Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

Note: this blog is a continuation in a two-part series. I recommend reviewing Being Bullied: Part One—the Bitch before reading this post.

Even before cell phones existed, news spread fast in junior high especially if a catfight was going to occur. I don’t remember how I found out, but suddenly, I was supposed to show up for battle the following Friday after the “bitch” episode had happened. I didn’t relish the thought of fighting Michelle but we were both lightweights. What I didn’t count on was her enlisting her friend Stacey.

Stacey scared me. She scared a lot of people. She was taller than most students were. With her short, spiky hair, black eyeliner, and tough-girl attitude, she intimidated everyone. I had seen her fight before, and she had won with her hands holding pieces of the other girl’s hair. I thought about what Susan had said, “She [Michelle] has friends.” I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have a shot in hell against a fight with Stacey.

I was hoping the whole thing would go away. It didn’t. The week of the fight older students I didn’t know started tripping me in the hallways and shoving me against lockers. Michelle had friends everywhere; more importantly, she had power. I avoided Michelle during PE class. I kept my head down and my mouth shut except when I turned to Susan for emotional support. She sighed and said, “I told you she has friends.” That’s when I realized that Susan was glad that Michelle had laid off her and focused on me.

Filled with pain, loneliness, and fear, I finally decided to confide in my mother. Up until that time, I had never told my parents how unhappy I was school. I didn’t see the point. I couldn’t switch schools, and they couldn’t fix my problems. However, I thought my mother deserved a fair warning if I returned home looking black and blue with a suspension slip in my hand. Like Casey Heyne’s school, our junior high’s policy was an automatic suspension for anyone involved in a fight. I also wanted my mother’s advice.

When I asked her what I should do she said, “Well … I don’t want to see you get hurt, but you have to stand up to this girl.” I nodded knowing she was right but wishing there was another way out. “If you don’t stand up for yourself now, a bully will always bully you.” I frowned as I wondered how much hair I would have left on my head.
“But don’t throw the first punch,” said my mother, “that way you will be defending yourself.” I didn’t tell her that one punch from Stacey would most likely knock me unconscious.

On Friday I could barely concentrate during my morning classes. All I could think about was the upcoming fight with Stacey scheduled outside the cafeteria during my lunch period. I thought about hiding in the library, but I knew I would only be prolonging the inevitable. I thought about what I had going for me. Strength—no. Size—definitely not. Then it occurred to me … maybe what had gotten me into this mess would get me out of it: my mouth.

Shaking on the inside but trying to appear brave on the outside, I showed up at the designated spot at the planned time. Michelle and Stacey were already there. Our fellow students swarmed around us quickly forming a thick circle that prevented teachers from seeing the action but still gave us enough room to brawl. You can talk your way out of this.

Stacey approached me and peered down, “So I hear you called my mother a bitch.” What? How many lies did Michelle tell her?

Inhaling deeply, I replied, “No. I wouldn’t do that. I called Michelle a bitch.” Michelle immediately protested claiming her story was the truth. Stacey looked back and forth. I could see the doubt in her eyes. Keep talking. “I don’t know you or your mother. Why would I say something like that?”

Stacey stepped back and glanced at Michelle, “Well?”

Feeling empowered I continued. “I called Michelle a bitch; I’ll fight her, but I don’t want to fight you. Besides … I heard if you get into one more fight you will be expelled.” The last part was only a rumor, but I was hoping it was true.

From the look on Stacey’s face, I had hit a nerve. “She’s right Michelle. I can’t fight her. You go ahead.”

I exhaled. Still a fight, but at least it was a fair one now. I waited. I could feel the students around me waiting, too—hundreds of eyes were on Michelle. We were all wondering what she would do now without her scary sidekick. I remembered reading somewhere about body language and keeping a firm stance so I planted my feet in the ground willing them not to run away.

Just when I thought I would have to lift my fists to block her punch, Michelle looked down, kicked a pebble on the ground, and said, “Oh hell. Fine. Let’s go.” She motioned to Stacey. They walked away. The circle of students immediately dissipated; many disappointed I’m sure that nothing had happened. I probably stood there a full minute before relief washed over me. I smiled. I may not have had the muscle to body slam the bully like Casey Heynes did, but I had still used my strongest asset. My big mouth had saved my little ass.

About a month later, Stacey disappeared from school after fighting another girl; she was supposedly expelled. Michelle never spoke to me again after that day even though we still had PE together for the rest of the school year. My friendship with Susan slowly fizzled out like soda losing its carbonation. I figured she didn’t stand by me so she could fight her own battles. Besides, Michelle had moved onto her next target.

No one ever picked on me again. As for Casey Heynes, I suspect he will meet with a similar fate. He may not have many friends (yet), but he has surely gained the respect of his peers. One thing is certain, bullies come in all shapes and sizes and they even use different methods (e.g., cyber bullying), but until you stand up to them, you will always be bullied.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I normally change people’s names to protect their privacy, but I see nothing wrong with outing a bully, her co-conspirator, or a so-called friend. Therefore, I thank

• Susan for teaching me that some friends are not worth defending,
• Stacey for having the good sense not to hit me that day, and
• Michelle for showing the entire student body that you were nothing more than a mean, manipulative, bullying bitch.

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When a bully started punching 15-year-old Casey Heynes at school, he surely didn’t realize someone was filming the incident and he would eventually become a Youtube sensation. Although the bully—12-year-old Ritchard Gale—is much smaller, Casey endured several punches before he picked up Ritchard and slammed him to the ground. After years of being tormented, the gentle giant snapped. An easy target who had never previously retaliated, Casey doesn’t have many close friends to help him fend off bullies; he was alone when Ritchard and his buddies confronted him.

Per the school’s policy, both boys were suspended for four days even though Ritchard initiated the fight (Ritchard claims Casey verbally taunted him first). Although most people support Casey for defending himself, his action has stirred up a controversy: had he gone too far? After all, Casey is much larger than Ritchard; the body slam could have seriously hurt the younger boy though he only suffered a scraped knee and a bruised ego.

As someone who has been bullied, I wonder what took Casey so long. How did he withstand years of misery? I wouldn’t have survived that environment. In fact, I remember seventh grade at Ramsey Junior High School as being the worst school year ever.

• I possessed a high IQ but I wasn’t smart enough to be a nerd.
• I played the flute but I didn’t practice enough to be a band geek.
• I was friendly but I wasn’t perky enough to be on the Pep Squad.
• I wore decent clothes but I didn’t wear the labels that ensured popularity.
• I had an athletic body but I wasn’t interested in joining the track team although the coach asked me every other week.

In short, I didn’t fit in with any one group so I felt like an outcast. When I did make friends, it rarely worked out. I met Sandy and Jennifer separately, but when I introduced them to each other, they dumped me to become best friends. As one of the smallest girls in a school with a population of over 1000 students, I was sometimes locked into our full-size lockers. The girls in my PE class nicknamed me “Young and the Breastless” and made fun of me for bothering to wear a training bra. When another supershort girl Michelle started becoming friendly toward me, I was hopeful. We were both around 4′11″ tall. We were both talkative. We liked the same stuff. Things were going well until I realized that Michelle was a major bully.

Michelle started picking on a girl named Susan in our PE class. Susan was shy, awkward and slightly overweight—the primary reason I believe she was targeted. Susan never defended herself. She hung her head when Michelle hurled insults. I wasn’t even close friends with Susan; however, when I saw how Michelle treated her, I stopped being Michelle’s friend and starting becoming Susan’s PE pal. We walked track together. I told her to ignore Michelle. I reminded Susan that she was taller and smarter. As our class walked off the track one day and trudged back to the gym, Michelle made her usual nasty comments before giggling and turning away. Under my breath I said, “God you are such a bitch.”

Michelle whipped her head around so fast I thought it would fall off. “Whatcha say?”

“You heard me.”

“You’re gonna pay.”

Susan shook her head at me. “You shouldn’t have said that. She has friends.”

I stared at Susan. I wanted to remind her that I was defending her. That Michelle picked on her not me. Just before the bell rang, Michelle cornered me in the gym. We were alone. “You shouldn’t have called my mother a bitch.”

“What? I called you a bitch. I don’t even know your mother.” I didn’t tell Michelle that for me to even utter a curse word (at that age) was shocking. I had never called anyone a bitch before. Well, I had not said the word aloud.

“You called my mother a bitch and you’re going to pay for it.” I shrugged my shoulders and walked away. I knew Michelle meant to cause some trouble, but I didn’t know exactly what it was. I found out soon enough.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Being Bullied: Part Two—the Fight is coming soon!

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During my three visits to Detroit, where my husband has been working on the television show Detroit 1-8-7, I have encountered many friendly folks. My mother has said from the time I could speak that I never met a stranger. My ability to talk to anyone has allowed me the privilege of meeting some interesting people over the years although my habit of speaking to strangers used to annoy my sister Adrienne. Why do you talk to everybody she would ask. You don’t even know those people. However, her complaints never stopped me from chatting with salespeople, drivers, or anyone else who seemed amusing.

What Adrienne didn’t understand was if I was talking to people, I was in a “good” place. With the exception of one person, I met all of these men during my visit last month, which tells me I am letting down my guard, coming out of hibernation, and joining the world again. If I had stayed underground, I would have missed the opportunity to know them. From youngest to oldest, meet the biker, the musician, and the driver.

Marcus the Jamaican Biker
I met Marcus at the Detroit Institute of Art (DIA), one of my favorite places in Detroit. He is completing an internship at the DIA as part of his undergraduate education, which includes architecture and business classes. A first-generation American, Marcus moved from Florida to Detroit in order to attend school. He intrigued me with good looks and easygoing nature, but he also educated me on what it means to be Jamaican. For example, when I complained about the cold weather and how the heat in my rental SUV (GMC Acadia) didn’t seem to work, he said I know what you mean; I ride my bike every day.
“As in bicycle?” I asked. He nodded as if riding a bicycle in the snow was the most common thing in the world. When he made a joke about being Jamaican that I didn’t get, I asked him to explain.
“In Jamaica,” he said, “you’re expected to have four jobs by the time you’re 12. Otherwise you’re lazy. You work hard. Everyone works hard. I only have one job besides this one [internship] and school so I can’t complain about riding my bike. Besides, it’s not so bad.”
Wow. Even though I have always been a hard worker, I owned a car at Marcus’s age (approximately 20), and I would never ride a bike in the snow. Then again, I’m not Jamaican.

Eugene the Nice Musician
Of all of the cool D-dudes, Eugene is the only man I met last year, and he is the closest to my age. I went out to Tallulahs with my husband’s coworker’s girlfriend—a girl’s night-out gone wrong. I like Nadia, but I spent the first hour with her standing on my feet and nodding my head as I listened to her tell me her entire life story. To be fair, I was in my Funky Fall Blues phase. However, once we sat at the bar, Nadia turned her attention to a man, and I was off the hook, which is how I met Eugene. He happened to be standing next to me.
Eugene gives off a “Nice, harmless, well-mannered” vibe. As soon as he said hello, I knew he wasn’t going to act inappropriate. (Sometimes, a wedding ring presents a challenge to the opposite sex.) Soon, we were immersed in conversation where we discovered we had many things in common. Eugene is a teacher; he showed me the Silly Bandz on his wrist that his students had given him. I laughed as I attempted to figure out the shape of each band, and I found it charming that he wore them in public. Eugene is also a musician with his own company Telepathic 3-D Productions.
When Eugene asked me about my plans for the next day, I told him that I was going to the DIA. I was looking forward to it because I didn’t get to see it during my first visit to the city the previous month. Imagine my surprise when Eugene said, “I work there tomorrow night. I help with the Drop-In Workshops. We’re making sugar skulls for Día de Los Muertos. Day—”
I interrupted him, “Day of the Dead.”
He laughed. “Yes. Oh, of course, you know what it means. You live in Los Angeles.” I didn’t tell him how much the holiday reminds me of Adrienne. “You should come by and make a sugar skull,” he said.
Although I opted not to make a sugar skull, I did contact Eugene the next day when I arrived at the museum. I saw him and his friend Charles supervise the children in the workshop. Eugene gave me tips on specific exhibits, got me a huge discount at the gift shop, and showed me the Diego Rivera mural, which I had somehow missed. Being the perfect gentleman, he walked me to my car. Besides being a nice, polite, intelligent, Midwestern guy who owns his own home and makes a decent living, he gives tours of Detroit. If you are interested, email him and use me as a reference.

Dana the Dynamic Driver
I met Driver Dana at the end of my trip. A kind, large man with a warm smile, Driver Dana works for Thrifty car rental, and he drove me to the Detroit airport. Since only he and I were in the shuttle, I started talking to him. I told him how much I liked the name Dana for a man.
“Really?” he asked as if I wasn’t being sincere.
“Sure,” I said, “It’s just like Tracy or Kelley. Gender neutral. Cool and interesting.”
“Well, I’m actually two out of four.”
“What?” From there, he explained that he was named after his godfather Dana, but then his godfather named his son Dana. Okay, three. Then Driver Dana named his son Dana. Four.
“And you all hang out together?” I asked.
“Yep,” he smiled as he turned into the airport.
“How do you, ya know, tell each other apart when saying someone’s name?”
“Oh,” he laughed, “I’m Little Dana, and he’s Big Dana.” Somehow I knew he meant Big Dana was his godfather, but I wanted to ask if his son was Little Dana Jr. And what about Big Dana’s son, Dana? Was he Big Dana II? And why, did a man who seemed so unsure about his name choose the same one for his son who must feel lost in the sea of Danas? In that family, Dana might as well be Chris.
Driver Dana and I talked about other subjects including the dreadful demise and hopeful resurrection of Detroit. He watches Detroit 1-8-7 and he thought it was cool that my husband works on the show. He laughed about my “Detroit jacket” and my plan to stuff it in my suitcase as soon as I got inside. As we said goodbye, he added, “You tell your husband he has a sweet wife.” Will do, Little Dana.

As the first three of the five cool Detroit dudes, Marcus, Eugene, and Dana are under 50 years old and part of the Millennial or Gen X generations respectively.
During the next installment of Five Cool Dudes from Detroit: Part Two—the king and the volunteer, you will meet two older men from the Baby Boom and Silent generations who express their passion for art in different ways.

AWW — XoXo

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After my last post, I decided to make a life map (yes, I made up that term) to better understand my behavior. In my head, I have always viewed my life through various segments, but creating a visual manifestation on a poster caused me to realize something else: I divide up the people in my life—excluding relatives—into three categories: the Befores, the Afters, and the Before/Afters.

The Befores are people who entered my life before I gained custody of my sister Adrienne in December 1994. I met the majority of the Befores during college. These are the people whom I didn’t keep in touch with after graduation—the friendships that faded away, the love affairs that ended. Although I am Facebook friends with some Befores (Facebook is excellent for finding former classmates), I can only think of one Before whom I actually talk to on a somewhat regular basis. The Befores are such a distant part of my past that I cannot imagine they would understand the person I am today.

The Afters entered my life after Adrienne died in October 2001. They primarily include former coworkers, other writers, and classmates from graduate school. One of my best friends happens to be an unusual After exception. We met 23 years ago in high school, but we didn’t become friends until 2003. He never saw me as a parent and he never met Adrienne; therefore, he is an After.

Of course, my most significant After is my husband. Just as I would give my life to have Adrienne back, I would give anything for my husband to have had the chance to meet her. I selfishly wish he could have seen me as a parent because Adrienne brought out the very best in me. I didn’t have time to be sad or moody around her. I worked hard, I focused on my goals, and I was, as Adrienne liked to call me, “The Bee.” Always buzzing around, always moving, never stopping. Do you ever sit still, Sissy? Can’t you just watch a TV show without doing two other things at the same time? I was “the Bee” who didn’t know how to be, but I was happy. My husband brings me great joy, but I doubt he would describe me as a truly happy person.

As you have figured out by now, the Before/Afters (BAs) are an incredibly special group of people. Even if I lost touch with them or they lived far away, they knew Adrienne, and they saw me parent her. The BAs include boyfriends and lovers; performers whom I acted with or directed; former classmates who became friends; and people who became my friends through another connection (e.g., a friend’s spouse). Well, the love affairs ended (don’t they all?). The last show I directed opened two weeks before Adrienne became ill. The last time I attempted to act in a theatrical production was in 2003, and I quit the entertainment business the following year.

As for the tight circle of friends who surrounded me from 1994 – 2001, most of them didn’t survive the transition after Adrienne. I used to blame the BAs for abandoning me, but the truth is I am no longer the person I was before. In some ways, I am better: Adrienne, cancer, depression, and my husband are teaching me to slow down—to play as hard as I work, to do one thing at a time, to spend time on myself, to appreciate every day I am alive. (I say “are teaching” because I am still learning.) In other ways, I am worse. I don’t trust people. The friend who dumped me was an After, and I thought for sure he had become a friend for life. My motto is Give me an animal over a person any day of the week.

I am Facebook “friends” with many BAs, but they are not active participants in my life. They are not my friends. They don’t know me anymore, but they knew me then, and that fact alone matters. Recently, I met up with a BA whom I hadn’t seen in nine years. Brian was an actor; I directed him in two shows. He is certainly not the only actor I ever directed or the only actor I ever worked with on multiple occasions. However, he is one of the few people I personally called when Adrienne became ill. I had to let someone know that I would not be returning to the show; most directors move on after a play has opened, but I usually checked in on my actors. We also had a last-minute cast replacement so I was expected to be at the theatre that weekend.*

I still remember standing at the pay phone in the waiting room of the fourth floor (i.e., the oncology ward) of Childrens Hospital Los Angeles. The Anne Geddes pictures hanging on the walls disgusted me because bright flowers and smiling happy babies do not cheer you up when your child/sister has cancer. I dialed Brian’s number; I don’t remember why I called him instead of my stage manager—the more logical choice. Perhaps because I knew Brian better, I thought it would be easier to say the words. My hands trembled as I touched the numbers on the keypad. I remember crying, but I don’t remember exactly what I said or how he responded.

About a year ago, Brian and I reconnected on Facebook, and we discussed getting together eventually, which means nothing in LA since most people don’t mean what they say. However, Brian recently accompanied me to a birthday party that I didn’t want to attend by myself. He met someone there, and I hope it works out. That evening gave us an opportunity to catch up, but I don’t expect anything else. The problem with BAs like Brian is that if they didn’t make the transition nine years ago, they are highly unlikely to make it now. Moreover, despite being a BA, we were never close friends. But that phone call is like a cattle prod that has been burned into my memory; therefore, I will never forget Brian.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I dedicate this blog to the people in my speed dial: three BAs, four Afters, and my father.

*The entire cast of Once Upon a Wolf knew my sister Adrienne, and she spent her spring break helping me build props for the show.

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I need to stop taking Facebook quizzes. I’ve cut way back on this addictive habit, but recently, I couldn’t resist finding out “What is your Spirit Animal?” My friend is an owl: analytical, keen, and perceptive. What a perfect fit I thought to myself, this quiz must be accurate. I had to take it.

I wanted to be a big cat such as a lion or a tiger. Strong, fast, beautiful. But no … my spirit animal is a Bear. I figured there was a mistake so I retook the quiz and received the same conclusion. I am a Bear. “You are happiest when you are leading the charge.” (In real life, who follows bears?) I sighed and kept reading. “Whenever something needs to get done you always find yourself in charge, either through your own will or through others seeking you out.”

A sick feeling crept into my stomach. I am always in charge of almost everything in my life. From being a teacher to organizing social events, I do try to “lead with courage and integrity” and my “confidence and charisma cause people to gravitate” toward me. Here’s the problem: I don’t want to be a bear anymore.

There was no one particular thing that made me feel like stepping down from leading others in my life. A series of events occurred that caused me to shout, “No more. I am done. Screw being a bear!”

I no longer want to teach, a shame since one of the reasons I obtained my master’s degree was to be able to teach college. However, after a student committed plagiarism twice in the same term in my freshman writing class, I resigned. Even though I proved the plagiarism, the student only received a slap on the wrist; the offense is not going on her permanent student record. I cannot put up with the politics that come with both private and public education at every level.

I no longer want to allow new people in my life. Although most of my close (aka speed-dial) friends live far away and I am very lonely these days, I cannot risk getting to know strangers. Despite my outgoing personality, I keep most people at a distance. (We bears may seem sociable, but we are “the most solitary of all carnivores.”) For example, if you ask me how I am doing and I change the subject, then I am severely depressed and/or I don’t trust you enough to reveal my inner demons. After losing numerous friends after my sister Adrienne died, I concluded that people prefer my alter ego—happy, confident, friendly, funny Andrea—the Lucille Ball of every gathering. When a friend dumped me this past April after three years of what I thought was a wonderful relationship, I decided the third pig had it right: forget straw and sticks, I am building a wall of bricks around my heart.

I no longer want to plan events—not that I do this occupation professionally, but I organized my 20-year high school reunion from 2,000 miles away. The reunion consisted of five classes since my high school was so small. I spent 11 months of my life on this project, and I don’t regret a minute of it.

However, when a friend of 24 years flaked on her duties as both the co-chair and her class representative without ever calling or emailing me to explain why, the disappointment gnawed at me throughout the reunion weekend. Taking over her responsibilities less than two months prior to the reunion was overwhelming, but she didn’t leave me a choice. I resent her for adding to my increasing workload and for not bothering to explain her actions.

I no longer want to speak to seriously ill people. As president of my nonprofit Blue Faery, I often receive emails and phone calls from liver cancer patients seeking information. I listen to their stories and guide them as best I can. I used to love to help people in this capacity until I became emotionally attached to a patient who died this past July after her second battle with liver cancer. Even though she survived much longer than my sister did, this patient’s death brought back painful memories of Adrienne’s last days of fighting for her life. How can I offer hope when there is still no cure for liver cancer? How can I comfort individuals who will most likely die?

I no longer want to live in Los Angeles. If you read my blog, my dislike of LA is well known. I have lived here 20 years, and I must leave this toxic environment. I have only stayed because my husband, who works in the entertainment industry, did not think he could find employment anywhere else … until he received a job offer in Detroit! So now he is there and I am here, and we are apart from each other. I considered moving to one of the “Most miserable cities in America” but we would end up back here anyway after his job ends.

After seeing me cry off and on for several hours last month, my wise owl friend said, “You give so much to everyone else that there’s nothing left for you.” Other people have said the same thing to me in different ways, but I didn’t hear it until my beautiful owl spoke the simple truth.

Now my least favorite word in the English language—no—is becoming my new mantra: “No, I cannot teach needy students, make new friends, plan any events, or hear sad stories.” Unfortunately, I am stuck in Los Angeles for the time being; however, I have an idea. Most bears hibernate, and the period of time depends on where they live. Considering I live in a warmer climate, I think I can get away with three months or so. Hopefully longer.

The quiz warns that, “A prideful bear is a lonely bear” and I am proud when my efforts at any endeavor garner favorable results. However, I would argue that I stepping back from responsibility requires a certain amount of concession of pride. After all, while I am in hibernation, I cannot predict what will happen, but I’m sure the world will get on just fine without me.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. After I wrote this blog, I discovered that my job assigned me five students to tutor this fall when I was only supposed to receive three. YIKES! My hibernation in this respect will be temporarily delayed.

UPDATE (9/17/10): After receiving valuable advice via blog comments, personal emails, telephone calls, and doctor’s orders, I decided to listen. I am no longer teaching; it is simply not in my best interest at this time.

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