Hang on, Brave Teacher – MG

In a quiet classroom when shadows creep,

The long corridor you’ve always clean,

There are stories to tell,

Each lesson of sweat, each stayed up late,

Each every teaching with a smile;

Each frustration on a cue,

The happiness you spent with kids,

And sometimes arguments on its finest,

The ignores of the colleagues,

And most of the times the isolations from the leaders,

All these speaks the truth, you’re a fighter!

With every stumble, with every fall,

You rise again, you stand up tall.

The world may turn a blind eye now,

But the stars still shine, and they know how

You guide the weary, the lost, the naive,

You shore up the dreamers to crave;

And that’s your win!

So hold on tight, don’t lose your way,

The dawn will break it’s just a test,

Your hard work whispers, “I’m not in vain,”

Each effort counts, through joy and pain.

In the tapestry of time, your thread will gleam,

For every tear that’s graced your cheek,

Is a step toward the future you seek,

So lift your chin, let courage swell,

In the depths of struggle, you’ll find your spell.

For someday soon, they will see,

The brilliance that lies in the heart soul.

Keep faith alive, let hope ignite,

For you are teacher a BRAVE teacher.

With every heartbeat, with every breath,

You’re crafting a legacy that conquers death.

So hold on, brave teacher, the journey’s not done,

Your story is waiting, your victory’s begun.

In the tapestry of life, you’ll find your place,

A shining beacon of strength and grace.

Remember your soul the seeds you sow

You will reap someday.

 

The Untold Story (once upon with bullies) - MGS

Janna Willies, a 15-year-old high school girl, is the silent type; she speaks less than anyone knows. On my way to school gate, I spot her out of the corner of my eye. She is bending her head, busy bagging her old belongings. I notice that she has lost her slim figure, but I can still recognize her. Her nails are unpainted, and her hands are covered with old gloves. She went to the same middle school as my brother, Billy.

As I remember the days in high school school, I recall that she was the dazzling, sweetest girl who immediately attracted the attention of all the high school boys. She was a head taller than me, her black hair shining with vitality. She was the top student in her class, Class A. She owned a pink satchel bag, which meant more than owning an iPhone nowadays. She often polished her nails in bright colors that matched her stylish, well-tailored clothes.

I was in freshman when I first saw her with my brother Billy in the gym. We never formally introduced ourselves, but we always saw each other at the gym, where mostly Saint Andrews students played volleyball. She barely smiled or talked to me. In fact, during the first year, she hardly looked at me. I was quite loud but never raised my voice to anybody in school. She was a loner, and staying alone while reading novels was her happiness something most kids didn’t care about.

One day, after spring turned to summer, she reached out her hand square and masculine and said, “Let’s be friends.” I rolled my eyes as my heart raced, nervous yet happy; my mind went blank, and I thought of running away from her. My classmates started giggling, some of the girls shouted, the boys clapped their hands, and they all began teasing me, which made me feel awkward. After a brief hesitation, I replied, “Sure,” stretching my hand out to touch hers. I wasn’t sure what that "friendship" would be like, but I knew that being her friend meant being part of her life as a "friend" a "close friend"?

After school, they asked me if I could come to the high school gym. I was invited to join them in their favorite game volleyball. I had no clue how to play volleyball; in fact, I had never tried it even once. They begged me to join, and it didn’t matter if I could play or not because they were willing to train me. After one game, we went to the school backyard. It was a desolate clearing coated with chaotic weeds, hidden behind the grove that faced the boys' restroom. The moist air was suffused with the pungent smell of wet grass mixed with the odor from the restroom. We slightly bent our knees to start the "poker game" when five girls, including her, stood in front of me. She was behind a tiny girl named Lily. Janna had already changed into her sports outfit red shorts and a yellow T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. In front of Lily was a big mesh bag filled with volleyballs.

Janna took my hands, grabbed a ball from the bag, and asked me, “Are you ready to be hit by the ball?” They all started to laugh, while other girls cheered, yelled, and tapped their shoes on the ground. A sense of foreboding washed over me. Before I was ready (if I even knew how to get ready), she tossed the ball toward me, hitting my shoulder. All the other girls grabbed balls, imitating her, and I became their target. As I stood frozen, the balls hit me from different directions. I fantasized about hitting some back like a pro on an Olympic team, but I was paralyzed with fear. I simply couldn’t do it. Each hit hurt terribly; their piercing laughter intensified the pain. I fell several times and could hardly stand when they finally ended the “training.”

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” Janna glanced at me, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. Her sarcastic smile pained me, and the other girls laughed even louder. The triumphant group strode away, leaving me crying quietly and wiping the dirt from my shirt and pants. It took me longer than usual to get home. My parents were already home from work. My mom asked me why I was late, and I made up a reason that made sense to her. She didn’t probe further. My parents rarely asked me anything about school as long as they knew I got good grades. After dinner and washing the dishes, I went to my room and locked the door, weeping again.

In the following days, months, and years, I became the laughingstock of those girls. I wanted to fight back, but I didn’t know how, and nobody helped me. If life were a book, the days in high school would be the pages I wanted to tear out and fling away. But today, after 46 years, I saw her again.

When she finished bagging her old belongings, she came toward me. Her eyes fell on me for a few seconds but quickly drifted away. I walked over to where she was standing, and she grabbed my hands quickly and said, "It was you?" I didn’t know how long I had been sitting on the backyard bench, pondering the childhood experience that had been buried for years. I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was my son, Adie, back from school. “Are you okay, Mom?” he asked, looking concerned.

“Yeah, I am. I was just caught up in some old memories, but I’m okay now.” I smiled at him, and he smiled back, ready to retreat to his room. “Adie,” I turned to him, holding my middle-schooler boy in my arms, and spoke softly, “Tell me about your day at school. I will tell you about mine.”

********* 

In the shadows of my everyday life, there existed a nightmare that I couldn’t escape. The days were filled with fear and anxiety, and the nights were haunted by tears and loneliness. I felt trapped in a cycle of torment that left me feeling like my life was a mess.

 

A cry at night (effects of bullying) - MGS

Their illness was eating them up.

It was a parasite consuming their brain cells. 

They couldn’t make responsible decisions. 

But despite knowing that these symptoms 

Were caused by their mental condition 

That they blamed others and especially me. 

But their illness cannot be their scapegoat. 

It is not an excuse to make up stories and gossips. 

Their tiny brain can't cover up all those lies 

That resulting from losing someone's reputation. 

Their mental illness will lead them to nothing but hell.

Reflection 1

The Daily Struggle Each day began with a knot in my stomach, knowing I would face the bullies. Their taunts echoed in my mind, making it hard to focus on anything else. I would walk through the hallways, feeling invisible yet painfully aware of their eyes on me. The laughter and whispers felt like daggers, piercing through my self-esteem and leaving me feeling utterly alone. The Impact on My Well-Being The bullying took a toll on my physical and mental health. I found it difficult to eat, my appetite lost in the turmoil of anxiety. Sleep became a distant memory; I would lie awake at night, tears streaming down my face, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. I cried silently, hiding my pain from everyone around me, especially my parents. I was terrified of burdening them with my struggles, so I carried the weight alone. The Burden of Secrecy Hiding my tears became a daily ritual. I would put on a brave face, pretending everything was fine while inside, I was crumbling. The fear of letting my parents know about the bullying kept me silent. I worried they wouldn’t understand or that it would only make things worse. So, I bottled up my emotions, feeling like I was drowning in a sea of despair. The Isolation As the days turned into weeks, I felt increasingly isolated. Friends who once supported me seemed distant, and I felt like I was living in a bubble, cut off from the world. The loneliness was suffocating, and I longed for someone to notice my pain and reach out. But I remained silent, trapped in my own nightmare. Looking back, I realize that those days were some of the darkest of my life. The bullying not only affected my self-esteem but also my ability to connect with others. It took time, but I eventually found the courage to speak up and seek help. I learned that I wasn’t alone and that it’s okay to share your struggles. My hope is that by sharing my story, others who are facing similar nightmares will find the strength to speak out and seek support. Writing about our experiences can be a cathartic process. Remember, it’s important to be gentle with ourself as a reflect on these memories. If you feel comfortable, consider sharing your writing with someone you trust or a support group. You are not alone, and our story matters.