It takes a village...

A few days ago, I was intrigued by a facebook status that popped up on my feed. I cannot remember the exact verbiage now, nor do I want to dig it up to get the quote for the sake of anonymity. It bothered me for a days, honestly, and then one of the articles posted on our forum got me thinking even further.

Yes, there is a difference between rudeness and bullying. But for the bullied, sometimes even the one-off, rude remark from anyone can sting just a bad as the constant onslaught they live with.

Insecurity stems from the lack of confidence, that is true. The lack of confidence in a person should be everybody's problem and it being everybody's problem shouldn't be our personal responsibility.

When I turned fifteen, I had already endured years of bullying -- from a clique of girls calling me a whore because I had a mile long cleavage to a certain bunch of boys constantly groping me to see if my knockers were real. Let me tell you all something; having breasts as large as mine, there is NO way I can hide them. Period. I can wear a regular t-shirt and I'll have cleavage. I've learned to stand up on my own two feet and call out the hypocrisy. But back then? I didn't have the voice to do so.

I had also put up with a lifetime of chubby jokes, backhanded compliments and over-all judgement. The girls called me  a snob. The boys I grew up with didn't know how to talk to me anymore as their hormones had suddenly took over -- in one hand I had a body they wanted and at the other, I was the sister they'd grown up with. The men... yes, the same assholes who drove down the street cat calling me and telling me how delightful it would be to plow into me always finished the commentary by calling me an Ice Queen.

Needless to say that by the time mom insisted on throwing me a big ol' Quinceanara (that's a sweet 15 coming out debutant party) I didn't want any more attention, positive or otherwise. I didn't have many people to invite and my court of ladies and gents were made up of kids I didn't even know. The party, I understood quickly enough, was not for me. It was for the adults in my life. (I shit you not, I made my mom sign a contract that I'd do the Quinceanera if she'd let me have the wedding I wanted IF it ever came to pass. I may share that story at some other point.)

This was also the same year my grandmother came to visit-- and subsequently, spent about three years with us. At first I was ecstatic. I LOVED grandma. She always had fun stories to share, and a spirit full of sass I admired. But by the end of the first two weeks though, I was sick of her bullshit.

She always had an opinion. She didn't like the clothes I wore, how I styled my hair, the decided lack of make up I donned, my shoes were never good enough and let us not talk about my smart mouth.

Sometimes I purposely left my hair a tangled mess and duct taped shoes just to watch her squirm then holler "What will people say when they see you walking out like a homeless person!?"

See, I'd grown up in the states. I was not the homely, quiet, diligent little Catholic girl I was to have become if I had stayed in Guatemala. If there was a subject I did not agree with, religious or political, I said something about it. Well, as long as it didn't involve me.

Because I stood up for everybody. I had a voice for the underdog. I fought for the weak... but never for me.

If it hasn't become obvious, I have a rather opinionated family. It was disrespectful for me to say "Please don't call me that, it hurts."

I was fifteen, five foot five, thick-boned 165lb beauty. I had curves. My measurements, because I had to have a custom-made dress, that's how I know,  were that of 48 38 48.  I sported a 38k bra and hated to wear dresses, skirts or anything form flattering. I looked heavier than I was simply because I hid from the world.

And every time the family got together the jokes would start. I was called Shamu because I loved to swim. I was called Miss Piggy because was a loudmouth like her. I was told that I'd be GORGEOUS if I lost some weight because I had such a pretty face. If I didn't lose weight now, I'd be bigger than a whale by the time I was 30. I better find a 6 foot tall viking to marry me or else I'd crush my husband in my sleep. I better only keep dogs bigger than a foot stools they wouldn't get lost in my ass crack if I sat on it. I usually left before the alcohol started flowing freely because some of those jokes got so damned hurtful, I couldn't take it anymore. I know all this came from a place where my relatives meant well. They meant to encourage me to be healthier, step out of the shadows, be more positive.

I kept telling myself this over and over again until I couldn't anymore.

Grandma only heard the tail end of that fight. It was a regular Sunday churrasco (that's a Latino BBQ of sorts) when I couldn't take it anymore. The Friday before my best friend and I had gotten locked in a tennis cage and bombarded with water balloons where she was called every Asian slur in the book and I had been called *every* fat and slut joke this friggin' kid could think of. Needless to say my patience was at an all time slow.

So when my mom began with her "You should really loose a few pounds," commentary and my brother followed up with how I should take advantage of my assets and open up a webcam business to have some older men pay me to sit and be pretty and rake in the cash, I was done. I yelled and screamed for them to leave me alone, that it was not funny and to shut the hell up.

This surprised them all and they went on with the 'But we're just joking' and 'we're worried about your health!' crap. I firmly stated I didn't care and that they needed to stop. I don't remember who but someone said they were just trying to encourage me to do something and acknowledged they knew it was hurting me but continued anyway because, let us face it, if I was REALLY sick of it I'd actually start to lose weight.

I also fail to recall what vocabulary left my mouth but I'm sure I made a few sailors proud.

I immediately stormed off to my room and on the way there, almost knocked my grandmother off her walker.

I don't know what grandma told them, but I do recall snapping back into reality when she came into the bedroom.

She found me curled up on the floor behind my bed facing our window. I wasn't crying, I wasn't red in the face anymore. My lack of emotion frightened her. I am sure if she'd seen the lattice work I'd finished carving on my fore arm she would have killed someone.

Instead, she sat at her bed and called me to her until I responded. I pulled at my sleeve and held it shut in my hand as I got up.

At first she didn't say anything, just took my hands in hers and patted them. I was expecting a lecture. I was expecting for her to tell me to go out and apologize.

Instead she simply said "I'm sorry."

I could only stare at her in confusion.

"You know the saying that it takes a village?" I nodded. She  then let go of my hands and adjusted the hem of her sweater. "Its not just about rearing children. Its about standing up for one another and helping each other out. It is about making sure we are all taken care of and protected by nurturing each other. And as long as you're happy, as long as you're taken care of and aren't hurting anybody, who cares? Some people are broken inside and project this on people. They go around spewing their venom and hurting others because they hurt themselves. And if we all go doing this, how are we ever going to get better? I lost track of that. I'm sorry."

I cried. I cried until I got the hiccups and then she broke the spell with that rich, wonderful belly laugh of hers. And then when that subsided, she told me vitamin E helped with cuts and healing then told me to get off because she had to go to the bathroom.

She became my best friend and personal cheerleader. During the years she lived with me, I found comfort in her presence and sometimes she even stood up for me when she felt my folks were being 'insensitive idiots' (her words, not mine!)

I wish I could say that was the end of that pesky argument with my family. Sadly, to this day this heavy topic, along with the ever painful 'When are you having babies?' happens. Thankfully I remind them that neither topic is up for discussion and quickly change the conversation. Eventually they get tired of trying.

She left this earth eleven years ago and I try to remember those words every day, especially when I am hurting. I don't want to lash out at others. I don't want to be rude to people. I don't know what sort of burdens they're carrying on their shoulders and I would simply be devastated if my one comment pushed someone over the edge. God knows I've teetered on that line more than once and it was always a single, kind word or gesture that brought me back from the abyss.

Yes, there is a difference in bullying and rudeness. And yes, there is a truth that insecurity is an individual's problem. That still does not change the fact, however, that if we were all just a little bit kinder to one another every single day, the problem would get a little better each day.

It really does take a village to take care of the village.