Bully for Him
by
Jeff Stimpson © 2006
All summer, Ned's worn the face of a kid who seems
to be making the best of it. We paid $2,600 -- peanuts, I know,
compared with the fees of some day camps -- for him to attend a day
camp: swimming, sports, arts and crafts, the brand of fun to be had
in life before you realize how miserable humidity makes you.
But since late June, when he started camp, he's
answered questions about his days with at best single syllables
("Good") or near-pleas to change the subject. He hung back almost
from the first from the other kids at his bus stop, though on the
first morning he did try to romp with two older boys who paid him
attention only to make little Vs of their fingers behind his head. I
watched this, and tried to remember from the height of my 44 years
if this was just a little guys' way of playing. I reached no
conclusion by the time Ned was gone on the bus, and on the mornings
since he's simply kept his distance from all the kids while waiting
to be picked up.
Never once has Ned burst with a sense of fun, like
he often did in his excellent kindergarten. Maybe it's just that
this camp isn't kindergarten, I told myself, listening to the single
syllables. The bus is often late in the evening. They don't use
quite enough sunscreen on Ned, despite our instructions. The whole
summertime routine is feeling a lot like work feels the rest of the
year, only with a heat/humidity index. Still, I guess it's something
for Ned to do.
Then one morning on the subway to the bus stop, I
just asked if he liked camp. He shook his head. "There's a problem,"
Ned said. I knew what it was. I was a little guy once. Funny, but I
always thought Alex would be first to run afoul of a bully.
There was a kid who wouldn't leave Ned alone. Near
as I could make out through the fog of the five-year-old vocabulary
and half-shamed mutterings, there was a boy who stamped on Ned's
feet, pushed him, and even hit him -- sometimes on the head: Oscar
(not his real name).
How old is Oscar? I demand.
Four. Ned is five. Is Oscar bigger than you, Ned?
No, smaller. I can't discount Ned's powers of observation, though I
do think he has a lot to learn about how this bullying thing works.
"Tell your counselor," I advise Ned on the subway,
as across the aisle a homeless man giggles to us. I try to keep Ned
talking so he doesn't glance at the homeless man. "Tell your
counselor. He'll straighten things out," I say.
"He's not like you," Ned replies. "He's not good
at straightening things out."
The sweetness of that comment floats me all the
way to the bus stop. This morning Ned has brought a little toy, a
palm-sized plastic video game from Burger King. He's not supposed to
bring toys to camp, but he's brought the game today, I think, to
comfort himself. One of the older boys who made the V with his
fingers on the first morning comes up to Ned. The boy is wearing
stupid sunglasses.
"You can't bring toys to camp!" Mr. V says.
"We learned that on the first day! Jeeez..."
Ned shrugs at the boy, laying on him the same
expression he used on the homeless giggling man on the subway. Mr. V
leaves. "Let's put the toy in your backpack, Ned," I say.
"Why don't I just let you keep it for the day,"
Ned says, all practicality.
That evening, I tell Jill about Mr. V. "What - an
- asshole!" Jill says.
Oscar keeps at Ned, so we hear. Oscar gets Ned to
say a bad word. Oscar Oscar Oscar. Jill and I have the first of the
big talks with Ned. She tells him it's okay to defend himself. I
tell him that if anyone pushes him, he has a right to push right
back, and yell for the kid to stop at the top of his voice. Ned
smiles -- I used to smile, too; I could never believe somebody
honestly wanted to give me trouble -- and a couple of times I wonder
if Ned is pulling my leg. We have told him about the short story
"Charles." Oscar, Mr. Stimpson? We have no "Oscar" registered at
camp...
"I don't think Ned is kidding," says Jill. "For
one thing, he keeps wanting to talk about it."
On this morning at the bus stop, there is a new
boy, a small boy with brown eyes and dark hair. His dad has brought
him, on a bike. The boy is crying and holding on to his dad's leg. A
counselor gets off the bus and bends down to talk to the boy in soft
tones. The dad bends over, too. The boy is wiping his eyes.
"Ned?" I call through the side bus window. "Do you
know that boy?" Ned shakes his head. "Well, when you all get to
camp, give that boy a pat on the back." I don't know if Ned hears
me, or if he understands, before the bus pulls off.
(PS: Ned and Oscar had another run-in. A counselor
told Ned he "wasn't a very good camper," and that my advice on
pushing back was "unfriendly." "Ned," I explained, "I never intended
it to be friendly." Unfriendly! What - an - asshole. We're trying to
transfer Ned to another camp.)
Copyright 2006 Jeff Stimpson, all rights reserved
