I was bullied continually over the course of a year when I was 8-9 years old by a 13-year-old prick named Steve. He was a "gang leader" and always had a group of 4 friends with him aged 10-12. As laughable as it sounds, to me as an 8-year-old it was the scariest thing in the world.
In the beginning they used to pretend to be my friend, and they would distract me and take things from me (toys I had on me at the time, money for the ice cream trucks that came around the neighborhood, etc.). Once they had what they wanted, they'd go away before I realized anything was missing. I grew more and more suspicious of them, and one day when I was playing with my pet hamster in the front yard they came to "play" as well. While they did their usual distraction technique, they grabbed the hamster and passed it around behind their backs. When I noticed the hamster was missing, I accused them of stealing it and they swore that he "must've just ran away." Then Steve yelled "OW!" and pulled his hand out of his pocket--it was bleeding. My hamster had bitten him, he got angry, took out my hamster and threw it on the concrete. I watched my hamster die in a red explosion of blood. They pushed me to the ground, spat on me and ran away.
After that incident, they were more blatant about bullying me. The next time they came around, they pushed me and my friends around, then took my friend's basketball. Another time they came to my front yard and took the GI Joe figures we were playing with. When I tried to fight them they just threw me into a bush.
One time my brothers and I were in the garage, the garage door was open and Steve walked in from the street. He pulled down his pants and started pissing all over the place. I tried to stop him, but he just turned and threatened to piss on me.
There were many more incidents, and on my 9th birthday there was a party at my house. Steve and his cronies appeared again. I was holding a paper plate with cake, and he took the cake from me and smashed it in my face. My dad witnessed the whole thing, and I thought "this is it, my dad is gonna whoop your ass now!" I tried to punch Steve, thinking that my dad would come to my aid. Steve grabbed my arm, twisted it and slammed me to the lawn, which knocked the wind out of me. As Steve walked away, my dad did nothing. I was so angry with my dad for not doing anything. I started crying and punching my dad in the chest, demanding to know why he didn't help me.
He grabbed my arms, sat me down and said, "Son, if you don't learn to fight your own battles, people will do this to you all your life. I had to fight when I was your age to prove something to the other boys in the neighborhood, and you have to do the same. This is part of growing up. I've talked to that kid's mom, but he still comes here to make trouble. His mom doesn't care--she's a drunk alcoholic. If I do anything to that kid myself, I'll go to jail. You don't want me to go to jail, do you?"
I shook my head "no."
Then my dad said that he'd teach me to fight. So he taught me how to punch, how to kick, how to grapple and trip someone--pretty basic stuff, nothing even remotely worthy of martial arts competitions, but my dad's line of thinking was that if he could teach me to get in a good hit against him, a grown man, I'd surely be able to take on a 13-year-old prick.
Steve kept coming back, and I kept getting my ass beat by him. Sometimes my dad was working in the garage and he'd be nearby, but he wouldn't do anything. After Steve left, my dad would say "why didn't you do what I told you?" And I'd just cry and be angry at my dad. Then my dad told me not to give up and keep trying to aim for the throat, the ear and the nutsack. He told me that they'll just keep picking on me until I fight back--and win.
One day Steve came with his bitch posse to do their usual. He got his face up close to my face and said "I'll kill you if you ever try to fight back again." I told him "your breath smells like shit, fuck you!" and slammed my forehead as hard as I could into his nose. He staggered back and I picked up a big rock on the ground and slammed him in the ear with it as hard as I could, and he went crashing down. He was bleeding both from his nose and ear, but I heel-stomped his balls with all the force I could possibly muster as a 9-year-old. But it was more than enough force. He became a blabbering bitch, yelling at his friends to "get him!" But they didn't do anything. They just walked away, while Steve tried to catch up with them, grabbing his balls and nose, crying and begging the others to "wait up!"
My parents were never contacted by his mom (Steve didn't have a dad) regarding the matter. She was a deadbeat loser who didn't care what Steve did anyway. Steve never came by again, and neither did his friends. That did something for my confidence, and I got into sports in junior high, started lifting weights and taking martial arts in high school, and no one ever picked on me again. Since I learned early on what it was like to be picked on, I always felt a need to step in for others when the odds weren't fair.
When I was a kid, the popular home gaming console was the NES. Video gaming was a relatively new concept and I played outside, waded knee-deep in muddy creeks, put pennies on train tracks and got into fights. I had a real childhood. Too bad kids nowadays will never know what that's like with their Internets, PS3s and iPhones. But now they have to deal with cyber-bullying, something I never could have fathomed when I was 9 years old.
I'll always be thankful for what my dad told me.
