Some things never change

When I was just a little girl, probably about 6 or 7 years of age, I made a new friend at school. I can’t remember now what country she’d come from – it was too long ago – but I think it was Holland … or maybe Poland … somewhere in Europe. Anyway, she couldn’t speak much English apart from Hello, Goodbye and Thank you. I included her in my friends’ group and played with her during recess and lunch, and occasionally swapped sandwiches as we all used to do.

Then, one day while I was playing by myself on the swings near my home, my friend and her mother approached me. I thought she was going to play on the swings with me. Instead, her mother said they had come to say, Goodbye. They were going back to their homeland. My friend’s mother said she wanted to thank me for being friendly to her daughter. She said I was the only one who did that. They said goodbye again and thank you again, and then they left.

I was shocked. Up until then, in my sheltered little world, I’d been oblivious to bullying. I liked everyone and they all seemed to like me. I remember feeling sad that I’d lost a friend and ashamed that my country hadn’t made this family welcome.

Of course, I grew older and realised that bullying and unkindness abound everywhere. I’ve even been the recipient of it, many times. And yet, I always find it deeply disappointing. I still cannot comprehend why people are mean to others because they are a different colour, or speak a different language, or eat different foods. I loathe bullying with a passion and the older I’ve got, the less inclined I am to be a passive observer. I believe that if we don’t do something to stop it, if we don’t speak up, then we are aiding and abetting the bully.

The other night I attended my grandkids’ school concert. There were lots of songs about accepting kids as they are, about speaking up for themselves etc. All good stuff. The Old Boy and I sat with our daughter and son-in-law and we were joined by a girl who was a friend of our granddaughter. She’d been to our house a few times and we were glad to have her sit with us.

I asked my daughter why this girl wasn’t in the concert. I was told the girl had left the school because of being bullied – by one girl in particular. (Why is it the victim who always has to change schools?) I wondered if I was the only one who thought it was ironic to be listening to kids sing, “This is me”, with a lovely, former class-mate of the singers who wasn’t allowed to be herself.

Sadly, some things never change.