I am Strong. I am Invincible.

I’ve been thinking about bullying a lot lately—partly because it’s been in the news so much. I read of the rising numbers of LGBT youth who are committing suicide or running away or otherwise giving up and I am saddened and baffled: How did I and others like me survive while today’s youth are not? And partly because I’m working on my next book, which I mentioned in my June 4 post, Inspiration Returns, and one of the lead characters, Lionel, is bullied throughout school.

Of all my characters, Lionel is the most like me. So, I’ve been trying to remember what bullying was like and how I got through it. It never occurred to me to tell my parents what was going on. I didn’t have a close friend to confide in. If my teachers noticed, they were largely silent. Except for one, who when he caught me and my friend Jeffrey walking outside school holding hands, called my parents in and suggested they put me in military school without telling them specifically why. They refused. Jeffrey’s parents, called in separately and apparently told the whole story, did not; I never saw Jeffrey again.

What I remember most from that time is silence. Everyone else’s. And my own.

All of this came back as I’ve been writing and has worked its way into “His Name was Jose.” Looking back at being bullied in school, Lionel writes:

“It had taken me a lifetime but I’d found my words, my voice. I’d learned early on that to respond, to deny, to explain myself was to cede victory. And that, I would not do; no one would gain dominion over me.”

I, myself, had gone silent in defense, refusing to acknowledge the hateful words: Braniac. Sissy. Faggot. Now, in retrospect, I realize I’d let them, those boys who I did not know or care about, silence me, take my voice away.

How did I get through? How did I survive? Oddly it was Helen Reddy and her anthemic "I Am Woman," that paean to girl power that gave me the strength, the courage to stay the course.

You can bend but never break me
'cause it only serves to make me
More determined to achieve my final goal
And I come back even stronger
Not a novice any longer
'cause you've deepened the conviction in my soul

Oh yes I am wise
But it's wisdom born of pain
Yes, I've paid the price
But look how much I gained
If I have to I can face anything
I am strong (strong)
I am invincible (invincible)

Yes, I took comfort in song, words, for I had nothing else. Maybe that’s when I first came to believe in the power of words. Words, Helen Reddy taught me, had the power to help, to heal, to inspire.

In one scene when Jose, the young boy-hero, and his girlfriend, Janice come upon Lionel, he is on the ground surrounded by a circle of jeering boys. His books scattered on the ground, his pants torn, one taunting boy holds his glasses so he cannot see:

They hurled words like stones: "Braniac. Sissy. Faggot."

“Hey,” Jose shouted suddenly, “Hey!”I couldn’t see him through the circle of boys, but I recognized his voice, that deep, thunderous rumble.

“C’mon.” I heard his girlfriend say, “It’s just that faggot. This happens to him all the time. He’ll be fine.”

“My name is Lionel,” I wanted to shout. “You’ve known me since fourth grade.” Instead I remained on the ground fighting new tears.

Jose pushed through the circle of boys. “Leave him alone.” He must have seen my raw, naked face for he turned to the boy holding my glasses. “Are those his?” he asked, pulling them out of his hands. "Get!"

He crouched beside me; bouncing on the balls of his feet, he looked at my scattered books, my briefcase flung open, empty. His eyes went soft, dark with concern. “You okay?”

I smiled, nodded.

“Give me a tissue,” he barked over his shoulder. “Hey," he snapped.

“What?” Janice popped her gum, stared at him.

“Give me a tissue.”

She sucked her teeth, reached into her purse and handed him a single tissue as if it was her last dollar. He glared at her, dark eyes flashing. She relented, handed him a handful more. “Here,” he said, “Dry your eyes and blow your nose. We’ll walk you to the bus stop.”

Oddly decades later, it’s not the bullies I remember but the ones who didn’t pick on me, the occasional boy hero who actually stood up for me or at least called for a halt in the hostilities, who had the courage to say “Stop, This isn’t right.” While I don’t remember their individual faces or names, I remain grateful to them for speaking up. Stop. This isn’t right.

The years of torment and pain behind me, I have reclaimed my voice, and it’s a voice of pride, a voice of strength. And like Lionel, I found my words and my words, they flow like blood on paper, and Lionel rises from the ashes of the boy I was; Jose rises from the tomb of memory; together they soar, sing. I, this determined Braniac, sissy, faggot, who made it through to the other side of adolescence, will continue to use my hard-won voice. I will scream at the top of my lungs in the wilderness if I have to but I will not be silent. Not ever again.