Kindness, It's Hardly Brain Surgery

Bullying is a bold word printed on awareness posters strewn across high school corridors. This is the word they teach you about, they warn you about how to prevent it, how to recognize it, and how to handle it. As a teacher, an adult now with my own kids, I see those posters frequently from time to time. However, often these bullies are described to children as their fellow schoolmates, mean strangers they might happen to stumble upon, or the typical school bully. No one talks or prints posters that include the words: Mother and Bully. Growing up, my mother was my number one bully.

When I was 6 years old, I lived in a broken-down trailer, either naturally tan or tanned from the Nevada desert, in a run-down trailer park. It was me, my mother, and my younger sister. It was seen that I struggled, as many do, with their ABCs and their letter sounds. My mother hung up the laminated paper strip with the fancy letters on it to assist me, one would be proud of the initiative. She had one session with me and screamed at me repeatedly, telling me I was stupid, and it was all because she couldn’t understand why I couldn’t grasp it. 

After all, knowing your ABCs is hardly brain surgery. 

When I was 7 years old, I couldn’t ride a bike. My mother bought me a beautiful one too with a pretty matching helmet. She took me once to Laura Mills Park to the asphalt roundabout. I was so excited and nervous. My mom held the sides keeping me balanced as she proudly smiled at me. I felt fierce and brave but when she let go I continued frantically and ran into a tree. My body ached and my eyes swelled with hot salty tears as they fell from my face. My mother was angry at me as I didn’t want to try again. She never took me back, often making fun of me until I was 11 (when I had finally learned) to friends and family members about my inability to ride a bike. For her, it was a joke I couldn't and to be honest, I was embarrassed of myself for my “flaws.” 

After all, riding a bike is hardly brain surgery. 

When I was 8 years old, my mother was often depressed and spent days in bed, except when she sometimes worked. One afternoon, when it was me and my sister, we were eating what my mother left us: egg sandwiches. I had accidentally left out the leftovers, making the egg salad dry, warm, and stale. Meanwhile, my sister had left out a glass of milk all day long. It was littered to the rim with remnants of vanilla wafer cookies. My mother was enraged. The egg salad sandwich I had left was pretty dry but that glass of milk was utterly disgusting after a hot afternoon in an ill-conditioned trailer. She yelled at us, she made us cry, and in the end, she made us eat them. My little sister seemed so frightened when she stared at the glass of milk. I said, "Mom, the cup of milk belongs to me." She made me drink it in front of her, knowing what a putrid thing it was.

After all, cleaning after yourself is hardly brain surgery. 

When I was 9 years old, I would scribble ferociously on my notepad. I used to write stories on my pink notebook with a secret key, just for myself. But I wanted to broaden my horizons and I started writing songs, mostly country songs. I would get so excited to read them to my mom. She would always tell me what a beautiful mind I had. Yet whenever I sang my songs she laughed with my sister that I sounded like "a dying cow." It was better to remain a writer rather than a singer. I became afraid to sing and to this day I feel sometimes even ashamed to sing my sons’ lullaby to them. My mother nevertheless applauded and praised my sister's voice and even encouraged her abilities. I’d sit and listen while my cousin’s screamo phase was applauded, meanwhile, I was told I had no beat, no sense of rhythm or pitch, and even was told countless times my dancing was just as bad. Everyone made me feel like a joke, so why try to prove them wrong, I felt like a joke.

After all, singing and dancing are hardly brain surgery. 

When I was 10 years old, my sister was having a birthday party. I still didn’t know how to brush the back of my hair well. I’d often ask my mom for help or throw it into a greasy unkempt ponytail anyway. However, our family friends were coming, and kids to play with, and I was excited. I wanted to look nice. I asked my mother to brush my hair. She was frustrated with the arrangements, the cake, and the other aspects of throwing a birthday party. I know as a mother now, it was perhaps frustrating. Yet, she took the brush and in the meanest way possible she ripped my hair out with it. I began to cry and she began to swing the brush at me. The stinging and blunt pain as it swung down on me repeatedly still imprinted on my mind. When she was done telling me how stupid, useless, and “that I should know how to brush my f’n hair,” I sat in the bathroom alone crying. I didn’t want to go to that party. I wished I had never asked. From that day forward I learned how to brush my hair and I often wondered if I was as pathetic as she had made me feel. 

After all, brushing your hair is hardly brain surgery. 

When I was 11 years old, I gave my mother a perfectly wrapped white box that symbolized my virginity. She kept it in her top drawer. The year came when I was 14, I know now I was young but at the time I felt mature. I had lost my virginity to my first serious relationship that would last until I was 17. I told my grandmother what had happened, a safe person. Yet, when she got mad at me about some petty household chore she told my mom about me, aware of how she’d react. My mother would often get mad and berate us, hit us, or make us feel so useless. My mother locked me in the garage calling me a harlot (whore) and throwing that white box at me. My mother had lost her virginity when she was 13 but yet she judged me so harshly and perhaps it was because of fear I’d end up like her. I admit, if I could go back in time I would’ve waited for my husband, but that just isn’t how things happened. I wondered for years if I was just a harlot. It took me a while to learn that I was more valuable than what was between or wasn’t between my legs. Though my mom made it clear, I had lost my worth to her.

After all, keeping your legs closed is hardly brain surgery. 

There were many instances in my life where I was bullied by the person who wasn’t supposed to, my mother. There were so many things I just couldn’t do innately that my mother expected me to be able to do. She made me feel so small. It wasn’t until I learned some key things:

• Many children struggle with learning gaps and being patient as you help grow your child academically is hardly brain surgery. 
• Kissing a boo-boo and loving your child through trial and error is hardly brain surgery. 
• Not demeaning your child with terrible names like “stupid,” “weird,” “useless,” etc., is hardly brain surgery. 
• Teaching your kid how to clean up after themselves instead of punishing them for not knowing is hardly brain surgery. 
• Fostering dreams, even if they aren’t naturally inclined, so they can build skills is hardly brain surgery. 
• Being patient and kind even if you’re frustrated or communicating frustration in a way that explains an inability to assist in something as simple as brushing one’s hair is hardly brain surgery. 
• Understanding that your child may make mistakes: may kiss the wrong boy, may drink, explore their sexuality, or bring a paper labeled with an “F” is going to happen and it's hardly brain surgery to communicate and love them regardless. 

NOT BEING A BULLY IS HARDLY BRAIN SURGERY. 

Often bullies aren’t just the ones at schools and if you are someone who is being bullied, was bullied, or knows someone who was/is….I am sorry that your bully hasn't learned the universal truth which is treating others how you would want to be treated is hardly brain surgery. I am sorry that there aren't or weren’t posters that taught or preached what to do or handle if a bully resided in your own home. Being an ever evolving parent (as we’ll all make mistakes) wanting to improve for your children is hardly brain surgery. Hell, being kind is hardly brain surgery.