I have generally thrived in school settings, first as a student and then as an educator. However, an experience in seventh grade—junior high—left me so traumatized that I feared I would never again feel comfortable going to school.
From kindergarten through sixth grade, all of the children in my neighborhood attended the same community school. But then we were bused to junior high before entering the large local high school. To “welcome” us seventh-graders, a group of mean eighth-grade girls engaged in “barreling”—forcing girls to spend their lunch recess at a nearby park and then putting those who were not popular into a barrel (a not-always-empty garbage bin). The eighth-grade girls then rolled the innocent seventh-grader across the dirt-covered field, leaving her to find her way out.
I was barreled.
After lunch in the gym, I tried to hide in the bathroom, but the eighth-graders found me. With two on each side, they half-led, half-dragged me to the park. I assumed the teachers were holed up in the teachers’ lounge, relishing their downtime from students; I searched for the principal, a custodian, any adult, but they seemed to have vaporized, leaving me to become a vulnerable victim of cruelty.
The remainder of the first day passed in a blur. I know I was upset that my outfit, bought by Grandma, who always treated me to new back-to-school clothes, was dirty. I know I felt pairs of eyes staring at me and heard voices whispering about me in mocking tones. I know I sat alone on the bus, trying to be invisible—and attempting not to cry.
Telling my parents would have worsened the situation. They would have reacted, and the eighth-grade girls who got in trouble would have taken out their punishments on me. Only decades later did I share this nightmare with my beloved dad.
I went on to teach—ironically, at a middle school, today’s equivalent of junior high. But I have always entered new social situations with anxiety—fearing the exclusion and nastiness that might greet me. The trauma of being barreled has stayed with me, turning me into an insecure adult who, now at age seventy-six, prefers the hermit life to the social one. I need to protect myself from the potential meanness of people waiting to pounce upon me.
Ronna L. Edelstein
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
6 thoughts on “Roll Out the Barrel”
In grammar school a little girl who, along with he mother and sister were mentally disabled. The mother sent her daughter to school with no underpants. The little boys would lure her to swing up the side legs of the swing set then run under and look up her dress. I told them to stop but they continued. One day I socked the leader.HARD. In his eyes I was protected by being the superintendent’s daughter so he dared not hit me back. That punch was enough for them to leave her alone from there on out. I never told my father but would have if it continued. I preferred not to get him involved in that war, which may have only increased secret times picking on her. Bullying is disgusting.
Oh, Pris, good for you—for standing up for those who could not stand up for themselves. The world needs more people like you. I only wish that I had told my dad; he would have protected me—as he did my entire life.
Thank you for your writing, Ronna.
I had my own experiences. I too am wary.
No one should experience bullying; I am sorry that you did.
Reading your comment traumatized me. I am so sorry for the pain you endured. I do find refuge in the arts, particularly in theatre.
I wish you well.
Hi, Ronna,
I was held down by several girls and the back of my bra was unhooked in front of a group of boys and girls in study hall while the teacher was on an errand. I was large-busted for my age. My breasts were not exposed, but it felt like sexual assault. I had endured a lot of bullying already, including physical abuse–shoving, being hit in the head with a basketball, kicking, and verbal taunts at my small rural school. 7th grade is a blur of misery for me. It has affected me in myriad ways, including an early marriage at age 17. Teachers would just tell kids to “work it out among themselves.”
The kind of things that happen in schools would be crimes if they occurred to adults in the workplace. They have a lasting effect. I am so sorry we both went through these experiences. I appreciate you writing about it. Our world needs a lot of help. The arts are one tool for processing traumas, both individual and collective.