Rage
The worst part about anger is not knowing where to put it. I am beside myself with rage: there was another bullying incident yesterday involving Jamie and those kids who wrecked his bike. This time they've recruited a 15-year old goon to do their fighting for them. This all started on the bus yesterday and culminated in Jamie being challenged to a fight several times by this older kid, while the others geered and talked smack. Jamie kept saying he didn't want to fight and kept trying to walk home from the bus stop: the challenger kept stepping into his face and taunting him. Jamie thinks the only reason he wasn't beaten up is that a grade 12 student who got off at the same stop stood close by watching the whole thing, ready to step in if any punches were thrown.
Last night as I was driving back from dance, these kids were walking along the road. I had an overpowering urge to push the gas pedal to the floor. Of course I didn't do that. Instead Joe, Jamie and I will go see the school principal today on our way to parent-teacher interviews.
The thing is, I don't even know why these kids don't like Jamie. He's likeable enough, albeit a bit different. In some cultures difference is celebrated. Our Vuntut Gwitchin friend has a son who has a very large birth mark on his face. In our culture this child is teased because of it. In First Nations' culture, this mark is an indication that he is special and destined for great things. Because of this, he must have dishes that are only used by him and his clothes must be washed separate from those of other family members. He is celebrated and honoured.
That pride is instilled in the whole family. His little brother, 5 years old, was in class the other day when the teacher started talking about Indians. He said to her, "Indians live over in India. We are Vuntut Gwitchin." You go Johnny!
7:22:44 AM 
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