The bullies made me!
My mum called me Trevor-Never!
Her claim was that I never did what she asked. My claim is that I always did what I was told! I know it was somewhere in between, but I am sure I was a handful.
The year we moved house, my parents had four kids under the age of six. My sister was old enough to go to kindergarten, and my younger siblings were toddlers. My parents decided that I needed supervision, so with three months left in the school year, I was sent off to kindergarten with my sister to be babysat. The following year, I was sent back to kindergarten for my actual full year. And contrary to my sister telling everyone, I did NOT fail kindergarten!
I was a little boy and that made me an easy target for the bigger boys. A pecking order was soon established, and I was relegated to the very bottom. The first nickname I recall being given was “squirrel”. Since Australia has no actual squirrels, they decided I should be a small rodent, and that was as pejorative as they could be. At the time, I was quite proud that the big boys had paid me that much attention, and I leaned into it.
I was not athletically inclined. I relied on a good memory that made me seem like I was smart. The bigger boys had a heyday with this little smart-arse, and I was bullied relentlessly. By the time I got to third grade, I was the only one who could spell chrysanthemum — and did that ever poke the bullies right in their lizard brain — that part, I think, is called the ignoramus.
From year three onwards, we were given our marks (that’s grades to you) at half year and end of year. I was one of six kids who were always in the top of the class and after a while it became quite a strange status symbol. Those outside the top six were never happy to be pointed out as “not smart”, so there was extra bullying added to the pile.
My parents were not really any help in addressing this situation. One day I came home from school crying. Mum asked what was wrong, and I told her I had been bullied that day. Her answer was “don’t worry Trev, we love you”. She used to tell this story and claim it cheered me up and I ran off like the naive boy I was to play in the backyard. I think it is a great story for her collection, but it often would take me more than a “we love you” for me to feel better about myself. When the numbers are one parent vs multiple bullies, the parent had some power, but that power wasn’t always the winner.
At half year in sixth grade, we received our report cards and I duly tucked mine into my schoolbag. Everyone wanted to know who was first in class, and my friends encouraged me to open it and look. What I knew — that they did not — was my parents always taught me to “follow the rules”. When it clearly said “take your report card home to your parents”, that was going to be my plan. Mum and Dad told me I should never ever lie and always tell the truth. In this regard, my parents had ultimate influence. The result was that I had a major inability to know when I should tell every single truth.
That personality deficiency showed up one day early in sixth grade. The headmaster asked us who was responsible for something destructive on school property — he knew it was some of the kids in our class — actually, it was the bullies. Without hesitation, and determined to tell the truth, I put up my hand and said “I know!”.
I was dragged off to his office to spill, and when I had, the headmaster told me I was to be punished. To this day, I still have no idea why the telltale had to be punished. If you punish the rat, how would you find the truth about future crimes? I assumed I had committed some crime by reporting the actual truth.
The corporal punishment for sixth graders was the cane — several times across your hand! This was a serious weapon. Very flexible, about 3 feet long — I believe you call it a switch — it made a scary noise as the headmaster swished it. He ordered you to hold out your hand, and then he swished it in the air for a little show — and a lot of fear. And then he would swipe your hand — the number of times depending on his mood and the severity of the “crime”.
The urban legend from those who had received this punishment meant it was scary long before you were in the headmaster’s office. I held out my hand, and it was shaking terribly. The reputation of the cane scared me to my bones. I took a deep breath, the swish came down, and yeah, it hurt more than just my pride. I cried.
Another time, I happened to be in the same place as the boys who were smoking. Even though I was not smoking, I should not have been there, according to the headmaster. One more cane, one more time I cried.
Every Wednesday afternoon was sports day. We would all line up in our teams — I was in the Kangaroos. We’d move around the sports field participating in each sport, one at a time. My favorites were long jump and high jump, and being a little boy, I was never quite competitive at any of them.
All grades in the upper school were represented, and we had a couple of the younger aboriginal kids in our team. Most of the aboriginal kids struggled to learn the “traditional” school curriculum, so they were placed in the OA class — Opportunity for Advancement — the class for the “slow” learners. Not only was their skin color singled out, also their academic prowess.
We bonded, partly because we were outcasts together, and they became my charges and my friends. I looked out for them and encouraged them in each activity. I remember one of them really well — he was enthusiastic and athletic, and showed up a lot of the older kids.
The bullies did not like me being his mentor, so they beat him up. According to his culture, he would never tell who beat him up and remained silent. The bullies all pointed the finger at me, and I was dragged into the headmaster’s office. Even though I vehemently denied it, it was the word of six against one and I was found to be the criminal.
The bullies achieved two goals with one beating! They hurt one of the aboriginal kids and they got me sent to get the cane.
I arrived at the headmaster’s office, but this time, something was different. If the headmaster did not believe that I was telling the truth, then he was just another bully in my life. I was right!
It was then I realized that I was powerful. I knew truth when I saw it, even when other people did not. And, I knew that when you did something right, other people who did not like that, would work to try and bring you down. The world was not necessarily fair, but I knew my place in it. From then, the bullies, no matter how hard they tried, no longer impacted me.
That pivotal moment has, consciously and subconsciously, informed the person I am today. I now get to travel the world speaking and motivating and inspiring people from stages everywhere. I am making a difference to people all over the globe by guiding them to find their passion, shine their light, and make a difference in their world.
I remember clearly that day when the headmaster’s cane swished down, I breathed deep, anticipating the pain to be the usual intensity.
And… I did not cry!
