How come I'm not a killer?

The first day I went to kindergarten, I found out I was black. I was four.

You may look at a picture of me and say, 'Hey buddy, you aren't black.' You'd be wrong. I know you are wrong because I have been told that I am black in every way possible by nearly every child I ever knew when I was young.

That first day of kindergarten almost destroyed me as I didn't understand what was going on. I remember crying in the car on the way home and telling my mum I wouldn't be going back. She said I would try again tomorrow.

Day two, same thing. A day getting screamed at by a freckled faced boy with sandy hair. That night in tears, I said I am not going back. My mother said try again.

Day three was no better. The difference was that night, no tears. I said I am not going back and I stated my case: I can read and write, I have toys here to play with and can keep myself busy. What more will I learn there?

I stayed home that year and helped out with my new baby sister and my mum continued to teach me to read and write.

Primary school however was not optional. My first day of school, walking across the grassed oval I was met with a soccer ball in the face kicked by some older kids. I would spend the breaks eating alone, reading and watching the other kids play.

Two years in, I made a friend and we would spend all day together, a year later he left. He had been bullied so much for being my friend that his mother sent him to another school. The main bully? A female teacher. She kicked me once. Mrs Harris, wherever you are, your name is forever on the blockchain.

I paint a pretty bleak picture of life but it was not all misery. After four years in, I had read every worthwhile book in the library, I was eight when I finished Lord of the Rings.

The teasing continued, as did the physical abuse. There is nothing crueler in this world than brainwashed children with ignorant parents. No adult can ever insult me with their words because adults are nowhere near creative enough to come close to the imagination of a child wanting to inflict pain. People talk about being in a minority. I was a minority of one. A blasphemy in the eyes of many for just being born.

With all of this bullying, all of these reasons to one day walk into a school and exact revenge, why am I not a killer? Why am I not a statistic? A dropout? A criminal? A failure?

It is quite simple. I am not a moron that defines himself through the opinions of others. Day three of kindergarten was where I learned my lessons. Do not let them see you cry and I can educate myself.

I read reports in the paper about school shooters and the music they listened to, the games they played and how they were social outcasts or bullied, as if it excuses their actions. I hear the same about killers and criminals. It was their upbringing, their parents, because their girlfriend broke up with them... Seriously.

I would one day love to read an honest report; they did it because they were weak minded arseholes that rather than deal with their own shit, they decided their misery was all someone elses fault. They didn't even have the decency to take responsibility for their actions, they blew their own cowardly head off to escape. Escape like they have done their whole life, unwilling to face themselves and their own shortcomings and lack of insight.

Perhaps this is why I am not a killer. I didn't escape, I stayed and took it, I reviewed it, I pulled it apart until I learned so much about it, I understood it well. The problem was not me, it was them, but they did not understand that yet. They had a lot to learn. And I had more to learn to, so I watched them interact, I watched their own insecurities run behind their facades.

Later in life, some of these people became friends, some of the girls that had been so mean, I dated. As they matured, they learned and changed. They stepped out from the umbrella of ignorance that their parents had provided and realised there was a world they did not know existed. Cruel children turned into some wonderful adults.

Though not all transformed.

I hear more and more about safe zones and protection of children from other children. If there had been a safe zone for me, I would be worse off for it. If children had been punished for being cruel, they would have learned to bite their tongue and unclench their fists until a time I was unprotected. If I had not been abused, I would have become weak to the realities of the world, unprepared for life. I am not saying that what happened is acceptable, I am saying that setting up artificial zones would not have protected me, it would have softened me to the realities and it would have hidden the ignorance of others.

Plus, I wouldn't have learned what I did, and what I learned is important for at least some people in this world to know. I would be less compassionate, less pro-active and much less willing to help people that suffer. Restricting suffering does not cure the cause.

We seem to think that our interference is helping, I don't think it is. Children can take no criticism before breaking down under stress, require constant praise and pats on the head, anything that challenges them is removed, corners rounded, playgrounds rubberised, boredom filled with organised activity. And these kids are our hope to fix our fuckups of the past?

I think we need to go back to the drawing board and rethink a little before it is too late. But what do I know?

Taraz
[ a Steemit original ]

This may be the first time I have cursed in an article. Surprising if you knew me.