According to The Anti-Bullying Alliance, “Autistic individuals face significantly higher rates of bullying, with research suggesting rates as high as 94% compared to neurotypical peers. They are targeted due to social, communication, and sensory differences. This victimization leads to severe anxiety, social isolation, and school refusal, often requiring tailored support and protective measures.” Autistic individuals are targeted for three main reasons:
- Perceived Differences: Bullies target those who act, think, or communicate differently, which can include sensory sensitivities.
- Social Challenges: Challenges with reading social cues make it harder for autistic individuals to navigate bullying, recognize predatory behavior, or respond in conventional ways.
- Increased Vulnerability: The core traits of autism can make them easy targets, both at school and sometimes at home.
Types of bullying can include shunning, exclusion, spreading of rumors, name calling, physical violence, destruction of possessions, and cyberbullying.
Psychology Today states, “The psychology of a bully often stems from a combination of insecure, learned aggression, and a deep-seated need for control and power. While some bullies suffer from low self-esteem, others may be popular, socially dominant individuals leveraging power to maintain social status. Common traits include low empathy, impulsivity, and distorted views of social situations as hostile.”
I learned at a very young age that bullies can come in all shapes and sizes. I was horribly bullied in many different ways throughout my school years, possibly due to my autism. However, I know that this is not a unique experience. I don’t think there is one person in this world who has not felt bullied at one time or another. We all have been bullied, and we all have, intentionally or not, bullied others.
I first learned about bullies when I was 6 years old and in the first grade. I was horribly abused by my first grade teacher who slapped, smacked, and kicked me throughout the school day because I did not have the ability to speak correctly. Because Sister Alvera was in a position of authority, I sometimes wondered if her abusive behavior may have given my classmates the idea that bullying me was acceptable behavior. Children are not born to hate. How children respond to human differences either in race, religion, culture, or education is a learned experience.
This was very true one day at our afternoon recess. At 2 pm, all of the students were lead outside to the large field and blacktop playground to play kickball, basketball, hopscotch, or jump rope. I normally spent the 15 minutes of free time roaming around the yard on my own. I would just walk around as I told myself stories and sang songs to myself. But one afternoon was very different.
As I began my journey around the playground, I suddenly felt someone push me from behind. Taken by surprise, I quickly spun around to find Mike Adams standing behind me. Mike Adams? He was not even in my class. His younger brother, John, was in Sister Alvera’s first grade class with me. Mike was in my older sister’s second grade class with Miss Flynn.
My sister, Susie, and I were very different. She was smart and pretty with beautiful bright red hair. She was talkative and friendly. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt or humiliate her, and yet, Mike was taunting me with stories of how he caught my sister and had tied her up. Why was Mike saying this? Was it true? Oh, my gosh, I think back now and realize Mike was only 7 years old at the time. To me on that day, he seemed so much older and bigger as he talked about my sister before saying, “She got away. I’m done with her, and so now, it’s your turn.”
I don’t know what my sister had done, but I was relieved she had gotten away from Mike. However, for me, my mind was confused and jumbled by Mike’s words. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I had completely shut down in fear and just stood in front of this boy as I stared curiously up at him. My mind tried to make sense of the moment, but I wasn’t connecting or understanding what was happening.
Mike and I just stared at each other. I wasn’t running away. I wasn’t being brave. I was being autistic and just couldn’t connect to the moment. Mike suddenly realized his opportunity. He grabbed my right arm and started pulling me to the ground as his other hand began to slap and punch at me. Now, the physical abuse awakened me. I realized I may be in danger and my body responded. I pulled away and started to run.
To my surprise, Mike began to pursue me across the playground. Our chase must have been similar to that of a gazelle and a leopard in the wild. I was an easy target. I was not a fast runner because I had been born with my feet twisted outward and my right foot slightly clubbed. Knowing that I would never outrun Mike, I ran towards the rectory that was next to the church in the parking lot of the playground. For some odd reason, I thought being at the home of the priests would protect me. It didn’t. I realized my mistake too late.
I breathlessly stood at the closed double garage door at the top of the angled driveway with no other place to run. Mike easily grabbed me then and started to pull roughly on both my arms as I fell to the ground. Mike pulled me down the driveway causing bright red, burning road rash to appear on my bare arms and legs as I screamed and struggled to get away. Once we had reached the bottom of the driveway, Mike continued to kick, punch, and beat me. I don’t know what had inspired this attack. I had never talked to Mike, and I certainly had never done anything that I could think of to provoke him.
I also still wonder that with all of the kids and teachers on the playground at that time, why did no one notice this attack? Nobody intervened. Nobody stopped it. The beating finally came to an end when the loud shrill bell finally rang and beckoned all of the students back to their classrooms. The bell seemed to have a Pavlov’s dog effect on Mike. At the pealing of the bell, he suddenly stopped punching me and walked back towards the school while leaving me crumpled on the hard pavement.
I didn’t stay on the ground, of course. All I could think about was the beating I would receive from Sister Alvera for returning late to class. I got up from the ground and walked back to the school building. I knew how to pretend that everything was fine. I held my head up high and walked back to class as if nothing had happened even though my blouse was ripped and I was dripping blood in scattered little drops all the way back to the classroom. How could I have convinced myself that nobody would even notice if I didn’t bring attention to it myself? I was partially right. Nobody said anything to me as I joined the other students and teachers entering the building. But then I noticed Sister Alvera standing at the doorway of our classroom and staring at me in surprise.
“What did you do?” she suddenly shouted at me. Now, I don’t remember all of the details of everything that suddenly took place. I don’t remember who informed Sister Alvera about the beating. Was it me? Did I tell her what happened? I don’t remember that detail at all. I don’t remember answering any questions or making any explanations.
But I do remember that Sister Alvera asked me in a shocked voice who had done this to me. Who had beaten me? She seemed surprised and concerned, and I remember just staring up at her and trying to understand why it mattered now. She had beaten me every day since school had started.
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t find the words now. I couldn’t seem to speak Mike’s name out loud. Instead, I just turned around and walked into Miss Flynn’s classroom completely oblivious to all of the students who now stared at me in stunned silence. I don’t recall even seeing my sister in the room. I just walked over to the table where Mike was sitting with a group of 5 other kids. I stood in front of him and as everyone in the room watched me, I stuck out my arm and pointed my finger right at Mike as if I was some tiny grim reaper choosing my next victim. I strangely remember feeling justified as I identified my bully, but I didn’t understand the repercussions of what I had just done.
Feelings of guilt and stress overwhelmed me as I suddenly realized how I had horribly condemned Mike. I watched Sister Alvera march across the room and grab Mike up from his chair by his right arm. I followed behind them as Sister Alvera dragged Mike out of the classroom. Then Sister Alvera continued to drag Mike down the hallway with her right hand as she smacked and slapped Mike across his back, arms, and neck with her left. She was screaming at him about the evils of hitting another person as her hand beat out a harsh and steady rhythm against Mike’s body.
I remember standing at the door of Miss Flynn’s classroom as the rest of the world suddenly fell away from me. I wasn’t aware of anything else going on around me as I watched Mike and Sister Alvera. Sister Alvera continually hit me every day, and now she was beating Mike as she talked about the sin of hurting and bullying another human being. Believe me, even at 6 years old, the irony of the moment was not lost on me.
https://anti-bullyingalliance.org.uk/
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