What Exactly Does "Better" Mean?

My parents, and their parents before, constantly demand that I do better. They haven’t let up since I was born. The basic formula is, “Don’t do that, or this will happen.” Perhaps it’s something like, “Don’t dress like that. You’ll draw attention from the wrong people.” Maybe they’ll say something like, “Study well and avoid the bad apples at school, or you won’t get a nice career.” Since when do they know what will happen to me in the future? Why are they so quick to assume that everyone is out to get me?

 They always jump on my back, and when I ignore them, they just grow more insistent. “Why do you resist our advice?”

“I don’t need it. Things were different in your times, and people were meaner,” I say.

They shoot back with, “People are still just as mean, but they’ve gotten sneakier about it. Wickedness has been around so long that it has just become part of normal life. It’s ingrained in the system to the point that it’s taken for granted.”

“But life has gotten better.”

“Things could be better still, and you have the power to make it that way,” they say. 

Things can always be better, can’t they? Besides, my folks grew up in the Stone Age, so who’s talking about “better” here?

Today, I finally put my foot down when they tell me I shouldn’t wear my new lime-green jacket to school. “Leave me alone,” I snarl. “Let it be. There is no such thing as good enough for you folks.” Just like that, their incessant voices stop. My parents look hurt, but then they smirk, waving their hands in exaggerated surrender. You win.

At school, I weave my way through the halls, but some of the older kids stop me. “Where do you think you’re going, bro? Thought you could just sneak by us, didn’t ya?” they say, pinning my arms behind my back. I stammer, “No, no, nothing like that. I just was trying to get to class on time.” I see that one of my classmates, Max, is watching through his cracked glasses from the other end of the hallway, poking his head around the corner with trepidation. He’s the white kid that sucks in his stomach for gym class.

The oldest of the bunch leans in and sneers. “Why? You want to get good grades? Get a head start on us?” He leans in real close. “Try and get ahead of us all you want, but we’ll always be waiting for you at the finish line to take your lunch money.” A colorful sign hanging on the wall over his shoulder catches my eye: Our school has a strict zero-tolerance policy toward bullying in all forms. All of our students matter. The brute turns his head to follow my desperate gaze, resting his own eyes on the sign. He laughs, looking to his conspirators. “You boys don’t see any bullying going on around here, do you?” They shake their heads in mock confusion and close in around me, forcing me onto the floor.

In the principal’s office, I sit with my bullies. My left eye is swollen and my shirt is ripped from their rough grips. One of them is wearing my lime-green jacket. The principal is peering down his nose at me from behind the desk. “Our school does not condone the instigation of fights for any reason, son,” he says. 

“Fighting?” I demand. “These four were beating me up. None of them have even a scratch, and they’re all bigger than me.” 

The principal grows impatient. “Well, then you shouldn’t have given them a reason to beat you up. Maybe you just made them nervous.” The bullies nod along, happy to have the story told for them--and for me.

I feel an intense pressure in my head. It’s the feeling of being accused of something awful and being unable to tell my side of the story. It’s blind rage. I feel every muscle in my body beginning to tremble. Why doesn’t this man see the obvious picture? I say pleadingly, “The security cameras will show what happened.”

The principal nods thoughtfully, pulling up the footage and watching it. I can see the screen: miniature me splayed out under the four hulking forms. A little teacher appears in the frame, pulling the kids off of me. The teacher kneels down, picks me up, and walks away quickly without a word. 

The principal pauses the video and looks at me, shrugging. He looks both sincere and insincere. “There’s no sound on these cameras. This still proves nothing. For all I know, you said something to provoke them.” I watch helplessly as he deletes the video, wiping it from existence.

“Son, see me tomorrow for your detention. I want you to know that we have a strict zero-tolerance policy for bullying in all forms, and that we will punish it wherever we see it. We’ve protected our students for many years, and we don’t intend to stop now. All of you matter to us, no matter where you come from, son. All of you matter. Remember that,” he says. Through the frosted-glass window of his office door I can see four silhouettes waiting outside for me. 

At home, I call some of my friends over for a visit. They look at me and ask, “They did it to you too, didn’t they?” to which I nod. 

“Principal wiped the security cameras and gave you detention?” I nod. 

“We should all watch each others’ backs. It doesn’t seem like the school wants to get involved,” they say.

I remember how Max watched everything happen in the hall and I call his house. “Why didn’t you do or say anything?” I demand. 

“It’s not that easy,” replies he. “I couldn’t just confront those kids. They’ve been beating on us since as long as we can remember. It’s become normal.”

“But the longer it goes on as normal, the less questionable it becomes to everyone,” I reply. Silence.

He finally says, “Besides, don’t I matter in this? I’m on their good side, and they’re leaving me alone for now. This isn’t only about you. It’s about all of us.”

“Well, it’s just me getting picked on right now, isn’t it?” I blurt. “Who can we tell about this?” 

Max says, “Go to the principal. He’s against bullying, and he’s there to help you. He’s helped me along with some of the other kids.” I wonder what “other kids” he means.

I’m fed up. My parents were right about people, but I don’t want to grow up and become the way they are now. I don’t want to need to warn my kids not to dress flashily or to avoid other kids like my parents did to me. I don’t understand why they wouldn’t do something about it, nor why nobody did anything about it if it was only getting worse. I don’t want anyone else to have to sit in fear and helplessness like my parents and their parents before must have sat. I don’t want to stay small and nondescript like I’m expected to, and I don’t want to get hammered down when I stick out.

I know what I want. I want the principal to suspend those kids--no, suspend then expel them. I want him to walk through the halls, tearing down each of those anti-bullying posters. I want him to understand that he has to help those of us who are hurt, first and foremost. I had told my parents that life now was better than life then, but now I want more than better.