I remember…bullies

 

THEY HAD NAMES. Of course they had names. Their parents attached words to them at birth or a little after, and by constant repetition, like teaching a dog or a cat who it is, they learned the words. They learned by rote the word that meant them all as a group. They learned the one or two or three names, and the shortened version of one, which meant just them.

They learned if their parents used the first word or the shortened one, all was well; their parents approved. They learned if all their name words were used at once, their parents were angry, and punishment ensued.

These four? If all their name words had ever been used in the first seventeen years of their lives, the punishment meted out was so mild it vanished from their heads right after it happened, as if it never happened at all.

Of course I knew their names.

When you are new, you learn the names you need to know: principal, vice principal, your teachers now, your teachers coming up, which students to avoid if you possibly can, which ones—the fewest in this list—might be friends.

They were the four I should avoid, but when you are a target, regular or random chance, staying home is the only way to avoid with success. My parents had a problem with that. I had a problem with that.

So I learned their names but called them what they were. Not the B-word, though I recognized that about them the first time I saw each one. Pissed them off no end, calling them:

Preacher’s Son. Sheriff’s Son.

Banker’s Son. Principal’s Daughter.