with the heavenly scent of fresh baked apple pie. Marny makes the most delicious pies. Her house always smells of vanilla, sugar, and cinnamon when we come to visit. John steps aside while he takes Mother’s muff and wrap. Father hangs his hat on the rack beside the door as mother helps Lily with the buttons of her coat. I am ten years old, I don’t need help anymore. Mother says I am getting to be such a big girl and good helper too.

Marny sits in the wooden rocker next to the hearth. The cradle John has made sways back and forth as she gently nudges the rounded bottom with her foot. Mother stoops to hug Marny while Father and John sit at the table to talk about current events over pie and coffee. Lily and I creep towards the cradle for our first look at the baby. Marny pulls back the soft blue blanket to reveal the chubby round face of her son, and cautions we can look, but we mustn’t touch. I want to touch. Mother says it’s always best to let sleeping babes lie, and gently pulls my hand away.

He squirms in the tightly bound swaddles of blankets and opens his eyes. He makes a murmuring sound like Lily when she wakes in the morning. His little bow lips part into a soft yawn. Mother reaches into the cradle and takes the babe in her arms. Her eyes glisten as drops of moisture slip down Mother’s cheeks. I have never seen Mother cry. I worry she has become sad. Mother says it is because she is so happy. A lump builds in my throat. I am happy too.

I sit on the floor by the warmth of the fire in the hearth. I cross my legs as I sit straight and tall while Marny places the baby in my lap. He is warm and soft. I am afraid. He wiggles in the knit blanket and I hold him close. He smells of fresh linen and soap. His tiny fingers wrap around my thumb and I giggle. I look into his little face as he smiles up at me. He lets out a small cooing noise. I think I like babies. I might want one when I am older.

The afternoon passes with warmth and laughter by the hearth. I sit in the corner of the small kitchen and I think to myself, these are the glad tidings of comfort and joy.

(c) All rights reserved. Donna R. Wood

Monday Musings: She Comes by it Honestly

It was in the fall of 1984 when I wrote my first full-length novel. I was sixteen at the time. The story was written in a red wire spiral bound notebook. I don’t remember the title, or even most of the story line. I simply remember that I carried around this notebook and added to the story every day. As we go through life it’s what most people do – add to the story every day. My Grandmother kept detailed diaries from the time she could write. Every significant event in the family, precious thought she had, or perhaps thoughts she hadn’t intended on sharing with the world were neatly penned on the lines between the covers. Yet, when all was said and done and the diaries cracked open by the prying eyes of those she had left behind, a whole world opened up to us. In those numerous diaries, that covered some eighty years, were the additions to her story that she had faithfully recorded every day.

I often wonder if Grandma had spent time re-reading her diaries. Had they served a purpose for her, or were they merely recordings of a woman who once was as if to say, “I had lived, and in these pages are all days of my life.” Grandma was a writer by nature and as the saying goes comes by it honestly. Her grandmother was Mary Jane (Jennie) Strawn, a most amazing poet and writer, who was originally from Ohio and moved with her husband James Parker to Minnesota in the 1800s. Her grandfather's brother was her Uncle Samuel Parker who wrote for a small magazine, The Call, in the 1800s. Grandma also wrote for the Mountrail County Record for a number of years. She was a columnist writing about the society of our small home town.

Grandma passed the writing gene on to her son, who was a reporter for the Minot Daily News in the 1960s. After Grandma’s passing, stacks of articles he had written were found yellowed with age, neatly stored in the crawl space in the eaves of the house where she had lived with Grandpa. He had reported on some of the historical moments in North Dakota history, to include the building of the Garrison Dam and creation of the Sakajwea Reservoir. He is still living and is an avid reader. I suspect he has always been an avid reader.

There are some mighty big shoes to fill in the family when it comes to writing. I will always be grateful for Grandma’s insistence on perfection when it comes to reading and writing. When I was in upper elementary and junior high, I would send letters to Grandma in Arizona over the winter months, and with her reply she would send back the ‘edited’ version of my letter to her. As the years went on, the amount of red on the paper diminished. Grandma was a different sort of person. In all her years, sometimes she had been cold, hard and unyielding, especially when it came to the children, but I choose to believe that her heart and intentions were always in the right place. Anything less would be a travesty.

Sometimes we come by our talents naturally, but most often I think we come by them honestly through the time honored traditions in our families. For me, it is writing at the unwitting instruction of my Grandmother. For others, it may be the arts, or science, or some other vocation. No matter your vocation. No matter the tasks required if you come by it naturally or honestly then it is good.

Monday Musings: Are you naturally talented; or do you come by it honestly? 

Sunday Conversations: A Prairie Christmas

While preparing for Christmas, and all the whirlwind activities coming up in the next couple of days, I started to think about the Christmases of the past. Not as far back as the first Christmas -- Christmases from my past.                                                            

Living in a small town on the prairie, in the 1970s and 80s, had it's advantages. We had sledding hills that only the bravest would dare venture; and in some cases not the brightest bulbs on the tree -- but that's a different story. Everyone in town knew each other and celebrated Christmas as a community.

The main street was lit up from one end to the other - a total of four blocks, but it was the most amazing four blocks. I remember the clothing store window with the dressed up manequins wearing their finest Christmas offerings; the grocery store with displays of holiday delicacies and treats of every kind imaginable, the locker plant had meats and cheeses; the Rexall Drug store with all the perfumes and delicate gifts; but none of these compared with the hardware store - at least not from a kid's point of view.

For all the things we had, we did not have a toy store. The hardware store, this one time of year, morphed into something other than the lawn and garden, or snow removal department. It became Santa's shop so to speak. There were toys of every kind imaginable from sleds to dolls and doll houses.

Santa Saturday was the best. It was the one day out of Christmas vacation we kids looked forward to the most; other than Christmas Day. Santa came into town - mysteriously. We were always told that he was picked up at the small airport, all his stuff loaded into a farmer's truck and driven downtown to where the hoards of kids were waiting. I always wanted to go to the airport to see his sleigh and elves, but we will never know for sure what may have been behind the hanger doors. He handed out bags of peanuts and candy with a healthy orange or apple <-- I suspect to please the parents. There was a free Christmas movie in the City Hall. We had a theater, but there weren't enough seats to fit all the kids. There was a parade and a drawing for a new bike; one for a boy and one for a girl. It was a great day.

Christmas Eve was a different sort of day and night. All the commercialism of the holiday was neatly tucked under the tree and forgotten for a few hours. Family arrived from all parts of the state, and some from other states, congregating at the home of my grandparents. Hugs and smiles were passed around with the egg nog and other holiday treats my aunts and grandmothers had made. Men patting each other on the back with hearty hellos. Women racing to the kitchen to join the others in catching up about kids, work and other 'news' in the family. Us kids, we went outside and had our greetings - snowball fights, snow angels, fort building and sharing secret hopes for gifts we might get.

After all the family was gathered together, the true meaning of Christmas would descend upon the house as we made ready to go to Candlelight Services. We caravanned to the church at the top of the hill and went to celebrate with a different sort of family. His family. On that one night of the year, there was no distinction of who had what or didn't. There was no distinction of who gave more than another or who was what color or of what ethnic origin. We celebrated Christmas, the birth of Christ, as one family.

As a small child, holding the hand of my mother in the dark, I always wondered if it made God as happy as Grandma and Grandpa, to have all the kids home for Christmas.