Running Saved Me Part I: A New Support System

*As always, names are changed to protect people's privacy

Here we are again, another entry in the series that chronicles the utter hell that was middle school. For those of you who haven't seen previous blog posts, I related stories of chronic, relentless, minute-by-minute bullying that I endured from 7th - 9th grade (again, 9th grade was middle school in my district). As if that wasn't enough, all the girls in my friend group turned on me by the end of 9th grade, including Ivy, who had once been one of my best friends. With only two months left in the school year, a bullying incident instigated at lunch by my former friend group led to a meeting with some of these girls, their parents, Principal Hayden, my parents, and me. However, it only served as an airing of grievances, and nothing was really solved. By then, my self-esteem was pulverized, and everything seemed hopeless. In reading these stories, it is only natural to wonder, "Did 9th grade at least end on a positive note?" 

As a matter of fact, yes, but not in the ways you would hope. My friends were gone, no question, but something unexpected and positive happened in the final weeks of the school year.

But let me back up a bit.

The previous summer, during the final week of overnight camp, I tripped, fell, and broke my left ankle during a game of Capture the Flag. Between the splint and the eventual cast, my ankle had to remain immobilized for seven weeks to allow the bone to heal. As is typical in these situations, the surrounding muscle atrophied. To rebuild the muscle after the cast was removed, I took walks every day after school. For the first week or so, it was just down the street and back because the muscle was weak and my ankle was stiff. With time, however, walking became more comfortable and I gradually increased the distance, ultimately to a full two miles. I eventually incorporated jogging into my routine and, to my surprise, I found that I enjoyed it. My mom eventually suggested that I join the track team in the spring. 

I thought she was out of her mind. 

As is common among autistic people, I had poor full body coordination and was terrible at sports. Unrelated to being autistic, but still relevant to my poor athletic abilities, I got winded easily (years later I would learn that I naturally have lower than average lung capacity). Needless to say, I hated gym class, where kids always humiliated me, especially during team sports: the kids on my team always blamed and shamed me if our side lost, and the kids on the opposing team enthusiastically thanked me if my poor coordination resulted in them scoring a point. During the mile run in the Presidential Physical Fitness test, I always ran for the first thirty seconds and walked the rest of the way. How on earth could running track be fun for me? Nevertheless, I threw caution to the wind and joined the team. 

Track practice was incredibly difficult. As I expected, I was unable to keep up with the other girls on the team during our daily two- or three-mile runs. In some ways, it served as an apt metaphor for my social life: I always felt left behind and left out, and no matter how hard I tried to keep up, I always came in last by a wide and conspicuous margin. However, my track coach, Mr. Sampson, was terrific. He literally and metaphorically did what most of my teachers-- particularly Mr. Frank-- failed to do in class: he gave me extra support instead of chastising or belittling me for not being able to do what everybody else was doing. He ran with me and encouraged me to keep going when I was tempted to walk. "You can do it! That's the way!" he would say. Very, very slowly, I was able to run for increasing stretches of time.

Finally, our first track meet arrived. Mr. Sampson put me in the 100- and 200-meter sprints, I now suspect because these were races he knew I could finish, not because he thought I was sprinting material. It was a way to get me comfortable with participating in a track meet. As always, I came in dead last.

One day, after I had a few track meets under my belt, Mr. Sampson told me, "You're going to do the 800-meter run tomorrow." While most people might think 800 meters (a half mile, two laps around the track) is a short distance to run, to me the very idea sounded intimidating and horrifying. Sure, I was training my body to run for longer stretches and I was improving, but I couldn't fathom being able to run 800 meters. I said in disbelief, "The 800? I can't do that!" Mr. Sampson said confidently, "Yes, you can."

At the meet the next day, I started out running but very quickly began to struggle after finishing the first 200 meters of the 800-meter race. With each forced and labored step that barely passed as running, my lungs burned, my abdomen cramped, and my calf and thigh muscles ached. Passing Mr. Sampson at the end of the first lap, I asked, "What do I do?" Laced in that question was a desperate plea for him to tell me that it was okay, that I didn't have to finish and that I could try again next time. Instead, Mr. Sampson nonchalantly said, "Do it again." Reluctantly, I brute forced myself through another lap. My coach encouraged me the entire way, shouting things like, "You're doing great! Keep going!" and "Think of how you'll feel when it's over!" 

I finished the 800-meter run at an unimpressive 4 minutes and 11 seconds. To this day, I still don't know how I did it. Completely exhausted but relieved, I collapsed on the grass. But Mr. Sampson wasn't done with me yet: he gently told me to get up, walk it off, and stretch so that I wouldn't be sore the next day. I was winded and aching, but also happy that for the first time in my life, I managed to run a half mile. "You see? I told you that you could do it!" said Mr. Sampson, tapping his head with an index finger. Track is all up here!" With the help and support of a caring and empathetic track couch, I proved that I could do it. And if I did it once, I could do it again.

I was put into middle distance for the rest of the season, running the 800 and improving my time-- even if still coming in dead last-- at each meet. When I went on to high school, I continued to run track every year. I ran the 800, of course, but also the 1600 (1-mile) and, once, the 3200 (2 miles). Although I continued to always come in last-- my best time in the 1600 was 7 minutes and 28 seconds, still slower than what most female high school track runners typically do-- my body adapted enough that I was easily able to complete these races and, like the other girls, do more than one race at the same meet. Mr. Sampson, who had since moved on to teaching and coaching at the other high school in the district, continued to cheer me on when he saw me at meets. "That's the way, Julie!" he would always say as I ran past him. With my body better adapted for running, I even found myself enjoying gym class (except for volleyball, a sport that I passionately hated).

As for 9th grade, Mr. Sampson came to me after our last track meet and said, "You should be proud of yourself, especially coming from where you were. You've really improved."

Mr. Sampson was the supportive coach who made what could've been another miserable experience a positive one for me. To be fair, social interactions are a lot more complex and nuanced than running. But in both cases, adults in my life needed to meet me where I was instead of shaming me for not always being able to do what everybody else seemed to do effortlessly. Mr. Sampson didn't expect me to clock in on the 800 at the same times as the other girls on the team, but he supported me in my own personal improvement. 

I should also note that I enjoyed the atmosphere of the track team, and that it was the one environment at school in which I felt comfortable with many of the other kids. Unlike in gym class, the girls on the team were supportive and encouraging. I was still wary about interacting with my ninth-grade teammates since many of them knew me as a perpetual target, so I got to know some of the 7th- and 8th-graders on the team and managed to make new friends, which I desperately needed. I think part of why the atmosphere was so supportive is that track is different than a typical team sport. While a track team is technically a team, the sport is more solitary, and and thus there is less emphasis on being a moving part in a machine, such as in soccer or basketball. My observation has been that kids run track because of their own personal goals: to get daily exercise, to train to run faster, to get stronger, or to lose weight. They're simply there to run. Sure, winning a meet is great, but it doesn't seem as high stakes as with typical team sports.

With a sport that I loved and a supportive track coach, and new friends in the final weeks of 9th grade, there was only one thing left to do:

Stand up to my bullies. 

Tune in next week.

Closure Part 3: What Could Have Been Done

*As always, names and certain details are changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

My impromptu series of posts about middle school continues. Most recently, in "Closure Part 1: Reconnection," I talked about events in my recent life that made me think of my middle school years, ultimately leading to a decision to contact Ivy and Torey, two former friends who turned on me in 9th grade (I remind you again, middle school in my district). Both were receptive to reconnecting with me, and both expressed remorse. Torey in particular said that for the past twenty-nine years she has lived with strong regret for how she treated me in 9th grade. In "Closure Part 2: How School Failed all of Us," I talked about how reconnecting with Ivy and Torey made me realize that, although I struggled the most in middle school, they also had their share of problems with bullies. I also concluded that Mr. Frank, the teacher of the history class that Ivy and I were in, likely played a role in ending our friendship, which had already been strained. The end of the post recounted an incident at lunch that prompted my mother to call the school and arrange a meeting between Principal Hayden, some of my former friends, their parents, my parents, and me.

On an evening in April 1996, Ivy, Torey, Aviva, their parents, Principal Hayden, my parents, and I sat around a long table in the principal's office. The tension was palpable, my once-friends and I exchanging awkward glances. I honestly don't remember most of the details of the meeting, but I seem to recall that Torey was very quiet throughout, and that Ivy was crying. Most importantly, I don't recall that much was accomplished that evening: it was mostly an airing of grievances, with Ivy and Aviva leveling accusations at me while I responded the best I could. I recall distinctly at the end that I felt that everything that had gone wrong was my fault. That was how I had been conditioned to feel whenever there was any social conflict, and I said something like, "I take full responsibility for what happened." At that point, Aviva softened a little, telling me not to be so hard on myself. But by then it was a moot point. My friendship with her as well as both other girls was damaged beyond repair.

In hindsight, I don't think our friendships were destined to fall apart. As I've mentioned in previous posts, we were kids in a broken system in the ignorant '90s, kids whose brains were still very much in development, and not yet mature enough to handle protracted conflict without adult assistance. With appropriate support from the teachers, principal, and guidance counselors, perhaps these friendships could have been saved, or at least they might have ended more peacefully. So what could have been done? 

For one thing, I think the meeting should have happened close to the beginning of the year: one good thing that came out it, as I only learned recently, was that it was a crystalizing moment for Torey. She recalls having to look me in the eye and admit to herself the gravity of what she had done. She also remembers looking at my parents and thinking, "They welcomed me into their home, and then I turned around and hurt their daughter." The fact that this meeting made her realize how serious and hurtful her actions were demonstrates that kids who engage in this behavior aren't beyond redemption. Furthermore, the fact that she needed this meeting to appreciate how hurtful her behavior was, once again, illustrates how immature and ill-equipped teenage brains are for managing conflict; to an adult, on the other hand, such consequences would be immediately obvious. I want to note that it does make sense that the meeting was a turning point for Torey; I recall afterwards that she made a serious effort to be nice to me, telling me, "Don't listen to them-- they're assholes," when other kids picked on me. Although I thought it was too late, I also remember thinking that she was genuinely sorry and trying to do better.

So had the meeting happened in the beginning of the year, when circumstances started to go into free fall, how might such a meeting-- or a similar one-- have looked?

First of all, Mr. Frank, my and Ivy's history teacher who belittled me in class, should have been there, and he should have already been briefed about his unacceptable behavior. As I illustrated in my last post, I believe he set the stage in the beginning of the year for making me more of a target and making Ivy feel like she needed to abandon our friendship. In terms of the conflict with the other kids, particularly Torey, Aviva, Ivy, and me, guidance counselors and the principal should have met with us-- first one-on-one, then as a group. Importantly, all of these adults would have had to listen to all perspectives without bias. Even if one side was completely wrong and the other completely right, the only way to have a chance in solving these problems would have been to approach this diplomatically. Here's a perfect example:

In my previous post, I mentioned that Ivy related a situation in which she and Aviva went into a far corner of the library to work on our group project, and I told Mrs. Hayden, who was in the room at the time, that they were hiding from me. My recollection of this is vague, but I can definitely imagine it. Ivy said that she recalls that Mrs. Hayden-- or Sergeant Hayden, as she was widely known-- did not question my side of the story and yelled at Ivy and Aviva, furthering the rift between us. Here's a better way this could have panned out:

Sergeant Hayden: Hey, girls, what's going on? Julie says you're hiding from her.

Ivy: What? No! This is the only free table we could find in the library.

Aviva: Julie's paranoid-- as usual.

Me: I'm not stupid! I know that's what you were doing!

Sergeant Hayden: Okay, I can see that there's a lot going on. Why don't we go to the office to talk about it. None of you are in trouble. I think all of us should just have a little chat.

In the office, Ivy, Aviva, and I could all restate our perspectives, and then Sergeant Hayden should validate Ivy and Aviva's frustration and then help them to understand why I thought they were hiding from me.

Sergeant Hayden: That definitely sounds frustrating. But I want you to think about this: Torey kicks her out of the lunch table, and nobody objects. You don't intervene when other kids harass her. Some days you're nice to her, and other days you make fun of her. She has nobody left to turn to and never knows what to expect. What is she supposed to think? Do you think you would assume the best if you were her?

Maybe it seems idealistic of me to think that Ivy and Aviva would automatically come around, but they were good kids at their core. And had there been intervention like this early on by teachers, Mrs. Hayden, guidance counselors, etc., the conflict might not have even reached this point. But if it had, I think the intervention I proposed could be very effective.

And let's talk about Mr. Frank. He never once made an attempt to constructively address any situation, such as in the incident that I discussed in my last post, in which he and I got into a ridiculous debate about the length of the school year, which I thought was longer because we started before Labor Day for the first time. This culminated in him yelling at me in front of the class. I thought he was joking, and then I turned to high-five Ivy. A boy shouted, "Handshake of the nerds!" and Ivy was body slammed into a locker after class. It was a turning point for her, and our friendship was never the same. Mr. Frank could have prevented all of this by actually being the adult in the room instead of stooping to the level of a teenager. He could have said, "Hey, you know what? This really isn't a big deal, and we've got to get back on task. But if it really matters to you, I can show you the calendar after class and we can talk about it." And if the "handshake of the nerds" thing still somehow managed to happen, he could have told the kid, "Hey knock it off," or drawn attention away from Ivy and me by saying, "Since when is being a nerd a bad thing? Look at me. I went to college and majored in history. I'm a huge nerd!"

Do I have much hope that Mr. Frank would have taken this approach? Not really. I think he was just a run-of-the-mill asshole. But my whole point is to point out what approaches would have been constructive and helpful. They come from the starting point that recognizes that teenagers are ill-equipped to manage certain types of conflict without adult intervention, especially ones related to social status and pecking order. Had they been implemented, otherwise good kids like Ivy wouldn't have felt forced to make a Sophie's choice-type decision between sticking by their friend and getting beaten up, or abandoning their friend and not getting beaten up.

Furthermore, teachers need to model respect, not just make vague statements like, "Your behavior is unacceptable." This was honestly the best that I got out of teachers who talked to kids who were harassing me. Actions speak louder than words, and kids pick up on it when a teacher says one thing and models behavior that contradicts it. They see right through that hypocrisy. 

Well, after all the hell that I've related in these impromptu series of blog posts about my middle school years, particularly 9th grade, did anything positive happen that year?

As a matter of fact... yes.

Stay tuned.