I contemplated whether to write about a particular individual or not and decided for the idea when I realised he probably can’t read anyway. The subject is a little kid who knows my name and I shall call him M.Y. for the sake of his anonymity, not that I really care…
For four years, and for no obvious reason, he jeers ‘Ruth’ in a dodgy accent when he sees me, much to the delight of the pack of hyenas that surround him. Some may call it harassment. Bullying. A pitiful pastime. Whatever it’s called, being the victim of a blatant reject is shameful.
I first encountered M.Y. when, lo-and-behold, he had been kept behind by a teacher who, like the rest of us, was unimpressed with his behaviour. I went to collect some missed work from the same teacher and M.Y. overheard my name. He fabricated the idea that I was the teacher’s daughter…
“Are you Miss Connolly’s daughter?” he sneered at me. I ignored him.
“Oh my god. She actually is Miss Connolly’s daughter!!”
Simple things please simple minds, I thought.
Four years on, he hasn’t changed and continues to jeer my name. As sod’s law dictates, these run-ins are far too frequent for my liking; he seemingly spends his days at the park 30 seconds down the road from me doing God knows what. Forgive me for speculating, but I don’t think he goes for the swings…
I’ve tried ignoring him. I’ve tried retaliating. I tend to avoid aggression but once even confronted him and asked what the eff his problem was. He and his friends responded with laughter and jeering. You can’t say I didn’t try.
Last week I was walking home from the shops and guess what I saw ahead of me on the opposite side of the road? Yes, you guessed. It was M.Y., waddling towards the park with one of his ringleader pals. I’d had enough of his torment so I shouted…
“MEHMET!” I yelled again.
No longer anonymous… oh well.
This time he heard and turned in confusion. Who could this be, calling M.Y’s name? Tables have turned here…
He spotted me. I gave him an enthusiastic overhead wave and toothy grin. He stood still. Embarrassment shrouded his usual bullish facade. Out popped his hand from his trousers and he showed off his middle finger to me.
Yesssss, I thought to myself. I’d hit a nerve there. My smile didn’t fade the whole way home!
As it happened, our paths crossed again the next day. I swore at my own bad luck as we approached each other. But I persisted and gave a little friendly wave and sarcastic smile. He put his head down and his mate sniggered. At me or him, I’m unsure. But no jeering. No mocking of my name. No laughing.
I’m still awaiting our next meeting, so it remains unclear as to whether my ‘give him a taste of his own medicine’ technique has tackled his torment or not. Regardless, I must bear in mind that I have real friends. I have somewhere more pleasant to reside than the park. I have trousers that fit me. He has none of these things.