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The Threat of Violence

8th December 2005

Written by Howard Cardinal

I was bullied from the age of 8 to 13 by another lad at my school. I wasn't his only victim. In fact, he had a hold over several others as well. Anyone who stood out by being either physically or mentally weak. I was both of these.

His name was Anthony Gill. Just hearing it in those days was enough to send a shiver down my spine. He had a reputation. A reputation for being “hard”. Looking back on it now he wasn't so tough. He only picked on those he knew he could out-muscle, put down, make to feel small. A typical bully you could say. A good bully knows his limits and knows who he can bully - who he can control. He never got out of his depth by taking on bigger or tougher lads.

He very rarely used violence to control his victims. The threat of violence, however, lingered in the air like a bad smell. In law an “assault” is defined as “an act that threatens physical harm to a person, whether or not actual harm is done.” In other words assault doesn’t have to physical. However, in reality, the law rarely enters the arena of playground.

During those five years I never once told a teacher or my parents. Like a lot of schools, there was quite a “macho culture” at my school. Being seen to ask for help would have been a sign of weakness. I’d rather suffer in silence than embarrass myself by being seen to be “soft”. I guess I didn’t have faith that the teachers would be able to make him stop. What could they do to curb his behaviour – give him a ticking off? Give him detention? That would surely make things worse. On reflection, it may well have worked. I’d recommend anyone who suffers bullying tells as many people as possible. A few years earlier, I had done just that myself when I was bullied as a six-year-old by a classmate in primary school. The lad’s name escapes me, but to this day I can still remember revenge being meted out to him. I’d had the courage to tell my parents on this occasion. They told the headmaster and the next day the bully was summoned to his office along with myself. On entering, the headmaster, Mr Jones, was coolly smoking a cigar. The smoke rings churned through the air like the nervous tension in my stomach. Was this meeting really going to make things any better? He slowly stubbed out the cigar in his ashtray and locked eyes with the bully. He walked around his desk before stretching out his arms and gripping the boy’s shoulders tightly. The bully had met his match. Mr Jones proceeded to violently shake the bully screaming, “IF YOU EVER BULLY ANYONE AGAIN I’M GOING TO BREAK EVERY BONE IN YOUR BODY!” Warm tears of humiliation ran down the boy’s cheeks. I couldn’t help but raise a smile. I was never troubled again by that boy. Justice was done.

I can’t fully condone Mr Jones’s actions. It proved that telling a teacher could work (if it was the right teacher). Plus, that was 1985 and he was an old-fashioned head in his sixties who wasn’t going to change for anyone. In my secondary school, I didn’t believe that sort of result would be forthcoming by sharing my problems about Gill. However, one day I summoned up the courage from deep within and took matters into my own hands.

Break-time, one cold North-East autumn day in 1990. I was playing football with my mates as I did every day. The bell rang at 10.35 to signal the resumption of lessons. Half-jogging, I headed back towards school. THUD! I felt a thick adolescent shoulder crash into my slender frame, almost knocking me off my feet. There he stood, Gill’s cocky smile and that contemptuous look. “Fuck off, Gill! Leave me alone!” I shouted. I was slightly more confident than usual as my friend Rob Sanders, captain of the first fifteen was by my side. “I bet you wouldn’t speak to me like that if Rob wasn’t there!” Would I? Probably not. Or was now the time to stand up for myself? As I turned round, I noticed Rob walking away, forcing me into a fight or flight situation with Gill. CRACK! I caught my bully in the eye with a right hook. He fell to the floor clutching his face, tasting humiliation himself for once. He looked up at me, half-ashamed. Someone had stood up to him. I ran back to lessons, fearful that this may have poured petrol onto the vitriolic fire of his anger. It didn’t. He never troubled me again. In fact, I received his grudging respect. He still bullied others though. Those who wouldn’t stand up to him. Within in a year, he was expelled – never to return. The teachers had intervened in the end.

Violence is always a last resort. It’s the lowest form of communication you can get. I don’t condone my actions in any way. The point is, you’ve got to make a stand – whatever that involves. You don’t have to be a victim. Just have the guts to do something about it. Something. Anything.

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