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Bullying Doesn’t Pay.

Out-Bullying The Bully



All of us are crazier at night than in daytime — triply so on Halloween. On that pitch black, moonless Halloween night, Wayne’ s plan was not only crazy — it was diabolical. Muscular, barrel-chested and an imposing six-foot, five-inches tall, he was an outstanding athlete at the college where I taught. He was also a bully. Dressed in a white sheet with a bloody knife wound over his heart and a hood with slanted eyeholes and fanged, frowning mouth, he would drop from his hiding place in a tree above a sidewalk in front of approaching trick-or-treaters, raise his arms, and roar, “Y-A-A-A-R-GH,” causing terrified tots to drop their bags of booty and flee. Handing the stolen sweets to his cohorts in nearby bushes, he would climb again to his perch.
After terrifying and robbing several kids, Casper the Unfriendly Ghost spied his next victim, a little boy skipping along on a broom, clutching a bag of treats. Wayne swooped to the sidewalk, raised his arms and roared. To his surprise, the boy dismounted from the broom, grasped it like a baseball bat and swung it with all his might, swatting the giant, fiendish foe hovering over him squarely across his horrific hood! Clutching his bag of candy, the boy remounted the broom and skipped away, leaving an enraged, moaning monster holding his face and cursing his guffawing comrades. Wayne came to class Monday morning with a purplish diagonal swath, a broom handle’s width, from temple to jaw. One eye was shut, with blue and green arcs beneath it. “Well, Wayne, does the other guy look worse?” I asked teasingly. He hung his head, and the class fell silent, obviously knowing something I didn’t. After class, I called the dejected youngster into my office.

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As he explained what happened, I sensed his self-esteem, along with his face, had suffered a telling blow. Wayne needed a way out, so I told him about the upcoming essay contest sponsored by the English Department. Toward the end of the semester, students would read each other’s entries and vote. Authors of the top ten choices would read their essays at a combined meeting of all English sections. Reluctantly, he agreed to write about his Halloween experience. A week before the contest, Wayne dropped by my office and handed me an essay. Penned in his neat hand, it was entitled “Bullying Doesn’t Pay.” I was struck by the clarity of his thoughts. There was much more between this young man’s ears than I suspected. The essay won hands down, and I knew from the way his once broom-bruised face shone that Wayne had grown up a lot that semester. After graduation, Wayne coached and taught English in high school. In both positions, he became a role model — tough and tender. Years later, I asked him if he ever found out who the little boy was. “No,” he chuckled, “If I had, I would have thanked him. He taught me an unforgettable lesson by out-bullying the bully.”


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Jimmy Reed -- Bio and Archives

Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.

This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.

Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).


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