Creativity and The Bullies In Our Minds
At three years old, I stood on a chair in a bustling local restaurant and belted out "Memories" from Cats. I was unashamed, joyful, and utterly free. It was a moment of pure, uninhibited expression—a toddler's version of a standing ovation from life itself.
Fast forward five years later in Stowe, Vermont, I was sitting in my third-grade classroom when I felt a sharp sting. Some boys had put a tack on my chair. That moment marked the beginning of a long stretch of bullying. Phillip, one of the boys, would make fun of another classmate, calling him "Pork Chop" because of his weight. He pressured others to join in. By age 11, my Eastern European-Armenian features stood out sharply against the mostly tall, blond classmates around me. Jack, someone I thought was a friend, began calling me "beaver hair," a cruel jab at my frizzy curls. The name spread rapidly, embedding a sense of shame and exclusion.
One day, Mason, another boy in my class, asked to borrow my Trapper Keeper. I felt pleased—thinking maybe I was being accepted. But when he gave it back, it was covered in crude drawings of beavers. My friend Juli, fierce and protective (she's a lawyer in DC now), dragged me to the principal's office. She demanded some form of justice. We didn’t get much—just a half-hearted apology from Mason, which did little to undo the damage.
There was Ben, who once bluntly told me I was the ugliest girl in our grade. My mom had always warned me against tattling—"nobody likes a narc," she’d say. So instead of running to a teacher, I just stood there, swallowing the tears and saying, "That’s your opinion." He shot back, "That’s everyone’s opinion."
Despite the cruelty, I found solace in music. At 11, I began voice lessons and dreamed of recording an album. When I shared this with Jack, he sneered, "You'll never do that," crushing my spirits further.
By 13, I found some joy with a group of friends. We called ourselves "the family." We started having potluck lunches together, and even though people made fun of us, it didn’t matter. That circle gave me a sense of belonging. We laughed, shared secrets, and had each other’s backs.
But by the end of eighth grade, most of those friends had moved away. I felt alone again, navigating high school by blending into the background, staying quiet. I watched other "outcasts" go through ridicule, learning that the unspoken rule was clear: stand out and you'll be cut down.
Those years left deep scars. Even now, when I’m doing something that brings me joy—like sharing my art with others—I still hear echoes of those voices, casting judgment. Those memories have followed me into adulthood, becoming part of an internal defense mechanism that whispers it’s safer to be invisible.
Facing this is hard. It requires peeling away layers of pain, confronting the rejection that lives so deep within. Writing this is a step toward freedom, a way to reclaim my narrative. Naming the people who hurt me is part of that.
I still feel like they would mock me if they read this. But that’s OK.
To those who've struggled similarly, know this: your uniqueness is your power. I’ve seen that over and over again. Let's pledge to create a community that uplifts and validates, not one that tears down. And when we face judgment, as we inevitably will, let's channel our inner Juli’s—fierce, uncompromising, supportive.
I’m reaching back to the unselfconscious little girl who once stood on a chair, singing her heart out, untouched by fear or shame. It’s almost safe to come back out now.
