Letter #1: Letter to my Father:
**Incomplete**
Dear Dad,
When I was 13 or maybe 14, and in the 8th grade attending the Catholic school in Elgin, my teacher’s name was Mrs. Cebulski. In 7th grade, I had Mrs. Zurn. In 6th grade, I had a nun for a teacher named Sister Jean Michael, and in 5th it was Mrs. Bobeng. I remember her crying when the attempt was made on President Reagan’s life, crying right in the middle of class and not caring who saw her or what we were doing, just crying when she heard the news and we had a television in class and we watched the coverage, as well as the coverage for the space shuttle that year. I don’t remember the name of that shuttle though I probably should.
I think that Catholic and private schools aren’t the greatest places, and I know that people who put their kids in them think that these kids can get a better education, but I think for me, I would have been better off in a public school. I was there for a while, but I don’t know if you remember that. It was during those early years, maybe 1st or 2nd and 3rd grades at schools with names like Columbia and Hillcrest and Gifford and Heritage.
I was a bully then.
The girl – I don’t even remember her name, and how horrible is that? - I couldn’t stand to even look at, with snot running down her face and sliding into her mouth and she not doing anything to stop it, not wiping at it with her sleeve or asking the teacher for a tissue. When we got to the playground it was worse. She sat in the snow by herself, next to a mammoth oak tree and I, her 3rd grade bully, slammed her face into the ground, into snow and ice and held it there until she bled as we sat side by side. To onlookers, it would appear we were best of buddies, and when she didn’t tell on me the first day, I did it to her a second day and then a third day for good measure. She cried, and I can remember her tears as they coursed into her snot, blended with her blood. I stopped after the first day because I was scared; not because I felt bad for her, only scared and worried that I would get caught. The 3rd grade bully. I always wondered if someone found out about it and maybe that’s why I eventually got put into the Catholic school. There must be no bullies in a Catholic school. That’s what I thought at the time. I actually thought there were no bullies. Can you believe that?
When I was in the 8th grade, we had a coat room in the back of the classroom; actually, it was more a row of hooks than an actual room. It was a place I stressed about on a daily basis, and one day before lunch proved why. As I raced to the back of the room to get my coat and get in line so we could all head down to the cafeteria, a big gymnasium with metal tables pulled down to create a makeshift lunchroom for us Catholic boys and girls, I turned around and David Rey slammed his fist into the pit of my stomach. I don’t recall why he did it, although I suspect there was no real reason (what reason had I for bullying the snot-nose girl?) other than that I was not very popular.
I remember trying so hard to hold back my tears but not being able to control it. I didn’t want to get Dave into trouble. I knew what would happen if I snitched on him. Everyone knew this. No matter, Mrs. Cebulski discovered me at the back of the room, a 14 year old eighth grader silently crying his eyes out, blubbering like an idiot and holding the class up from going down to lunch. Everyone’s favorite time of day. Other than the 15 minutes it took us to walk over to Mass for Confession every Wednesday morning, lunch was everyone’s favorite time of day. I was holding everyone up because of my crying and refusal to tell her what had happened. I must have looked over at Dave. I didn’t want to, didn’t mean to, but it happened. It was too late and she pounced, screaming at him in front of the whole class. The most popular kid in the 8th grade and he was getting torn up one side and down the other. And it was because of me. His eyes started to well up but not a drop did he let slip down his cheek. He just stared at me. Gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, he stared right through me. It was time for lunch.
