'If we judged everybody by the worst 15 minutes of their life we would all come out looking horrendous. We wouldn’t all come out as murderers, but we would all come out looking horrible.'
- Death Row Lawyer, Clive Stafford-Smith.
I’m starting with Clive’s words because I’m about to tell you about my worst 15 minutes and I guess, even 20 years later, I feel the need to qualify them somehow.
Maisie had been in my extended group of friends since we’d started secondary school at eleven. She wasn’t someone I’d have chosen to hang out with, she was a little too well behaved; she cried when she was told off, she obeyed dinner ladies and actually completed sponsored silences.
I was never going to be as good as Maisie. I just wasn’t as together - I could never remember my P.E. kit - and as the middle child of a motley crew of nine step, half and full siblings, my mum wasn’t packing my school bag for me everyday.
At 14, most of us, even those with skinny pre-period frames, could get into local nightclubs. We’d dance around empty dance floors powered by a single tequila shot and a swig of 20/20 and then leave to get home for our 11:30pm curfew not realising that was when actual adults arrived at the club.
So, with the brazen spirit of a cocky 14-year-old, I decided I had matured past Maisie and that I didn’t want to hang around with her any more.
And so the bullying commenced.
It began small. A few of us would arrange to meet at break time, we'd tell Maisie the plan was to meet near the library, but then secretly meet by the Geography block. We were being sly, childish and mean. At the time, this power play made me feel so adult; looking back I can see it was anything but.
So, here it is; my worst 15 minutes...
Most of our year had gathered at a travelling fair just off the bypass. If you haven’t guessed by now, I lived in the most suburban of suburban places - this was the highlight of the social calendar.
By this point we were hanging out with Maisie less and less and, not surprisingly, she’d started to avoid us. That week she had spoken to a teacher about the situation, which had resulted in me being called into a room for a questioning. I was pissed off and at the same time buoyed by the excitement of seeing everyone at a fair.
Halfway through the afternoon I heard that Maisie was upset and crying and had gone to sit in the St Johns Ambulance tent for some refuge. Rather than feeling sympathy, I chose very quickly to take advantage of her low moment. Clutching a disposable camera I ran into the tent, took a picture of her tear stained face, and ran out.
There’s a thought often recited to the bullied; that the best revenge is living your life well. I can’t say I agree. I think I deserved more of a punishment than Maisie shrugging off my shitty behaviour and living her best life. I’ve told myself many times that the regret and shame I feel is my punishment, but it isn’t really enough is it?
Taking Maisie's picture coincided with the last week of school and I never saw her again, which meant I really did get away with it. I have no idea if being left out, being actively avoided, shunned and then humiliated in a St Johns Ambulance tent had any lasting affect.
Perhaps I’m over estimating the effect I had; my self-awareness is easily inflated and I might well have been of very little consequence to her. But Maisie never retaliated and whilst I don’t know how it affected her, I do know I walked away and got on with my life.
‘Unfortunately some bullies win’ Michael Friedman a Clinical Psychologist tells me. I’ve been thinking about this a lot recently.
I put Michelle Obamas wonderful rallying cry ‘When they go low, we go high’ to Michael Friedman and ask, is this the best way to deal with bullies?
‘It’s a very good strategy’ says Michael, ‘But in Michelle Obamas case the only thing she has to lose is her sterling reputation, that’s not the case for many others. It’s not realistic to expect everyone to fight the instinct to retaliate. And yes, sometimes not stooping to their level and not retaliating let’s the bullies win.’
The dictionary definition of bullying is to use superior strength or influence to intimidate someone. Michael Friedman gives an alternative view of bullying: ‘It crosses over from competition to bullying when the rules of the game aren’t agreed upon.’
That’s the annoying thing, bullies set the agenda and the moment you retaliate, you’re bullying too. What was Maisie meant to do, grab the camera off me and tell me to ‘fuck off’?
I’m so happy to see the act of kindness become cool. When I was at school positive emotions and actions were generally frowned upon. Cynicism and nonchalance reigned. It was not cool to be on the running team, to do your homework, to show passion for anything or to help others.
I bullied Maisie because I wanted to be cooler and more popular. It wasn’t that I wanted to inflict pain; I wanted to separate myself from her and make sure everyone knew that I was a cut above. With other teenagers as my only audience, the language of bullying worked.
There is also no denying the dirty rush I felt when I realised the control I had. That heady feeling of power? I can see why it’s addictive. There is a feeling of inclusivity you get from leaving someone out, almost as if there is a literal exchange of emotions; I feel great because you’re feeling shit. Yet as adults, we need to know that this isn’t how the world works - there is enough happiness to go around.
Unless, big caveat, you get your happiness from winning.
With hindsight, the one thing I can see clearly is that using bullying behaviour to get what you want is the easy option. It takes shamelessness, but not much strategy or thought and it’s driven by extreme selfishness. When I see adults stooping to bullying behaviour I think back to the 14 year old girl clutching a disposable camera and realise just how immature she was.
In the words of every teacher ever, ‘it’s not big and it’s not clever’. And I’m going to add to that – being nice makes you feel great, it’s a high that feels better than winning.
