Bullying. What an awful thing, the terrorizing of another human being, whether by torturing their mind or body, just because the bully doesn’t like them, for one reason or another. You hear mostly about teens being victims of such terror, though it knows no age limit. And it’s gotten more sophisticated, utilizing the social media outlets to harass. Horrible.

I must admit, I never was the victim of bullying all through elementary school. And nothing really substantial ever happened in high school. But when I was 13, in 7^th grade, I was targeted. And it was hell. But I never dreamed it would play out the way it did…

To say that I did not adjust well to 7^th grade is an understatement. Being backward, scared, and unknowingly suffering from severe depression, I did not make a smooth transition from elementary school to junior high. The first quarter I missed at least one day each week, usually feigning some illness or injury that would hopefully keep me at home so that I wouldn’t have to deal with that big school, and that big world. It all frightened me terribly.

One day, when I was actually at school and sitting at lunch with my friend Robbie, two 8^th graders walked by on the other side of the table. Just as they walked in front of me and Robbie, the chair on their side of the table got kicked into Randy, the guy in front. Looking back, I know damn good and well that I didn’t kick the chair. It had to have been Robbie.

Randy was sure it was me, and he and his friend Jerry leaned down and proceeded to tell me how they were going to beat the living shit out of me, amongst other threats, while Robbie sat there and watched with eyes as big as saucers. I kept telling Randy and Jerry that I didn’t know what they were talking about, and that I didn’t do anything. They didn’t believe me, and eventually left.

Robbie turned and looked at me, and said, “Man, what are you going to do?”

I just shrugged and said, “There’s nothing I can do.”

I wanted to run and never come back to school, but I knew I couldn’t do that. And I knew I couldn’t tell my parents about it. The last time I had brought up fighting, my dad told me that if I didn’t double up my fist and hit someone, he was going to double up his fist and hit me. So I knew it was useless the talk with anyone at home, because that would just make life more difficult if Dad ever found out. Hmm, that almost makes Dad my own personal bully, doesn’t it?

Anyway, over the course of the school year, neither Randy nor Jerry ever ended up beating the shit out of me like they threatened. But the threats didn’t end. When 7^th Grade Hell Week came around, Jerry and Randy were standing in front of us 7^th grade boys in the gym before school, pointing out the guys they were going to beat up. When they saw me, they both grinned and said, “We are so going to beat YOU up!”

My friend Billy Vanzandt was nearby and jumped up and said, “No, no! He’s cool, leave him alone!”

For some reason Randy and Jerry listened to him and said, “Nevermind.”

Of course, that made me Billy’s friend for life.

Eventually Randy took great joy in calling me a name any time he saw me. He would get right up in my face and say “Pussy!” and walk away laughing. That went on until the end of the year. I was so glad to see that school year end, as I knew Randy and Jerry would not be at Harry P. Study Junior High the next year, and I would be ok.

After junior high, I managed to adjust well to high school, and I think I only saw Randy once when I got to high school. I didn’t know if we were just never in the same hallway or what, but I was glad to be left alone.

Fast forward through life, and about 30 years after that awful 7^th grade year, I was a plant engineer and maintenance supervisor at a local chemical plant. We hired a couple of new maintenance technicians, and somehow I had missed out on the interview process. So the day they were to start working there, I went over to the other supervisor’s office to find out their names, so that I could introduce myself. When the supervisor told me their names, I nearly fell over. One of them was Randy.

I double-checked the name and asked to see the resume or application he provided. Dennis didn’t have either, and asked me what was wrong. I told him if it was the same Randy (I’m intentionally leaving out his last name, if you hadn’t already figured that out), then he had bullied me in 7^th grade.

Dennis looked at me funny and said, “Are you going to be able to work with this guy or are you going to want to beat the shit out of him?”

“I’ll be just fine,” I said, smiling. But I couldn’t help thinking, “I can’t wait to see this son-of-a-bitch.”

Finally, in walked Randy, and I went over and shook his hand, introducing myself, and I was amazed to see this person in front of me. That bully that had made so many threats and said so many awful things to me had, like most of us, put on quite a few pounds since those days, and I couldn’t help notice he was actually shorter than me. But his personality got me more than anything else. He was docile as a lamb, quiet spoken, and obviously nervous on his first day.

I didn’t say anything further to him that day, nor the next day, nor the next, but so many feelings came flooding back, thinking about how he had treated me at a vulnerable point in my life, but I knew that time had obviously changed this person considerably. It all spun around in my head for a while.

One day, after he had been there for a week or so, I was filling in for the other supervisor, and Randy and I were visiting for a moment.

“What’s your name again?” he asked.

“Tim Ritter.”

“Hmm. Tim Ritter. Tim Ritter. Why do I know that name?”

I knew now was my chance, and I knew how I wanted to play it.

“I’ll tell you why,” I said, standing up straight, “You and I both went to Study Junior High. You were in 8^th grade, I was in 7^th.”

And that’s all I said, and I just stood there and looked at him.

Suddenly I saw the light go on in his eyes. He remembered.

He let out a long, slow, drawn out, quiet, “Oh yeaaaaaaah,” and his face turned red.

“Yep,” was all I said, and I walked away.

I had wanted to say so many things, but 30 years is a long time to hold onto anything like that, so I let that conversation settle it. I knew who he was, and he knew that I knew who he was.

Randy didn’t last long at the chemical plant. He ended up quitting, saying he didn’t feel comfortable working around all those deadly chemicals. I don’t know where he ended up working or what had happened in his life to change him.

It felt kinda good to close a chapter that I hadn’t even realized was still open. The bully in him was dead, and the scared little kid in me had grown up. That was enough.

But it certainly taught me that fate is indeed a strange thing, and that you should indeed be kind to everyone. If you’re not, it may come back to you, even 30 years later…