Bully For Me

Excellence was expected and required. There was no chance of getting a pass from my mother for anything lower than a B.

 Proviso East High School --Maywood, Illinois

 

High school was not the horrible place for me that it was for many who write about their teenaged experience.  Not completely, anyway.  When I wasn’t being bullied and harassed by the black girls who I hadn’t gone through grade school with, I was in my element.  I loved learning and adapted to the rigorous requirements of the Advanced Placement program I landed in with relish.

The harassment, though, was relentless.  According to my mother, it was all about jealousy.  I had no idea why anyone would be jealous of me, what with all the pressure I was under at home.  I was required to keep my grades above average or better as a result of the deal I had made with Mom in order to avoid being sent to the all-girls Catholic High School several towns away.  I was constantly reminded of how being a member of “Our Family” set us apart from the rest.  I was threatened with physical violence should I become pregnant.  No, it couldn’t have been jealousy, the way I saw it.  Who would covet all that?

Whatever it was, the girls who had attended the public elementary school while I was in a private Catholic school hated the air I breathed.   At least once a week a note would be wedged into the slats on my hall locker bearing threats against my skinny derriere.  The drill was to ambush me in the public park midway between the high school and home. 

The black boys didn’t seem to have a problem with me.  In fact, whenever I received a note to announce my ass-kicking of the week, all I had to do was mention it to one of the guys who had attended grade school with my tormentors.  After school, there would be a testosterone escort platoon waiting for me in the lobby under the clock tower of the building.  The girls never laid a hand on me, but the presence of the protectors did little to endear me any further to them.

One day, after the first grading period, I was walking by the Superintendent’s office between classes when I heard my name spat out of the mouth of my Lead Tormentor. 

 “She must really think she’s white.  That half-white bitch is trying to make all of us look bad.” 

What caused this loud and embarrassing outburst?  On the wall outside the Superintendent’s office was a large, mounted plaque that displayed the names of all students who had made the honor roll.  It was time to gather my posse; I could feel another locker note coming on.

I say it lightly now, but back then I was a wreck.  There was no way I was going to deliberately lower my classroom performance in order to fit in with the others.  Even if I had been willing to risk my neck with my mother, that just wasn’t my modus operandi.  Instead, I requested an audience with the Super.  With a student body of nearly 4,000, one could not simply burst into his office on a whim, even if I did consider it an emergency.

“Mr. Koechenderfer, could you please take my name off the wall?  I would prefer not to have it up there.”

“Why, Lezlie?  Why wouldn’t you be proud of being on the honor roll?  WE sure are proud of you.”

“Well, isn’t it enough for me to know?  And my parents, of course.”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you, young lady?”

I stared at the cuticles of my hands folded on my lap.  I said nothing.  One didn’t discuss this kind of thing with white people.  This was a kind of keep-it-in-the-family dispute; never mind the fact the family didn’t particularly want me in it.


“Lezlie?  I asked you a question.”

I felt the sting of impending tears behind my eyeballs.  I had to get out of there before any water escaped my eyes.

“You know, Mr. Koechenderfer, you are absolutely right.  I should be proud and I am.  Please forgive me for wasting your time.  I’ll get back to class now.”

That was the day I said “screw those bitches and the brooms they rode in on.”  That was the day I changed from a vulnerable little girl to an immovable young woman on a mission.

I became Harriet High School. Just about everything there was to do there, I did.  Student Council? Check.  Future Teachers of America? Check.  Drum majorette? Check.  Class officer?  Hold the phone!

I decided to run for secretary of the freshman class.  Back then, we were encouraged to actually campaign for class offices with speeches and posters and rallies.  Not only was it fun, it was an excellent way to learn about our local and national election processes.  I would also learn about dirty politics.

That same group of female black classmates decided they were not ready to see someone like me in a leadership position.  They launched an all-out campaign in support of my white opponent.  It worked.  I lost the election and another huge chunk of my innocence.