Saturday on the Market

NO! I will not talk to your kid about it! You talk to your kid about it! -OR- How dress codes in school have very little to do with clothing.

So, this is a short and rather simple take on a complicated subject.  There are so many more factors at play than the ones I will mention.  The conversation I’m suggesting take place is much deeper that this post implies.  Basically I’m trying to highlight something that I see as the essence of the problem.  Thanks in advance for reading.

A dress code for students, both middle school and high school, is important.  As a parent and an educator, I really do see the need.  I will enforce the dress code as part of my job.  My job does not include explaining to the kid why there is a need for a dress code.  This is anathema to being an educator;  I really like explaining things and it’s a great opportunity for learning and debate.  The dress code conversation is way above my pay grade.  Would you like to know why?  Of course you do.  Let me explain, as best I can.

The reason that I’m not going to engage any student in the debate over dress code or try to explain to them the reasons behind it is, it’s not my job.  That lovely task falls to you, the parents.  But, Geoff, why should I have to defend the school’s policy?  It’s your policy, not mine.  Let me ask you something, dear parent:  Do you want me, an admittedly amazing person, talking to your preteen or teen about sex?  Your answer better be no.  Perhaps you’ll say that you don’t want me to talk to them about sex, but do want me to discuss the dress code.  Well, they are the same thing.  That’s why it’s difficult for any school to justify/explain/debate/enforce a dress code, and it’s also why a dress code is needed.  Your kids are changing in shape and hormone content.  They are also becoming more and more aware of their own bodies and the bodies of their peers. When it comes right down to it, puberty and all the changes that come with it are about reaching sexual maturity (not mental maturity). The changes are already screaming “Look at me! I’m fertile/virile! Let’s do it!” There’s a feeling if power that comes with these changes. You’re turning heads and having a visible effect on others. It’s about sex.

Your kids need be defined by more and noticed for more that long legs or cleavage.  The problem being that the media’s influence makes that harder and harder.  Peoples’ worth is so often and so unfairly tied to their appearance. This is not a new thing, but is so prevalent in our society that the battle against it is overwhelming.  It’s insidious and is present everywhere.  You don’t need me to point out to you all the ways that girls and women are told that their looks and attractiveness to others is the most important thing.

Fashion has always tried to test the limits of what society deems appropriate.  Teens are discovering themselves and the world around them and in the process they also want to test all boundaries.  I don’t want that to change.  That is innovation and is always needed.  This is not what we are talking about here.  We are talking about the broader lesson that our children need to be taught.  They are more than their physical appearance, more than the sex that will inevitably become a part of their lives, so much more.  As parents you can safely explain to your kid that they are beautiful and sexy and that they are also more than that.  There are times and places that are great for strutting your stuff and revelling in the physicality of being a teen.  Despite it being the most social place in a teen’s day, school just isn’t the place for that.  Some restraint is needed.  It’s up to you, the parent to explain this to your child. Please, please think about all of this before you complain about the school’s dress code or the enforcement of the dress code.
END OF PART ONE. Stay tuned.

Young girls preying on young girls

Here in Ottawa, three teenaged girls have been convicted of pimping out several other teenaged girls.  The judge stated that they ran a fairly sophisticated human trafficking ring.  This has been in the  local news for some time and has become louder because of the convictions.  The entire situation is shocking and terrible.  Young girls preying on other young girls.

I remember being so sad when I first heard about the charges being lain.  I was also shocked and angry that this was happening, not only in the world at large, but in my home city.  Sad it made me.  Sad I have been.  It’s not constant, but I remember my sadness every time I hear about the case.

If this were a case of men preying on young girls and forcing them in to prostitution, it wouldn’t feel the same.  This feels like a strange double-standard and it adds to an overall sadness, because I can more easily accept that men would do this, that men are more capable of violence.

You see, I feel horrible for the victims but I almost feel  more horribly for the perpetrators.  These perpetrators were, at one point in their very young lives, victims as well.  If their victims had any good fortune, it was that the situation came to light and was stopped.  Now they have a chance to heal and to try and grow up normally.

An important thing that I have learned:  people’s behaviour is informed by what came before.  Basically, you generally live what you learn.  The same way that I see my parents in how I am parenting or how being bullied in high school has made me be aware of how I affect others.  Teenaged girls, who forced other teens to fuck strange men, by threats and bullying taken to it’s extreme, learned this somewhere.  I cannot image a way for any of them to have hit upon this idea on their own.    If it was so easy for them to see these younger girls as objects, in effect not seeing them at all, then how were they seen during their short childhoods?

They are guilty of genuinely horrifying crimes.  They have taken childhood from other girls and replaced it with terror and pain and trauma.  They need to be punished for what they have done, if only so their victims know that something has been done to keep them and others safe. They must live the rest of their lives with the consequences of what they have done,  just as their victims must.

They are guilty of what they did and of being who they are. They are victims of whatever came before, that made them who they are.

Part Five

The result?

I discovered skipping school.  That was the greatest.  As soon as my parents left for work, I’d turn around head back home.  Either for the full day or part of it.  Even now, 20+ years later, avoidance is one of my first instincts.  Skipping class would lead to detention.  If I was willing to walk away from an actual class, guess what I was also going to walk away from.  Yeah, detention.  The deal was that if you missed a detention you’d get an extra one.  I ended up testing just how far they’d take the exponential increase in detentions I was earning.  Eventually the VP wiped the detentions away and had me serve a 2 day in school suspension.  No work to do, just sit in the office and read.  Best two days I’ve ever had at school.

There was no clear or easy way for me to react to what was happening to me and how I was being treated.  I didn’t always help my situation though.  I realize now that I’ve always carried my emotions very close to the surface.  With time and experience comes control.  Not many teenagers know much about control.  I certainly didn’t. What I discovered is that I have a temper.  It takes a long time to bubble up, but it’s there.  Over the course of the school year, I got angrier and angrier; of course this would also swing back and forth wildly with upset and sad and depressed.  Though I knew who the Champion was, he was never the one to do or say anything overtly, so I never confronted him.

One day, out in the smoking section someone made a comment.  I turned around and grabbed the first person I saw, yelling “What the fuck is your problem?!”  Two problems.  One, he hadn’t made the comment.  Two, he was twice my size and for only the second time in my life I’d just laid my hands on someone out of anger.  Luckily for me, though he was not happy that I grabbed him, he had heard the comment and understood what I’d thought.  He grabbed me and pulled me very close.  Then in a low and terrifying tone told me that he had not said anything and that I needed to let go of him.  There were a few other guys in the smoking section who would have fed me my balls had they been in his shoes.

I’ve remembered that I did once interact with The Champion.  One of his entourage made a comment as I walked by.  I didn’t say anything to the commentator, but instead I turned to The Champion, “You know what, Champion?  Fuck you.”  It wasn’t a lot, but I loved it.  I walked away knowing that I had addressed the person I was sure was responsible for my misery and I had let him know that I knew he was responsible.  Even now I’m a little proud of myself.  Of course there were repercussions.  One of The Champion’s entourage was a guy that I can only describe as a thug.  Even then, the Thug appeared destined for crime and prison.  In fact this turned out to be true.  He was eventually kicked out of my school and I learned, years later, that as an adult he is or has served time in prison.  I’ve always described what happened as The Champion sic’d the Thug on me.  Over the course of a couple weeks, the Thug would find opportunities to intimidate me.  Walk into me in the hall, make sure he was between me and where ever I wanted to go.  Not fun, but at least he wasn’t  actually saying anything to me.  One day, I was outside the school and Thug was inside.  He saw me and started staring at me through the window.  He was giving me his best menacing stare.  Being on the other side of glass I felt brave and gave him the finger. Then I kept walking.  Thug was waiting for me as I approached to the side door to the school.  He had two friends with him.  Lesser thugs, if you will.  Thug announced that he was going to kick my ass.  He was true to his word.  I bee lined it for the door and he got his shots in.  It fucking hurt. I went straight to the main office.  I honestly don’t remember what went on in the office.  I do know that my mom was there and I was pretty sure she beat me to the office.  Turns out she thought something was coming to a head at school and was coming by to see if I was OK.  I never had any idea that she knew.  I don’t ever remember having talked to her.  At one point while my mom and the VP were talking, I went to the washroom.  I walked in and there was a sign, addressed to me, taped to the mirror.  I returned to the main office in a state.  I was angry and upset beyond anything.  Another thing I don’t remember is getting any support from the VP or any teacher.  I do remember getting the impression that she felt I was over reacting.  I don’t remember talking to my mom about what had happened or about what had been going on a school.  I don’t know if everyone’s memories of 20 years ago are as filled with holes as mine, but I’m kind of amazed by what feel like gaping holes in mine.  High school, here in Canada, is remembered in broad strokes with some fine detail every so often.

I kept skipping.  My participation in classes was already pretty low and dropped further. “Great to have in class but does not apply himself.” “Poor attendance affects grade.”  I couldn’t buy in to any of it.  Even as comments about me rubbing one out at a party faded away, I still didn’t want to be there.  Socially, things got better eventually.  I had made some solid friendships and at least had some support that way.  The second year back in Canada was much better emotionally at least.  I hated the school but at least had some friends to make going worthwhile; unless they decided to skip as well.  I’d skip with them all the time and also on my own.  This was already a proven, in my mind, solution to the problems I thought I faced at school.  My attendance got me kicked out of the school.  The part that always got to me was that the assholes who had bullied me and made me miserable, were still there.  My parents talked the school into taking me back – they were out of the country at the time and had to come back for this.  I lasted a couple more months and got kicked out for good before the end of the school year.  My best friend, Kim, and I switched to a semester school to try and get out last few credits for graduation.  We tried but weren’t very committed to the process.  We ended up at an Alternative school.  This was the beginning of my third year back in Canada.  This was the first time I really felt that I fit in since I’d returned.  Though I never actually finished high school, I came close and was at least able to take away some very positive experiences before moving on from high school.

I still hate The Champion.  I feel bad for the Thug.

Thanks for reading.  I will postscript this whole Bully section of the blog and will definitely put the posts back together into the essay that I originally wrote.  This story is what started me off with this blog and though the story isn’t finished, it’s done for now.  That’s a little bit sad to me.

G.

Postscrip

It’s different

Part Four

Back in Canada I really didn’t feel like I fit.  That’s not to say that I didn’t have close friends or good times.  I absolutely did.  But on balance, when I examine my feelings about the time I spent in high school, here in Canada, it was awful.

I genuinely don’t remember when the bullying started.  I’m pretty sure that it wasn’t right away.  I remember reconnecting with some friends that I’d had in grades 6 and 7 (the last time I’d been in Canada).  Too much time had passed and the reconnect didn’t last long.  I think I’m Facebook friends with one of them, but she’s barely recognizable as the person I knew and all I really get from her is requests to play candy crush or farmville (do people still play farmville?).  As I write this, I realize that it must have been a bit later on in my first year back, grade 10.  I was acquaintances with many and friend to few, I know that sounds dramatic, but it’s not what I’m going for.  When you change schools every two to three years, you need to be able get to know a lot of people in a short amount of time.  At least that was always my tactic.  Get to know a little bit about a lot of people.  I was not a part of one group, but known by many groups.  As soon as I put this thought down on paper (screen?) I realize that this is probably why I smoked.  Smoking started with Diana and Mel and went from there.  Going out to the smoking section meant that I was in contact with broad group of people made up of people from all the smaller groups.  Speaking of groups, I never saw the clear divisions between students here in Canada that I saw in Cairo.  One would think that this would be a good thing, but I’m pretty sure that it wasn’t.  The groups I saw here in Canada seemed to be made up of friends, neighbours, classmates and not visibly along the lines of interest or sport.  I never thought about it then, but I think it’s kind of strange now. Maybe I wasn’t looking close enough, maybe the lines were more subtle, maybe I’m wrong.  I don’t know.  High School in Canada was so very different to me.

End of part 4

PART FIVE

Here comes the tough part.  I’ve already written the next few posts that follow this one.  I need to edit them though.  I’m struggling with what to put in and what to leave out.  It’s important to me that I get the important details right and cull the stuff that is clutter.  I want to be able to explain  or convey how I felt (this is very important) and even how it feels now.  20 years later I have raw spots and raw moments when I look back.  It still amazes me that I can recall and feel the emotion of that time, but I can.  If I were hearing any of this from one of the students that I work with, I would remind or inform them that the kind of uprooting they experienced and even a minor amount of bullying (is there a minor amount?) would be labelled as trauma, so it would only be natural that the feelings and memories could be so vivid.  Of course, I’m not one of my students and theory is fine, but I’m still amazed.

Stay tuned.

Locks on the Ottawa river.