When I was very young my greatest fear was to be bullied. I was, of course, and regularly – let just one child discover that you are insecure about being made fun of, and there goes any hope you have of making it through middle school without a constant stream of pushes, slights, and shunning. For the most part, I was able to cope with this hostile environment by retreating into myself; I read a lot, I talked (and smiled) little, in effect, I became an introvert. But what I was never able to overcome was the sheer humiliation of the nickname I was given: Mr. Peebles.
“Miss-ter Pee-bullz,” they would say. “Whassa matter, Miss-ter Pee-bullz?” These words, spoken so derisively, were a source of great shame to my eight-year-old psyche. I knew enough to know that they were intended as an insult, that it was hardly a good thing to be a Peebles. But I didn’t know what they meant, and that was worse by far than any other insult I had known. I knew what a sissy was, and what crybaby meant – these were aspects of myself that, while not flattering, I had at least accepted. But what did it mean to be a Mr. Peebles? “Miss-ter Peebullz,” they would say. “Whassa matter, Miss-ter Pee-bullz?” At this, I burst into tears.
After several weeks of this, I finally recognized that things would only continue if I did not somehow stand up for myself. It was lunchtime, and Ryan Goff, the class bully, came up to me, grinning and eager to revel in my insecurities. “Well look who it is,” he began. “Miss-ter –“
“I kissed your mom,” I blurted out. “And she liked it.” He began to cry.
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