The Many Merry Memories of Misadventure

I remember pieces of childhood memories in a cramped-up room in front of a cube TV. It seemed like badminton season throughout the entirety of my childhood. That resulted in various memories of watching people holding the racket: in the TV, in the neighbourhood, in front of my classrooms. Memories of a certain badminton player whom I thought had springs for legs because she could jump from one place to another as if she flew. Memory of crying an extravagant tantrum because I missed a game of my favourite mixed double. Memory of holding the racket for the first time in my hand.

In a way badminton saved me, from greater mishap that is.

Children, especially the young ones, are perfect reflection of their parents’ habit, actions, and preference. But I still find it difficult to believe that THAT many adults were bullies as their kids were to me. Just as vivid as screaming at the TV, memories of little kids chucking another little kid’s tie to the toilet, or stealing the other little kid’s stuffs, or putting plasticine in the other little kid’s water bottle — those memories also surface now and then. They will never be not painful; they will never be not bitter. They are gentle, sometimes harsh, reminders of the person I and my friends were before. Reminders of how small humans could be, yet in such small body kids are able to think vicious actions, in such small body kids are able to understand power dynamics in a community. In such a small head I sought, greedily, for a huge amount of validation. It wasn’t enough for me to be accepted by the adults who thought and said, “Oh how smart for someone so young, how eloquent.” My childish greed wanted me to be accepted by my own community: the community of little kids with big thoughts. Notwithstanding they’re good or bad thoughts.

I did not know pain the way I do now, but when I had to go back to my class by myself with a bruised cheek and a missing tie, I still cried. My pain was very simple — as I’ve always been stupid and oblivious, just a bit — and I did not cry for my lonesome. I cried for the harshness in my friends’ hands, the bathroom walls that hurt my cheekbone, and the ringing in my head as the result of it. I have experienced various pains as an adult and now I cry for a lot less than I did back then.

I did not know pain the way my adult self does now, but my mother has always been an adult my entire life, and she experienced pain differently. Mine and hers. At the sight of a missing tie, missing books, and broken water bottles — she experienced them differently from me. I said, “They were joking, yes it hurt, but they accepted me, even asked for my answers in the following math exam. That’s good, right, Mom?” Because friends do that sometimes. Granted, I was six.

My mother thought long and hard with me clutched tightly on her bosom, small and short compared to those kids. Bullies get their power from groups, and they prey on the weak. But I was not weak, my mother decided, I was to be taller, bigger, and more assertive than they were. To be someone they would see as a pack leader, someone that someone would look up to and follow. So, every Saturday and Sunday mornings she would take me to then-wide field at the end of our alley. Then she taught me to play badminton.

I forgot my first serve, but I remember the thrill of doing it for even more after that. Mom also coaxed me to a set of jumping ropes: pink, with Mermaidia sticker on each handle. So, every afternoon after school, I would do sets after sets of jump rope. 200 in one sequence, 275 in one sequence did not faze me. And every weekend I would drag my dad — sometimes the other way around — and occasionally mom, to the field to play with me. Sometimes they would even play two against me. I still don’t remember my first serve, but I remember my father’s stunned face when I beat them both for the first time. It wasn’t much, but that was how my mother taught me — gave me — pride. And all those exercises were how I outgrew my bullies, towering over them with my naturally bitchy face. There’s more to this story but I don’t think it’s worth expensing my emotions on bitter memories right now.

Today my bullies have grown into smart, successful, beautiful women. And I know I’m nowhere beneath where they’re standing, nor should I be making a piece of my past a competition. But that’s what bullying does to someone, you see, and we rarely talk about this. The hurt fades, sure, but they’re still there; a scar that won’t go away. Because if they were the fight that makes you strong, you’re bound to get a battle scar, right? You can be better in time, somehow even surpass your bullies in several things. But deep down you know you’re never fully healed until you stop making them a parameter of success, until you stop making them a competition, until you stop making them your means of validation.

Bullying is that scar that won’t go away. You’ll keep on finding out things about yourself that might be the result of it, of your past stupidity or defencelessness, or greed for validation and acceptance. Funny, how we rarely want an apology. There is a unique thirst for “better, stronger, happier” that can never be fully satiated.

I have stopped making a victim out of myself and told myself that my scars are stamps, brands of a warrior. I told myself that sure the bullies were bad, and I was weaker, but we both outgrew that phase. But pain is pain, and I think it’s time to stop finding out excuses to replace its name and existence. My pain is mine, but I’ve never acknowledged it enough to treat it and let it heal. Now I think it’s unfair if something I enjoyed so dearly, badminton, somehow always brings up memories of an unpleasant past. And it’s annoying to have that thought, that oh it’s because of those cowards now I can’t enjoy my favourite sports. Survivors, as I learned it, usually would like to have control, a choice on how they react to certain situations after surviving a traumatic experience. Most likely because they didn’t have that much of a choice when said traumatic experience took place.

So, it’s not my little bullies’ fault that badminton now brought up memories of bruised cheeks and ankles, sitting by myself in a crowded classroom, realisation of manipulation, or a greedy search for validation. Sure, I can’t help it if they surface from time to time, but I get a say in what to feel, what to do when they do. And I can only do that if I acknowledge their existence as an unseparated being of my growth and my own existence, instead of dodging them and trying to stuff their unpleasant being to the deepest part of my hippocampus.

Sure, my little bullies were bad, but perhaps they’ve outgrown their past, feel shame for their stupidity. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they’re still bad, struggling with their own demons as I am. Perhaps there’s a grey area between hating them and forgiving them thoroughly (even though they never apologised) that would allow me to acknowledge their blip of existence in my past, and how I must carry them in my present and perhaps future.

A grey area that would allow my little bullies and the kid in me to sit side by side without hostility, without willingness to beat nor accept the other, and just watch the badminton with solemn focus.