Now, as I watch my youngest child navigate middle school, I sometimes wonder when the roles reversed.
When did kindness become the exception? When did cruelty become a group activity? And when did we reach a point where the children who simply want to be left alone are the ones who have to change their lives to accommodate the children who won't leave them alone?
My youngest has always been a little different from other children his age. Not in a bad way. Just different.
He was the little boy who casually used words like inherently in conversations with adults while other children his age were still mastering their sight words. He grew up with three older siblings, two parents with master's degrees, and a family deeply rooted in education. I'm a third-generation teacher, so conversations about learning, language, and the world around us have always been part of our household. Add to that the television shows, conversations, and humor that come with having three older siblings, and his childhood wasn't always geared toward the youngest person in the room.
As a result, he developed a personality that has always seemed a few years ahead of his age.
He often preferred talking to adults rather than playing with other children. He related to his teachers more easily than his classmates. He could entertain himself for hours, perfectly content with his own company.
He wasn't antisocial. He wasn't unfriendly. If another child wanted to join him, he was happy to have the company.
He just didn't feel the need to chase it.
And somewhere along the way, that became a problem.
I started noticing a change around fourth or fifth grade. The teasing became more frequent. The children became more comfortable being cruel. And the ones who had previously been content to mind their own business began gravitating toward the children who seemed to enjoy making other people miserable.
By middle school, it was practically a spectator sport.
My son has been pushed. Hit. Sworn at. Ridiculed.
We've contacted the school more times than I care to count.
And to be fair, I believe the school has genuinely tried to help. We've encountered administrators and teachers who have listened, taken our concerns seriously, and made efforts to address the problems.
But it's like trying to empty the ocean with a teaspoon.
You address one incident, and another happens.
You deal with one child, and three more take their place.
And I don't say that to criticize teachers. I'm a teacher myself. I know how difficult it is to manage a classroom, especially when behavioral problems are becoming increasingly common and schools are struggling to find enough support staff.
A teacher cannot watch thirty children every second of every day.
But what happens when the children who are supposed to be learning are too busy tormenting one another?
What happens when the teachers themselves are being disrespected, challenged, and verbally abused?
How are they supposed to protect the children being bullied when they're spending so much of their energy trying to maintain control of the classroom?
And the child who just wants to go to school, learn something, and come home without being humiliated is expected to develop thicker skin.
Last week, my son got a haircut.
That's it.
A haircut.
Not a neon-green mohawk. Not a lightning bolt shaved into the side of his head. Just a perfectly ordinary haircut, very similar to the ones his older brothers wore for years and the ones he's had most of his life.
Apparently, that was enough.
Multiple children decided his haircut was an invitation to ridicule him.
And when he told me about it, he seemed to take it in stride.
He knows these aren't people whose opinions should matter to him. He knows they aren't the kind of people he would want as friends. He understands, probably better than many adults, that someone else's cruelty doesn't determine his worth.
But here's the thing.
He shouldn't have to be that emotionally mature just to survive seventh grade.
He shouldn't have to spend every school day reminding himself that the opinions of cruel people don't matter.
He shouldn't have to accept being shoved, insulted, or humiliated as an ordinary part of getting an education.
And he shouldn't have to report every single nasty comment to an adult, because what would that even look like?
Excuse me, Principal, someone made fun of my hair.
Excuse me, Teacher, someone called me a name.
Excuse me, Counselor, someone told me nobody likes me.
Again.
And again.
And again.
At what point does the child stop reporting it because he's tired of being the one who has to do something about it?
At what point does he decide it's easier to say nothing?
And at what point do we, as adults, become so accustomed to hearing about bullying that we forget how devastating it can be to the child experiencing it?
I worry about that more than I can adequately explain.
My son is happy at home. He laughs. He jokes. He has interests and hobbies and a personality that I wouldn't trade for anything.
But I also know that someone can appear perfectly happy while struggling with things nobody else can see.
I know that firsthand.
And when I hear stories about children taking their own lives, I can't help wondering how many of their parents thought their children were doing okay, too.
How many saw their children laughing the night before?
How many assumed things weren't quite as bad as they really were?
I don't want to live in fear. I don't want to treat every difficult school day as a catastrophe. I know that children need opportunities to navigate conflict, develop resilience, and learn how to handle people who aren't particularly nice.
But there is a difference between learning to deal with an unpleasant person and being subjected to relentless cruelty.
And I'm tired of pretending those are the same thing.
Next year, my son's middle school is closing, which means he'll have to attend an entirely different school for eighth grade.
At this point, I'm seriously considering online school instead. He's enthusiastic about that idea.
And while part of me feels relieved at the thought of him spending a year without having to worry about being bullied, another part of me is furious.
Why should he have to leave?
Why should the child who follows the rules, respects his teachers, and treats other people decently be the one who has to change his entire educational experience?
Why is removing the victim so often easier than changing the behavior of the people responsible?
I've always believed in public education. I still do. And I don't believe that private schools are magically free of bullying, either.
This isn't about public versus private education.
It's about a culture in which cruelty seems to have become so normalized that kindness is treated like a personality flaw.
I have three older children, and I've watched each of them navigate the difficult years of middle school. In my experience, things eventually improved when they reached high school. There were more opportunities to meet new people, take different classes, and build friendships outside the small social circles that had defined their earlier years.
High school gave them room to reinvent themselves, or simply to be themselves without the same people constantly reminding them who they were supposed to be.
But my youngest isn't there yet.
He's in seventh grade.
And seventh grade feels like an awfully long time when you're the one counting the days until you don't have to see the people who make you miserable.
I wish I had a solution.
I wish I could say that schools simply need stricter consequences, or parents need to do a better job raising their children, or teachers need more support.
Maybe all three are true.
But I also know that bullying isn't a problem that can be solved by one disciplinary referral, one parent conference, or one assembly about kindness.
Because somewhere along the way, too many children seem to have learned that being cruel earns them attention, laughter, and social status.
And too many kind children have learned that the safest thing to do is stay quiet, stay invisible, and wait for it to end.
When I was growing up, I remember the bullies standing out.
Now I look at what my son is experiencing, and I wonder if it's the kind children who stand out instead.
And I can't help thinking that we've gotten something terribly, terribly wrong.
Because the bully keeps rising.
And the kind child is the one who keeps getting knocked down.
