What Would That Girl Do?

I’ve been feeling the need to give a little background about last week’s Middle School Jujitsu post, which may not have made clear some of the underlying issues at play in Josie’s situation at school.

Mostly I'd like to clarify that, despite the post’s subtitle, I wouldn’t actually characterize what’s happening to Josie as bullying, exactly. And honestly, neither would she. This is because in many ways, Josie has a lot of the power in the situation, and she knows it. She’s smart, articulate, confident. She a head taller than any of the other kids involved. And she’s also a privileged white girl with multi-degreed parents, a hand-me-down laptop, a room of her own, and grandparents who (in addition to being available for algebra consults and literature recommendations) contribute regularly and generously to her college fund. (Thanks, grandparents!) I don’t know many details about the lives of the girls who call Josie “Tuna” in art class, but the little I do know leads me to believe that these things are not true for many of them.

While obviously none of this makes Josie a more worthy human being, it does give her a leg up in the world we live in, and particularly in the test-based, achievement-oriented, culturally-biased bureaucracy we call school -- yes, even in a hippie do-gooder alternative school like Orca. And it shapes the whole harassment dynamic in a thousand ways. It makes her a more interesting target: she raises her hand, takes up space, acts (without meaning to) like she owns the place. It gives an unintended offensive edge to her defensive maneuvers. And it colors the response of the authorities.

What I liked so much about Josie’s jujitsu maneuver was that it seemed to sidestep a nasty pattern that developed last year, which went something like this: Josie, walking down the hall, would pass “too close” to a group of girls; someone would call her a “fucking bitch.” Josie would roll her eyes. The other girl would then explode with rage because Josie had disrespected her. Josie would pause, an expression of sarcastic amazement on her face: Seriously? I disrespected you? You just called me a fucking bitch. Hello? This expression would elicit more rage, expletives, threats. Once in a while an adult would notice what was going on and intervene. And guess who got in trouble?

While I was glad these girls were being “held accountable” (as they say) for their behavior, I was never clear that simply disciplining them improved the situation much -- it certainly did nothing to lessen their hostility toward Josie. At a certain point Ben (the principal) started holding Josie accountable for her eye-rolling sarcasm -- which was tough for her, but probably a good idea, I thought. (Especially after she admitted to me that on at least one occasion she had chosen to pass closer than was strictly necessary to one of these girls, knowing she'd get a reaction. It reminded me uncomfortably of the story Andrew tells about the time his little brother intentionally provoked him into hitting him, then hid behind his mother sniggering as Andrew got yelled at.)

Ben advised her to ignore them (of course) -- to be like Gandhi, to find strength in self-control, in not responding to their taunts. She replied that if she ignored them she felt like a doormat, like she had acquiesced somehow -- allowed their public insults to stand unchallenged. She was told, by me and Ben both, that if she needed to respond in order to defend her sense of self-worth, she should definitely feel free to do that -- but that it would almost certainly make things worse, and that she might then face consequences for escalating the conflict -- yes, even by rolling her eyes. Somehow, between the Gandhi-coaching of Josie and some pretty serious work with the other girls, Ben was able to improve the situation a great deal. But it never really felt like it got resolved.

And here we are again, it seems: a similar pattern developing with a slightly different group of girls, and a new slate of administrators disciplining the offenders and instructing Josie to "ignore them."

“Ignore them” is such solid, reasonable, useless advice. Parents and principals and great spiritual leaders may find it easy to separate incoming insults from their own egos, but for a 13-year-old struggling to develop that perspective (and faking it in the meantime), ignoring people is a minefield all its own.

Let’s say you set out to project a kind of inner serenity: I don't need to engage you because I am strong inside myself. First of all, you have this sneaking suspicion that to your tormentor your inner strength looks like cringing fear: I am pretending to ignore you because I am scared of what will happen if I meet your eyes.

And even if they do get bored and move on to someone else (which takes eons, as we all know -- eons during which things get way, way worse) it still feels like they have won -- you have been publicly cowed, no matter what noble strength you were carrying around in your head.

On top of this, Josie also had to deal with her opponents’ tendency to interpret I am ignoring you because I don’t care what you think (she chose the girl in "Short Skirt / Long Jacket" for a model) as something more like I don’t need to be bothered with dirt like you. Which, naturally, provoked them even more.

And because all of these things can be conveyed – or gathered – from what looks to an outsider like a very similar freighted silence, it’s next to impossible to untangle the ignorer’s intentions (which may oscillate wildly, of course) from the perceptions and projections of the ignorees.

This may be why I can't quite figure out what's really going on in that third floor hallway. Sometimes Josie laughs this stuff off, or seems merely annoyed by it. Other times her life seems like a hell of near-constant harassment -- but why? Is her cocky self-confidence and quirky wit coming off as arrogance -- does she brush these girls off somehow, provoking this hostility? Is this a racial issue -- do they feel an understandable but misguided desire to take the tall, smart, white girl down a peg? Or do they honestly perceive her as a loser? (She seems phenomenally cool to me, but in the funhouse-mirror world of middle school anything's possible, even a bass-playing rollergirl who's somehow also a dweeb.) Or is it, as one teacher put it, “a Mean Girl cage fight”? I honestly can't tell.

What seems pretty clear, among all these shifting perceptions and crappy experiences, is that we have so far failed to achieve Gandhitude.

For some reason middle school (and maybe childhood in general) seems to be dominated by power based on superiority: I am great because I can look down on you, and the clearer I can make that, to you and everyone else, the more terrific I will be. This kind of power can be expressed in a million ways, of course, from simple one-upsmanship ("How many teeth have you lost -- four? Well, I've lost five.") to verbal sparring ("Oh, yeah? Well, your mama's so old, when I told her to act her age, she died!") to social ostracism ("Are you going to Jessica's slumber party? Oh that's right, you weren't invited.") to physical intimidation ("Don't fuck with me, or I will throw you down these stairs, bitch.")

Now, the Mahatma himself wasn't above a good-natured, well-aimed barb, and he was perfectly willing to embarrass his oppressors into doing the right thing if necessary. But his real power grew out of two forces: Love, which cannot be intimidated, and Truth, which cannot be ignored. The struggle wasn't about fighting an enemy so much as repeatedly proclaiming an undeniable truth -- in a way that showed love and compassion for the people on the other side. He rose above any question of doormats and dirt, and held fast to the idea that we all have it in us to do the right thing. And he would find that noble piece of you, no matter how well it was hidden, and engage it. Nurture it. Introduce you to it, if necessary. That was the power Gandhi called Satyagraha. Martin Luther King, Jr. called it Soul Force. It's what George Fox was talking about when he told his followers to "walk cheerfully over the world, answering that of God in every one."

I suppose Love -- or compassion, anyway -- might go a long way toward defusing the conflict between Josie and the Tuna Brigade. (It might, Josie admits, if only the whole idea weren't so terminally dorky. I've been trying to persuade her that even dorkiness can be trumped by love; she was impressed but not entirely convinced by the example of Mr. Rogers accepting his 1997 Emmy Award.)

But I think before these girls can open their hearts to each other, they're going to have to clarify the Truth they are fighting for. It's a little hard to decipher, as there seems to be no content to the conflict, just expressions of dislike. Josie says all she wants is to be able to walk down the hall in peace, safe and secure in herself -- feeling, as the school mission says, like she belongs. Is it possible that's all the other girls want too? Can we figure out what's keeping them from feeling that way?

I sometimes suspect the answer to that question is a Truth so big and so bitter, it would shatter the fragile vision of unity and equity we adults are so fond of proclaiming. Something with roots way beyond Orca's cinderblock walls, out in the crazy unfair fucked up world we have given these children.

Well, I say, bring it on, girls.

I'm serious. You may not believe this, but I for one really want to hear what you have to say. It might not make me feel particularly good to hear it, but I know you have some white-hot Truth inside you. I so want to see you untangle it from all that anger so you can bring it out and make it shine for everyone to see. If we can't look your Truth in the eye -- if "We All Belong" is just so much pablum -- well, we might as well pack it in and go home.

I send my kids to Orca because I think we have a chance to make that simple statement true at this small school -- where hippie kids and poor black kids and the children of high-powered executives all sit side by side, where Guatemalan adoptees with two moms play with African immigrant girls in headscarves, and where countless teachers and parents and others pour their hearts and souls into helping each of those kids soar.

It's not always perfect, obviously. But we pull it off at least some of the time. And we keep plugging away at it, because we believe we are turning out a steady stream of young men and women who will go out into the world beyond those cinderblock walls and change it.

It's possibly one of the dorkiest things about me, that I haven't given up on this idea.

Now, if you kids are going to change the world, you're going to need some real power. Not swaggering bravado. Not the kind of leg up that comes from having, as Bertice Berry puts it, your foot on someone else's head. You can't do it with physical force either, though many people try.

No, girls, you are going to need some serious Soul Force.

It's going to start with that Truth -- not just the rage you're feeling at the injustices and inequities you face, but a deep understanding of the underlying issues. You'll need the critical thinking and creativity to find real solutions for change. You'll need to know how to shape that Truth into a message no one can deny.

But ladies, you're also going to need Love. You'll need friends who believe in you, who can pour courage and faith back into you when your own fails. You will need allies -- people from all walks of life. You'll need to share your perspective with them, and work to understand theirs. You'll need to have each other's backs. (You don't want to wind up like that guy who takes his gun to Starbucks because "I don't know of anybody who's going to provide me with defense other than myself.") You will need to know how to build what peacemaker John Paul Lederach calls a "web of relationships that includes your enemies."

So, girls. Josie too -- all of you. Let's start building that web. Right here, right now -- with each other.

A few nights ago Josie was up late, chatting with an old friend on Facebook, when one of last year's tormentors suddenly popped up in her chat window. All she said was "eeeeew," but Josie found this invasion of her mellow Saturday night headspace infuriating. She unfriended the girl, of course (how they came to be "friends" in the first place is beyond me) -- but not before shooting back a nasty riposte -- something along the lines of "If your profile picture makes you nauseous, maybe you should change it."

When she described this exchange to me (in a chat window of our own) I told her I was really disappointed in her. "What she said was dumb, like sticking out her tongue at you. But you escalated it -- what you said was really mean! I don't want you to be mean!" After several minutes of IMing each other, we met face to face in her room for a showdown. She was clearly stung. And we were both exhausted.

"But Mom," she said. "I didn't want her to get away with it! What would the girl with the short skirt and the long jacket do? Isn't she fast, and thorough, and sharp as a tack?"

"I'm pretty sure she'd just walk on by. She'd have places to go, things to do, people to talk to with way more interesting stuff to say than 'eeeeew.' She wouldn't have time for that crap."

I could see her wilting into self-doubt. "What would all those people on the blog think of me now?"  (She's been getting a lot of kudos for the jujitsu post -- one admirer, ironically enough, went so far as to compare her to Gandhi.)

"They would understand that you got tired and frustrated and lashed out. You’re thirteen. They love you." It was well past one by now, and we had entered into this conversation an hour before, already drained. I yawned, my mind struggling groggily to up with some way to bring this discussion to a reassuring conclusion so we could both go to bed. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes." Sniffling.

"What would the girl with the short skirt and the long jacket do if she was your mom?"

"She wouldn't be a a very good mom." Sniffling some more. "She's in her younger years. She's not ready to be a mom."

This brought me up short (that song has been getting quite a lot of play in my own head these days). But after some thought I decided she had a point: being a mom does require that you find a balance between loving people and correcting them, holding them accountable and supporting them to do better, encouraging and nurturing them as they grow into the wonderful people you know are in there. There is no place for disdain in motherhood, any more than in world-changing, or in art class.

The next day when I picked the kids up from school, Josie told me she had decided to apologize to the "eeeew" girl.

"Really?" I was taken aback. "Good for you! How did it go?"

"I was a little worried she'd take it wrong, like I was trying to set myself up as better than her. But it went surprisingly well, actually. She said 'Oh, it's okay -- I'm sorry too.'"

"She did?"

"Yeah, isn't that weird?"

It is weird. But good. I guess there's hope yet.