One of the themes I've noticed in this QOTW
is teachers either being completely oblivious to bullies, or claiming it was the bullied kid's fault that they were being bullied (because obviously it's our fault, isn't it?). Worse still is teachers wanting it to look like they're making an effort to stop someone being bullied and not realising they're making it ten times worse.

At my secondary school (I got no shit at my first primary school and far too much at my second, where most of the little shits followed into the upper school), they were very proud of their Zero Tolerance Towards Bullying policy. Interestingly, this seemed to consist of looking for bullying in the wrong places, not to mention dealing with it - whether real or perceived - in the most spackhanded way imaginable.

My Year 6 form tutor - we moved up to the upper school a year early, such was the idiocy of the school - saw that I occasionally got grief from some of the boys in our year (as this was pre-Luke, the bullying never really extended beyond "you're fat" and the odd spang with your own pencil case - unpleasant, but dealable with), and decided from this that I was being bullied every minute of every day. I don't know what it is about PE teachers, but they seem to be inherently stupid, and she was no exception. Her method of stopping it was to try and make me popular, including taking our PE classes "Who should be captain today? Let's see... Maladicta!" every week for weeks (and I hated netball, which was why I got grief in the first place, since I couldn't be arsed and would habitually drop the ball and violate the stupid footwork rule in the hopes of being allowed to sit out), and this just caused more annoyance for all involved. She would always ask me after the class, too "did you enjoy that?" before shepherding us all into the showers to dodge the spiders and each other's nakedness, and the answer was always no. It was about as subtle as a 16-ton weight and it just made it worse. The other girls had this annoying habit of wanting to do my hair (until I scratched my head one day and from then on I had nits, dandruff and greasy hair and no one wanted to touch it, something that lasted until sixth form when someone straightened it and then it was okay), which inevitably ended up with me having the same Croydon facelift as them (with the two little strands to frame your face, which is fucking tickly and annoying) and several kinds of lipbalm, one after the other. PE teacher sees this one day and squeals with delight "Oh, well done, girls! You've made Maladicta happy!"

Wait, what?

The 'kindness' would never last, as even though they'd tried to recreate me in their chavvy image, they'd still wind me up and tease me about the smallest thing.

Year 7 made it even worse: our form teacher this time around was a psychotic old bag who'd taught since Jesus was a lad and simultaneously took me under her wing and hated me at the same time. She was the one who sat my mum down one evening after school and told her that all the shit I was getting on a daily basis (Luke had joined this year and I was already sick of him) was entirely my own fault since I was "isolated" and wasn't like the other girls. She would send me out of the classroom so she could berate the rest of them for their behaviour, then get me back in and make them chorus "sorry Maladicta" before it would all kick off again. Lather, rinse, repeat. I did try to fit in with the other girls and did sort of succeed in one way, since for a brief period of time, in a very can't-be-arsed way, I had what they wanted. A Boyfriend. Sure, he was a year older than me, smelt of fish and still shared a bed with his mum (who accompanied us on our one and only 'date') but nonetheless, they were entranced (and would often try to make us do more than hold hands for their amusement). Hoping that this would get them to lay off for a while, I mentioned him in front of the psycho old bat, who promptly turned purple and screamed "You are FAR TOO YOUNG to have a BOYFRIEND!" at me, before storming out, presumably to slaughter a passing child for her lunch. This curried me no favour, and even less when Slaggy Jennie (daughter of a semi-famous cricket commentator, gaz me and I'll tell you who) had her annual village-hall-and-disco birthday party and conveniently 'forgot' to invite me. Psycho teacher abuses her position to call Slaggy Jennie's mum and demand she invites me because "Maladicta is a nice little girl". Needless to say, an invitation was grudgingly thrust my way the following morning and I was subjected to an evening on my own because no one wanted to dance with me and Jennie was using the dancefloor to prepare for her probable future career as a stripper.

To my mind at least, the number of bullying stories these days is to do with PC and the way teachers are allowed to talk to kids. Don't beat around the bush, teachers, don't try softly-softly approaches. Fucking threaten the cunts with everything in your power and it just may make more of a difference.
( Maladicta, Sat 16 May 2009, 19:17, 1 reply)

This...
...and your earlier post make for moving reading and show quite clearly why bullying is rather more serious than what the spluttering colonels would call "good honest character building". I admire your honesty and, well, you deserve at least a click, ma'am.
(eesnahk, Sat 16 May 2009, 22:56, closed)