Content warning and support
This post comes with a warning: I will be writing about triggering themes relating to bullying, racism, sexism and misogyny, as well as homophobia and transphobia.
If you need support for any of these issues, please use the banner links on the featured image for this post. They should take you to relevant charities. If those links do not work, here are three charities that work to end bullying and support people who experience it, at any age and in any situation. There are more if you search online.
When it first happened
I was two when it first happened at nursery school. By “it”, I mean being bullied. I was a toddler. Day after day, I went outside with all the other children to make friends, run about, and play “King of the Castle”, a game set around (and on top of) a big boulder.
My head, even at that age, pulsed with music, deafeningly so. I heard it almost as if it breathed the same air as I did. And my thoughts were often far away. I was already reading, and had books about the planets and dinosaurs, as lots of children do. But my streams of thought were long, wide, and distracting, and I found it difficult to get excited about playing games with other children.
But the human spirit wants connection. It wants to bond with a tribe that exists not only inside the family, but outside it. And so, early one lunchtime, I gathered my courage and headed into the shouting, screaming morass in the middle of the playground.
Trying to join in
First I tried to join a game of “ring a ring o’ roses”, but each time I went towards the ring, no one would let me in. Then, finally, there was a break and I reached out to take someone’s hand. Just as I did, I was pulled forward into the centre of the ring, which closed around me.
I was shoved in the back and lurched into the children directly ahead of me. They pushed me backwards, and all the time the ring kept turning, so that each time I was shoved it was a new person. There were probably nine or ten children in the ring.
Then the chanting started. Not the chanting of “ring a ring o’ roses”, but: “Go on, push her again!” Laughter and giggling accompanied the more pointed reason for it all: “We don’t want you in our game. You’re foreign.”
“You’re foreign”
So there you have it: a tear-stained, shaken little girl who tried to make friends through play, being made to feel like an Ausländer, an outsider, a foreigner who was automatically disliked. That was my first taste of racism, which feels strange to write, considering how diverse my class was.
I did not try making friends that way again. Playtimes were spent sitting alone, watching from the edge, dreading being targeted or dragged into some awful taunt.
King of the Castle
Inevitably, I was targeted anyway. One day I found myself being pulled towards the boulder where King of the Castle games were played. Three older children pushed me against it, shouting: “Go on, climb, stupid!” I tried, but I was too little, and my shoes were too new and inflexible. They shoved me against that boulder for a good minute or two before giving up and shouting “Useless” at me repeatedly.
My mum, whom I never told these things to, was not pleased when I came home with my shoes scuffed. So I had the double bind of being useless and careless.
Not all miserable
Now, I want to say that nursery was not all misery. When I was not absorbed in lessons, I was often staring out of the window, daydreaming. In those days, that was not encouraged, but it was what I did to block out worry and fear.
I remember that I liked painting. Those pots dribbled with countless multicoloured riverlets of powdery, non-toxic school paint. The stiff paintbrush annoyed me because the bristles made it hard to control. If you were clever and quick, you might persuade the teacher to give you a brand new brush, which made everything easier.
I also liked randomly dotting a page with crayons. Push, twist, lift: it gave a satisfying little snap as the thin layer of wax stuck to the paper.
Solitary days
But there was a strange feeling of not fitting in, all the time. I did not have friends at nursery or kindergarten. It was simply somewhere I went, with my shoe bag, my school shoes, and my lunchbox.
Yes, there were things to learn: the names of animals, the planets, countries, rhyming games, and sometimes TV programmes (usually on boring Fridays). But my time there was solitary, shaped by self-censorship and by being made to feel I was not wanted by the other children.
Almost every time the register was read out, there would be giggles at my name. My stupid, long, foreign surname. Why?