Growing up, I always thought bullying was how it was shown on American television. It was supposed to be violent, physical – recognisable. It was something that could never happen to me, it was just something to see on school posters. However, when you move around as much as I do, there is a distinct lack of a place to call home. A home lost in a jumble of faces and places. As much as I found good in every place, there were times where I felt the lack of solid friendships, especially in my adolescence – a time where your personality is a precarious balance between the outside as much as the inside.
Moving came with a perpetual baggage of existing subtext in any new place I went to. Everyone has history, a story that they were a part of for all of each other’s life. While I arrived as an outsider, like entering a long running show in the fifth season. For my adolescent brain, this difference was huge. There was no big showdown that I label as outright bullying. It was subtle, a silent monster always ensuring I don’t get too close to anyone. It was in the subtle exclusion from my classmates, the silent side-eyes and whispers behind my back. “Where did she come from?”, a question that lingered in their gaze.
Being excluded at such a young age recalibrates your entire existence. It erases your identity and makes you question what it is about your personality that drives people away. It made me internalise silence to compensate for existing in their space. However, it is in this silence that I found a new way of being, of always observing first and responding second. I began seeing everyone for who they really are, and seeing the little things that make them behave the way they do. This ‘bullying’ made me move away from the preconceived notions that I too held about others, and made me realise how everyone has a story that needs to be heard and understood to truly see another.