The Bully Incident: Part II

Three months to the day after my son was forced to knock the bejeezus out of a bully at the Joseph Kushner Hebrew Academy, I received a phone call from Rabbi Daniel Price.

"Hello, Mr. Meth. I hope everything is well. I’m calling to check up on how Jesse is doing with his psychologist."

"With his what?"

"Psychologist."

"I thought you said that. My son doesn’t see a psychologist."

"I believe that was our agreement."

"And which left field did this just come out of?"

"Excuse me?" said the rabbi.

"Are you telling me," I asked, "that there’s been another incident?"

"No," said Price. "Everything is fine."

"Then why are you calling me?"

"Because our agreement was—"

"Our agreement," I interrupted, "was that my son would see a psychologist once so you could ascertain that he was no danger to your other students; that you weren’t on the verge of a Colunbine incident. And we complied. He went. Once. Your school shrink received a letter from her colleague declaring that my boy was fine, and he was re-admitted. In other words, you covered your ass. Now why are you really calling?"

Rabbi Price explained that, according to his notes, there was an agreement was that my child would attend regular sessions with a psychologist—sessions designed to help the boy deal with anger management and any potential rage issues.

Now watch two adults deal with theirs.

"Is there something wrong with your memory, rabbi?" I asked.

"I don’t believe so, Mr. Meth."

"Then you must have completely tuned out three months ago. My son didn’t have a rage issue; he knocked shit out of the school bully following your personal failure to curtail that misanthrope’s behavior. What my son did was GOOD and RIGHT and PROPER and by every stretch of the imagination NORMAL." I took a breath.

"What your son did," said Price, his voice rising, "was cold and calculated. He beat the boy senseless and without mercy."

"Exactly," I said. "After months of being tormented, and your office doing nothing about it, my son put the little fucker out of everyone’s misery. And he did it precisely because his father told him to do it."

"He should have refused," said Price. "He should have told you that it was foolish—"

"Perhaps that’s how you spoke to your father, rabbi, but in my home, children don’t talk that way to parents."

This was going nowhere. We were about to start insulting each other’s mothers. I could smell the threat of suspension for my son until I complied with this mandatory psychologist edict, so I refreshed Price’s memory once more. Apparently he hadn’t paid attention in October, 2007, when I warned him that if he didn’t solve the bullying problem in his school, then I would. Apparently he hadn’t heard my warning that I was ready to level a negligence suit against his school, and him personally, for ignoring repeated warnings that my son was being tormented by another boy with a thick file of complaints from yet other parents. Apparently our young rabbi doesn’t read this blog!

So I painstakingly refreshed his memory, yet again, concluding with the lawsuit.

"It’s not something I want to do," I said, meaning sue a yeshiva, "but if you leave me no choice..."

"Are you serious?" Price screamed. "You’re going to sue us? Your son beats up another child and you have the audacity to threaten a suit against us? If anything, the other parent should be suing you!"

"They can certainly try," I replied, "but that’s not what we’re talking about. I have a solid case against you for the months of neglect, despite repeated warnings, which forced this situation to a head. And my attorney is only too happy to take this case on a contingency. He smells a payday. And don’t think this won’t hit the papers and internet, rabbi. That’s what Tiggers do best."

I can’t remember who hung up on who first. I suspect it was mutual. No one actually said fuck you but it was in our voices. Two things were clear: Daniel Price was going to chase this up a tree. He was going to borrow trouble just to prove that in his role as “educator” he didn’t have to take shit off nobody.

And I was going to sue his ass.

This morning, I entered the Joseph Kushner Hebrew Academy at 8:20. I signed in at the security desk, then proceeded to the school office and requested that the yeshiva send my son’s transcripts to the local public school. On the advice of my attorney, pending our lawsuit, I was withdrawing my boy from the yeshiva before they had an opportunity to harass him further.

Two hours later, my ex-wife phoned. I was sitting outside the office of the Kalever Rebbe, shilta, waiting for my appointment with the Ohave Yisroel when I got the call.

“They don’t want any trouble,” said my ex.

“They who?”

“Kushner. The school. Mrs. Deitsch just called me. They’re backing down.”

“And they called you?”

“Apparently they’re afraid of you. Please don’t sue them.”

Uncle Harlan loved this story. And I loved bringing him good news for a change. He said it was a monument to personal responsibility. Had his missus call me 20 minutes later just so I could repeat it.

I was going to end it with, and then I went in and got a brocha from the Kalever Rebbe. He told me to be more b’simcha.

But I’m going to end like this:

If this school ever forces my hand, I'll sue them—win, lose or draw. And I’ll report on it. And I’ll expect all of you—my friends with blogs and newspaper columns and other media at your disposal—to report on it, too. And to name names.

I’ll owe you one. Or perhaps you’ll be repaying one you owe me.

And I’ll enjoy every moment of it. B’simcha.

Personal responsibility. With fanfare.

That’s what Tiggers do best.

Don't Make Herb Angry (you won't like him when he's angry)

Herb Trimpe--the artist who brought The Incredible Hulk to life during my boyhood--stopped by to give us a jolly green pat on the back for our anti-Bully measures:

Cliff, Happy Herbie still has unsettled business with a couple of people he knew in junior high school. Problem was, I took it and never let on or discussed it. I'd kill these fuckers (if they ain't already dead)if I got my hands on them today. You and you kid's story is my unrealized fantasy. Maybe in the next life. -Herb

Marv Wolfman, Adrienne Colan (Gene's better half), and Paty Cockrum also weighed in...

Great story, Clifford. Hey, get your kid Bioshock for the 360. Great SF game. -Marv

What a great great story. I've never read one sentence of yours that didn't sweep me away. Exquisite writing. And in my next life, I'd like to be your daughter. What a gift you gave your son (and I'm not referring to the Xbox!)... -Adrienne

You tell Jesse, MAZEL TOV from me! I used my horse to teach a bully a sharp lesson when I was in high school. He straightened up and made a success of his life... and he still crosses the street to walk on the other side when he sees me coming down it. Fear is the prime motivator...and a preemptive strike sometimes teaches an important lesson even to stupid bullies. If you let people use you as a doormat, they will continue to do so until you rise up and bite them in the ass. better to teach them a lesson early and save yourself grief. Works for me! You're a MENSCH , Jesse! -Paty

And then there was this poem from SNAKED artist extraordinaire Rufus Dayglo:

A kick in the tonkers
A flurry of fists
A wall-eating arm-bar
A nice Glasgow Kiss

-Rufus

Meth Receives No-Prize for Anti-Bullying Measures

Jim Salicrup—former Spider-Man Editor at Marvel Comics and current EiC/Publisher of Papercutz—has granted author Clifford Meth the coveted NO-PRIZE for his recent Anti-Bullying Measures.

“In an upcoming Papercutz Hardy Boys graphic novel (#12 "Dude Ranch O' Death"), Frank Hardy has to deal with series' bully, and makes short work of him,” writes Salicrup, cleverly sneaking in a plug for his company’s book. “It's a scene with great impact, not unlike the tale of your son's recent battle. In my official capacity as Supreme Marvel Zombie Emeritus, I take this opportunity to bestow upon you a special Kosher No-Prize for being a responsible father in a world gone mad!”

Clifford Meth was visibly moved by the award. “All my life,” the author noted, wiping back a two-karat tear, “I have wondered what it would take to gain entry into the prestigious club of No-Prize Recipients. I never truly imagined that this day would come… I dedicate this award to anyone with a pair of beitzim willing to raise their middle digit to impotent school administrations in the only proper salute.”

Spider-Man's Father Weighs In on Bullying

Seeing Stan Lee's email this evening (regarding my post on Bullying Policies) made me smile... and made my son smile... and it oughta make you smile, too:

Hey, Cliff,
Heartiest congrats on your new baby girl. But I hadda tell you I really ENJOYED your story about your son and the bully. Good for you-- and him-- and, of course, Harlan the buttinski! Wishing the entire Meth menage the Happiest Hanukkah and the Niftiest New Year!

Excelsior!
Stan

Bullying Policies: New School or Old?

After two years of public school, my 12-year-old begged me to return him to yeshiva where he felt he'd be surrounded by like-minded children and have an opportunity for a more robust social life. My assessment--not his. He just said, "I really want to go back." So I sent him to the Joseph Kushner Hebrew Academy.

Religiously speaking, JKHA is a Conservadox enclave (although they market themselves as "Orthodox") located kitty-corner to the prestigious Newark Academy in Livingston, NJ. Two of my sons had already graduated from JKHA, so I knew pretty much what I was getting myself into: an amalgam of mild-tempered, black-hat teachers who are serious about limudei kodesh (religious studies) filtering their right-wing Judaism through the prism of JKHA's "we're only in it for the money" bottom-line mandate and catering to a constituency of upper-middle-class moderdox kids from West Orange, as well as a swarm of moneyed brats from Livingston's uppercrust--children raised by nannies who boast of bringing trefos to school. Better this than public school where the drug problems are even greater than when I attended schools in a nearby district. Better this than the violence my relatively quiet and gentle boy would be subjected to by the unwashed masses.

Or so I thought.

Beginning in September, my son began returning home a little more despondent each day. "What's wrong?" I'd ask. "Is the work too difficult?" That was certainly easy to imagine: A dual curriculum is challenging enough for a boy that finds school easy, let alone one who struggles. "No," he'd say, eyes downcast. "Is it a teacher?" I asked. "Was someone nasty to you?" He'd just shake his head. Weeks of this. Months. I chalked it up to his being the new kid. He was just feeling overwhelmed.

Or so I thought.

It was my son's mother who caught the first glimmer of what was really happening. Like me, she'd been fishing about for months, even going as far as calling the school. One evening, while she studied with him, he admitted that he'd become the target of the class bully. Imagine my chagrin as the information reached me. I ascertained that the bullying--which began with one boy but had now spread to this boy's associates--had been confined to verbal abuse. Not that this hurt any less, but verbal is, after all, just verbal. You're too stupid to be in this class... Why are you here? No one likes you... You don't have any friends.

It wasn't entirely true. My son did have friends--two of the newer boys befriended him on day one. But as the charismatic bully's reign spread, these other little boys had been coerced away from my son. "They're on his side now," he told me. "And who is on your side?" I asked. "Just me," said my son.

I called the school and spoke with the rabbi in charge of discipline. I warned him that he was sitting on a time bomb--that it was just a matter of time before things escalated. "Fear not," he assured me. "I've already spoken to the boys." "I have no fear, rabbi," I said, "but not because you've spoken to the boys." "Please," he said, "don't worry about anything. Everything is under control."

Or so he thought.

A week ago, push came to shove. The verbal taunts devolved into physical abuse. A trip here, a shove into a locker there. When I discovered the escalation, I gave my son a facts-of-life sitdown. "This won't end," I told him, "unless you end it." "How?" he asked. "You have to take out their leader." He looked down. "Are you afraid of him?" I asked. "No," he said. "Then what are you afraid of?" He thought about it. "I'll get suspended," he said. "And everyone will hate me." "They already hate you," I said. "They hate you because they think you're weak." "I'm not weak," he said. "I'm stronger than he is." "But you've let him turn you into his entertainment. That makes you weak in everyone else's eyes. Once they think you're a wounded animal, the sharks begin to circle. Even littler kids will start taunting you." "That's already happening," he said. "Take out their leader," I said.

That afternoon, my boy sent me an instant message. "Done," it said.

I jumped in my car and drove to the school. Walked straight into the principal's office. There was the principal, the school shrink, and the rabbi I'd spoken with a month earlier. I looked at my son. "Not a mark on you," I said, looking him up and down. "Guess you won."

"Mr. Meth," said the principal, "do you have any idea what just happened here?"

"I'll take an educated guess," I said. "There's either a boy in the nurse's office or he's on his way to the hospital." No one smugs like a father scorned.

"This is a very serious issue," said the principal.

"I couldn't agree more," I said. "Your administration is guilty of gross negligence. That's about as serious as it gets." I wasn't posturing--my pal Leo Klein of the New York Bar Association had secured a top criminal lawyer for me out of Morristown, a former prosecutor who saw so much merit in my son's story that he was willing to take the case pro-bono. I was ready to hit the yeshiva in the belly with a serious complaint if they pushed me too far.

"We can't condone fighting, Mr. Meth," said the rabbi--the one I'd put on notice four weeks earlier. "We're going to have to suspend your son for a day."

"That's what I was hoping," I said. "It will give him time to play with his new X-Box -- the one I'm buying for him as a reward for taking out the bully. I'm not going to let him feel punished for even one moment."

"We need to understand why he did this," said the shrink, a pretty little gal that I wouldn't have minded knowing under other circumstances.

"Look no further," I said, suppressing a wink. "I am the reason. I and no angel. I and no seraph. It was I who struck down the bully."

"We thoroughly abhor violence," said the principal, a middle-aged woman with delusions of eloquence.

"You're actually speaking to someone who knows what that word means," I said.

"But Jews can't behave like this," said the rabbi.

"Thus spake six million lampshades," saith I.

It went on like this for a while as I waxed alternately literate or badass for the tri-lateral commission of see-no-evil, hear-no-evil, speak-no-evil. A Mexican standoff. Or more accurately a Jewish one. Eventually, I grew bored with their company and took my son home, assured--by his actions that morning, not the administration's nattering, hand-wringing, politically correct, cover-their-own-asses, COMPLETE fucking lack of understanding of schoolyard politics--assured that the world was balanced once more. My son had cut the leader from the herd and knocked the bejezus out of him in front of his accolytes. Problem solved.

That evening, as my boy sat playing with his new X-Box, my phone rang. "I know you, Cliff!" said Harlan Ellison, the greatest writer of the 20th century, third greatest pool hustler in Sherman Oaks, and my dear friend. "You're sitting there wallowing in that Russian Jewish guilt of yours." "I'm a Polish Jew," I assured him. "Listen to me," he said. "You done good. This will always be remembered by your son as a pivotal moment in his childhood. He'll be proud of himself. And he'll be proud of you. He stood up to the bully and his old man had the balls to back him. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself or I'll have to come over and slap you and I don't want to do that because I'm already dressed for bed! Your son is golden and you my friend are peaches!"

Two days later, my boy returned to school. It was a fast day so he got out early and called me right away. "How was it?" I asked. "I had a good day," he said. "A few kids that I never spoke with before told me I did a good job. And two of the kids who used to bother me want to be my friend now. And the other two are really scared of me. And one girl who never spoke to me before said, 'Good job.' And I'm going to the mall with Mommy to get a new game for my X-Box. Can David sleep over this Saturday night so we can play it?"

Will Rogers once noted that diplomacy is the art of saying "Nice doggie" until you can find a rock. I say school bullying policies are only as good as your power to enforce them.


© 2007, Clifford Meth