Bullying in a Holdeman Mennonite School
The following is my experience. The events are written in the order they occurred and to the best of my knowledge without exaggerating. I have not written every single instance I was bullied; some of those moments I cannot quite bring myself to write about even after nearly three decades but for the most part I can write and speak about it with forgiveness in my heart.
A little over twenty-five years ago I began kindergarten classes at a private school operated by a Church of God in Christ, Mennonite congregation but was immediately switched to Grade 1 due to my mother teaching me how to read and write in Spanish and English before I was even 7 years old. The first few weeks I loved it.
Then the bullying began. Despite being a respectable school with kind and friendly teachers and students who were children of baptized church members, it became torture for me during the first two years. Unfortunately even though one or two of the older ones felt sorry for me and attempted to stand up for me by using their fists, it didn’t help much because the bullies would corner me after school hours.
My earliest memory of being bullied was being held upside down by my feet while the older ones laughed. I cried and begged to be put down but they simply began swinging me and crashed my head against the concrete wall. This was done for several weeks until one of the younger ones told the teacher who began investigating. Noone wanted to be a tattletale, so nothing was done. My mother, being a quiet and timid person, was shocked but didn’t know what to do.
The situation did not improve. The older ones both boys and girls, would continually target me during recess hours. In one-room Holdeman schools the teacher is required to play with the children or at least be on the playground to supervise. But for some reason there were still opportunities for me to be singled out. I was left out of games, intentionally knocked down by the older ones and had my face scrubbed with mud several times. My pencils and crayons were stolen, several times my snacks were thrown on the ground and crushed. One day a boy stuck out his foot and I tripped, cutting a gash on my head. The teacher did not see what exactly happened and ordered some of the boys to carry me home on their bikes. They obeyed but only until we were out of sight of the schoolhouse then formed a ring around me and began spitting on me, mocking and saying, “there, there, shhh, don’t cry baby.”
Although there were a few children who saw and recognized the bullying for what it was and told their parents, nothing was ever done. The bullies realized they could now get away with it and pursued me after church services and at church gatherings day and night, pinching me, pulling my ear, tearing my shirt, stamping on my shoes, grabbing food out of my hands. I was unable to walk outside the church building for fear of meeting them, staying beside my mother until the time I turned 8 years old.
One day I was caught, dragged behind the outhouse and urinated on by several of the older bullies. Up to now I was almost used to the bullying but this was beyond anything I had ever experienced and obviously it is one of the most humiliating and painful experiences of my childhood. I remember walking inside the church crying with my clothes soaking wet and smelling of urine. My mother with a set face and lips drawn in a thin line hurried us out of church and headed home. The same thing happened later at a church gathering after the meal was over and people were sitting around visiting. They cornered me and repeated the process. I managed to break free and ran for safety.
Where were the ministers and deacons? What happened to the school board? Why was no action taken?
When I turned 9, the bullies disappeared due to their parents leaving the Holdeman church permanently. The size of the church and school suddenly shrunk by half, giving my brothers (who started school after the bullies left) and I smooth sailing and enjoyable school terms until I graduated from Grade 8 at age 14.
I would like to forget those years, yet I can’t. But I can forgive. Perhaps it’s better this way. Remember, so that I can forgive. Forgive, so that I can heal.
A. Mendoza
