The fourth grade (Primary 4 as we call it in Malaysia) classroom was humid as usual. Heat waves crept through the windows like mist as the sun fiercely radiated the city of Kota Kinabalu in Sabah, Malaysia. It wasn't the temperature that caused me to be boiling in and out. The kid in front of me attacked me with mean, hurtful words. Mandarin words that I couldn't stand. He wasn't just a typical St.James primary school student. Teachers and students admired him as an English story-telling champion in several years. Every time he was on stage, he attracted everyone with his big, emotional voice. Some strong quality an English teacher in an Asian school looked for. I didn't know whether anyone noticed this, but deep inside, he was a sneaky demon. When a teacher was no around, he shot darts of malign and hatred at me for no reason. He was also like a leader in a group of boys who joined in the bullying. They enjoyed tearing me into pieces. I showed a blank sight of tears in front of them, but within my heart, I was hollering and whimpering.
It cluttered in my mind like a syringe. He was there, in front of my desk. He was surrounded with a couple of his mates, teasing me on how different and stupid I was. What did I do wrong? I was completely confused, but I wore a stoic mask over my physical face. They didn't see that I was foaming in my mouth, trying to calm the effervescing bubbles in my reddened heart down. Suddenly, their snickering reached my breaking point. I snatched my pink mechanical pencil from my desk and stabbed at one of his eyes. It happened in the blink of an eye. Time froze. I didn't actually stabbed the pointy lead at his eyeball, just at the lower lash line around his eye. I paused like a statue, realizing at what I just did. He covered his injury with both hands clasped tightly. A wave of silence filled the room. I swore everyone in the classroom was staring at me with mouths hung open. Luckily, the final bell rang. I packed my things with shivering hands and dashed out of the room like a rocket. I had never been so afraid in my life.
I had my lips sealed from my family. I didn't have the courage to tell anyone about the incident. I wished I could stay home the next day, or switch schools so that the boy won't chase after me. I pleaded God that everything that happened that day could be erased from his mind, and my own mind too, but it wasn't possible.
Nothing got better the next day. As the Mandarin teacher entered through the door, the first thing she did was that she called me to come over to her desk. My heart flipped like a pancake from a pan. I quickly blinked my eyes to prevent from tears coming out as I walked innocently to the big wooden table at the front. She looked at me with her brown eyes glazed with a layer of concern and anger, "Is it true that you stabbed at him with a mechanical pencil?" I nodded slowly. All I did was nodding and staring at the hardened cement floor. She didn't give me any punishment, but a warning that cling to me like a koala bear on a tree branch, "The lead in mechanical pencils are poisonous. It's dangerous to use them against other people. Hen wei xian de. You have to be careful next time, am I clear?" I nodded for one last time before she allowed me to go back to my seat. (I translate this from Chinese to English, and I add in the phrase in italics to prove that it's originally spoken in Chinese.) I took a glimpse of the boy who sat at the row behind mine. He had a dark bruise on the lower part of his eye. There wasn't serious damage. He gave me this icy glare that killed me mentally; it signaled me to urge myself to run before he raised a sharp weapon from his back to slash my face. I felt stupid for not telling the teacher that his abusive words caused me to react in such a way, but I was the one who caused a bigger effect on him, and that made me feel like a criminal. A 10-year-old, not-so-innocent, criminal. I wished I could just faint so that I could be sent to a mental hospital, and made my parents worried like hell because they didn't seemed to care about my previous endless complaints of being bullied.
He recovered a few days later, and he still had a playful, evil grin. He harassed me with more words of sin, and I stayed silent for the entire year. He was then followed by more boys who enjoyed making me feel bad during my last two years of elementary school. Every time I tried to explain to my parents or any other adults I thought I could trust, they just won't care much. "Just ignore them." my mom simply replied. But that didn't work at all. Even when I switched seats, nothing got better!
Not only I got bullied by those mean boys, but I also got verbally abused by teachers too. Back when I was in second grade (Primary 2), I was taught by this horrifyingly-strict teacher who criticized my work in Mandarin class. I don't know, I guess she looked down on students who are weak in Chinese. I encountered her once again when I entered fifth grade (Primary 5) ; she was like Ursula who wanted to murder me with a potion of death. She complained on how messy my handwriting was and my weak progress in completing homework. Wow, so much for boosting a little girl's confidence. I wasn't the only one who got trapped under that shrill voice of hers. A friend in that class, Abigail struggled hard as much as I did in improving her Mandarin and completing her assignments. However, the teacher was not impressed. I had no idea why she was always angry at the two of us. I even felt sorry for Abigail who was being called stubborn and the so-called story of her mother being good friends with the teacher or something. "Your mother is way better than you, Abigail! You should be ashamed of yourself!" the teacher retorted. Man! That's harsh!
You think my elementary school years were tough? Well, you should see how my freshman year in secondary school ended up into. I was still the silent, timid, antisocial girl everybody knew. Once I was enrolled into the stage of puberty, I told myself that secondary school was all about a new beginning. I would make new friends, be respected, and change myself. Unfortunately, things were not what I expected. I was involved in a group of Muslims and Kadazans (an ethnic group of indigenous in Sabah), and they were not who I called "true friends". From a corner of the school parking lot, I spotted a few of them, and they went on giggling and snickering and whispering. Their eyes were on me, and they gossiped to one another. They were probably talking about how fast I walked, or perhaps how fat I looked. What's the matter with that? I walked fast, so what? That doesn't looked ladylike to you? Fine! But I could felt that they kept making fun of me behind my back. All the time.
There was this boy back in eighth grade (we called it Form 2) who was like the Joker of the classroom. His target was me. He made faces at me and called me names, attracting others, no..the entire class to pick on me. The teachers didn't notice this. They secretly put on their halos, showing their pure innocence in front of the adults. And shortly, I saw devil horns poking out of their heads. They made me reach my breaking point as well, but I didn't react. They just can't stop calling me a loser, a jerk, or a loner. And the worst part was, they randomly matched me with a guy I barely even knew in the class. Twice. Well, I ignored that. That entire year, I faced their mean oral assaults. That boy played around, blocking me from going to my seat after every recess. What's so funny about that? Stop messing up with me! I wished I could have the guts to tell a teacher, but I was bubbled up in a shield of terror.
With all these that happened, I planned to commit suicide. I pictured myself pointing a kitchen knife towards my chest or hanging myself on one of my mom's scarves. I even blamed God for not protecting me from those horrible people. One day, God told me to halt. He reminded me of a verse in the Bible, but I couldn't remember the actual sentence. I was told that committing suicide is a sin. A very dangerous. sinful action. He also made me realized that all those bullying would fade away sooner that I thought. I wondered how the nightmare of my life would last. No one supported me; no one made me smile. I continued to do what I enjoy doing, but not many people came to embolden me.
God promised me that all of these would come to an end. After countless prayers and tears of silence, it happened. When ninth grade (Form 3) arrived, I was surrounded by a new circle of friends. And yes, they were what I called "true friends". New friends that I dreamed of. We had experiences of feeling pain and trying to overcoming obstacles, but we supported each other and stayed strong. I realized that I was not alone. There were people out there who shared the same pain as I did, and they successfully pulled my frown upside down.
Demi Lovato sings, "I'm a warrior, I got thicker skin, I'm stronger than I'll ever be in my armour, it's made of steel, you can't get in, and you can never hurt me again." My dear wonderful friends from ninth grade to eleventh grade are always by my side, even when I'm far apart from home today. Because of them, I am healed. Because of them, I learn to chase after my dream of doing the things I want to do. The little satans somehow hook in my nostalgic mind, but here's what I have to say: you have hurt me, but I stand tall. You may not realize what you've done to me, but I'll never forgive you until you know what you did.
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