“Hi, mom?  I’ve hurt my wrist – can you come get me?”

It was near the end of the school year – 2008.  My oldest was in grade 8 at the time – a transition year as the students prepare for grade 9 – the first year of high school.  He was a great athlete, on the volleyball team, and had been playing football since he was 7.  Being tall and built strong and sturdy, he was the treasure of any team that could get him to play. At that time he was almost 6′ tall, maybe even more, had size 13 feet, and spoke fluent french.  Being the tallest in the school had always been hard, and made him a target for bullying, as well as higher expectations.  Just because he was tall, people would treat him like he was older than he was, and I know it was hard for him.

“Are you ok? ”

“Yeah – can you just come right away?”

He seemed pretty upset, so I drove to the school right away.  When I arrived, I went to the office, and saw 6 boys sitting in a row.  Some had torn shirts, a few of them had blood spilled down the front, one had a bloody face, and another was holding an ice pack to his eye.  I knew every one of those boys, which was my first clue this was way more than a sore wrist.

“Hi, can I see my boy?”

“Sure – he’s in the infirmary.  When you’re done, the principle would like to talk to you.”

I went in to the sick room, and there he was, sitting on the bed with an ice pack on his cheek and covered in blood spray across his t-shirt.  He looked at me with that “don’t be mad” kind of look in his eyes.  It wasn’t too hard to figure out what had happened – only the exact details needed to be filled in.

“They attacked me mom.  We were playing football, and they got mad at the play.  I landed on the ground, and they started kicking me in the ribs.  They wouldn’t quit, and one jumped on me.  My adrenaline kicked in and I needed to defend my self, so I threw him off, and I guess he hurt his nose.  I don’t really know what happened next, but all of them came at me – it was self defence.”  I held my fist up, and told him to pound it.  I wasn’t upset at him at all.  The bullying had been happening since he was in elementary, and it had to stop.

I went in to the principles office to discuss what had happened.  He told me how the story was true, and chuckled as he described 6 boys flying through the air.  In-school suspensions were in line for them all, and although they said it wasn’t my boy’s fault, he would have to have the same punishment as well.

None of this really bothered me.  I had been severely bullied when I was young too, and I knew that sometimes things had to come to a head before they got better.  It was what happened next that has stuck with me to this day.

“You know, this was a pretty intense situation.  Your son seems pretty upset, and alone.  You know, I would hate to see anything more serious happen.  Maybe you should keep him home for the last 6 weeks of school.”

“Anything more serious?  Like what?  What do you think is going to happen?”

“Well, I…., I mean I’ve seen kids……..you know, commit suicide from this kind of thing before, and well, I’d hate to see that happen again.  You know – get some space from the situation.”

I couldn’t believe my ears.  I was absolutely stunned. The principals suggestion had nothing to do with concern for my son’s well being. It was completely a way to get rid of a perceived possibility and admonish himself from any responsibility.

Why am I telling this story?  Because it is pretty much the situation we’re in now with my daughter – just 8 years later.  “There is nothing we can do.  Maybe you need to think of an alternative.  She shouldn’t be here – we can’t help her.  We don’t have the time or resources to deal with these issues.  We’re a school, and it has to run a certain way.”

Mental health issues have been coming to the forefront a lot lately.  There are commercials on tv about stigma and empathy.  Facebook is littered with pages of awareness on the topic.  Bell has a “let’s talk about it” platform happening.  All of this focus and attention on a topic, that in my opinion doesn’t seem to change.  The vice principal of our high school even admitted, that when she sees “those kids”, her feelings are different – she see’s them as a problem – and her job is to administrate, and get rid of the problems.

There is an instinct that lies in all of us when we are put in stressful situations.  Some of us run from situations that put us in an uncomfortable amount of stress.  The body and mind say “get out of here”, and we do just about anything to make it happen.  Then there are the people like me.  When faced with stressful or intense situations, we step back, assess the situation, and then make a plan.  The fighters.  I am a fighter.

This story is long from over.  Let the letter writing, the emails, the phone calls, and everything else along with it begin.  I may not be able to make a change today, but the only way change will happen, is if anyone of us that has experiences this type of treatment and prejudice speaks out for change.

This isn’t over.  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”