I was recently reminiscing about school with some friends over drinks. We talked about the teachers we liked and were surprised at how much shorter our skirts were.
Then some members of our group spoke movingly about the intense pressures they felt at school, one of the best girls’ secondary schools in the country.
“It wasn’t all bad,” I said fondly. “Well, that’s what you’d say,” my friend Jo replied. “You were a bully.”
The word sounded strange and shocking to me. Me? A stalker? I laughed, because I thought she must be joking. After all, we were still friends, after all these years. But something in her expression told me she was serious.
When I think of a school bully, I picture a big, fist-waving bully stealing someone’s lunch money. I never did anything like that. But the more Jo and I talked about it, the more I had to accept that I had been involved in causing pain, hurt, and humiliation to my classmates.
I’m ashamed to admit it, but at school I was a bad girl.
The 2004 film came out just as I was finishing sixth grade, but its depictions of wild teenage girl hierarchies rang very true to me.
From the age of 12, I was part of a gang of 15 girls known as ‘The Clique’, and we could be cruel when we decided there was someone we didn’t like.
The more Jo and I talked about it, the more I had to accept that I had been involved in causing pain, harm and humiliation to my classmates.
When I read Shona Sibary’s article in the Mail last week about the lasting effects of being bullied at the hands of a fellow student, a fresh wave of guilt washed over me. I’m on the other side of the coin, but the shame of how I acted still makes me feel bad to this day.
At the time, I didn’t consider myself a queen bee. If anything, I despised myself and constantly worried that I wasn’t pretty enough, smart enough, or popular enough with the boys.
It was probably these insecurities that made me act the way I did, desperate to fit in and not be ostracized by the popular girls. I was too afraid to speak my mind when we did something I knew was wrong, for fear of losing my status or having the pack turn against me.
Further evidence of my bad girl status was that I dug out my high school yearbook. All the pictures showed me and my friends arm in arm, often wearing matching clothes, and captioned with phrases like, “You can only be our friend if you’re skinny and pretty.” I like to think we were being ironic, but deep down there was some truth to it. We were intimidating, and we reveled in it.
As an adult, it’s been painful for me to acknowledge that I wasn’t a good person at school. When Jo first confronted me, I reassured myself that if I was a bully, it was only verbal. But looking back, that’s not entirely true.
One of my friends, Sarah, who was already very developed at a young age, reminded me that we had created an elaborate ritual, complete with songs and dance moves, that involved pressing heavy dictionaries into her chest to try to flatten her breasts. To imitate her, we would stuff balloons under our itchy blue V-neck sweaters.
From the age of 12, I was part of a gang of 15 girls known as ‘The Clique’, and we could be cruel.
The 2004 film Mean Girls came out just as I was finishing sixth grade, but its depictions of wild teenage girl hierarchies rang very real to me.
Of course, we were jealous that we hadn’t grown breasts yet, but then she said how painful it was (both physically and emotionally).
“Pranks” like this often led to physical bullying. We would often push “Little Mary,” the smallest member of our group, into a locker.
We pretended to beat each other up with hockey sticks, once we did, and drew blood and broke a few braced teeth. Someone cried at least once a day. There was no term “corporal humiliation” back then, but we were masters at it.
It was a disastrous situation, and although I myself participated in these unpleasant situations, I was also sometimes a victim. I remember that a girl told me to sit under the table during English class, and when I did and asked her what was happening, she told me: “I hide things that I don’t like.”
I was also painfully thin as a teenager, and other members of my group would force-feed me packets of butter in the lunchroom, while they sang and laughed. Snide comments, insults and mockery were all part of the fun.
Except it wasn’t fun. It must have been deeply traumatic and disturbing for those involved.
I know that at least one member of our group received therapy as an adult because of the experiences she had with us. I couldn’t believe it when she told me; I apologized through tears, but I knew the damage had been done.
If I had to analyze what made me act that way, I think it was probably the heady combination of raging hormones and intense boredom. We were brilliant and ambitious, but we had very few avenues to express ourselves other than all that backstabbing and games.
School was a fierce competition, and although I myself participated in those unpleasant situations, sometimes I was also a victim.
In my case, I have no doubt that my chaotic home life was also a factor. After my parents’ tumultuous divorce, my mother left when I was 15. Exerting power over my classmates was one of the few ways I could feel in control.
Since then, I have had a lot of therapy and I hope it has made me a kinder, more empathetic person. I am glad I went to school in the pre-Instagram era as it scares me to think what kind of vicious cyberbullying I would have committed if we had been living online and how the record of it would live forever, for all the world to see.
I don’t remember teachers getting involved or trying to discipline us. It all seemed a bit out of control, like in Lord of the Flies, armed with Impulse body spray.
Although I like to think I’ll never go back to my old ways, sometimes I catch myself backsliding.
A fashion magazine I worked at was like being back in the classroom. Everyone in the office wanted to sit at the “top table,” where a group of powerful women made fun of those below them in the hierarchy. I had to fight the urge not to participate when they belittled a younger staff member’s ideas or didn’t invite certain people out for after-office drinks.
I’m not proud of it, but I can’t deny that I still find gossip pleasurable and a sure way to quickly bond with others.
I’m still friends with most of the members of La Clique – in fact, some of us went on holiday together recently. When we talk about our school days and the times when pranks went too far, everyone cringes. We all agree that it was very strange. I’m sure that, like me, they would hate to think that they were the bullies themselves.
Nowadays, when we spend time together, there is a lot less complaining, but our WhatsApp group still displays some of the same old antics, where supposedly supportive messages are anything but.
“She’s very brave to get divorced, I could never do that to my children,” was a recent example. When I was younger, I would have joined in, but now I don’t respond. If I do, I’m left with an emotional hangover that takes days to go away.
Sometimes I look at my daughter and wonder if this toxic behavior in female friendships is innate or learned.
She’s only three, but I can already hear her and her little friends telling a new little girl who’s taking her first steps “you can’t play with us” or loudly announcing that someone is “not my best friend.” I would never send her to an all-girls school and hope her teenage years are calmer and more compassionate than mine.
But something tells me that the cruel dynamics of teenage girls will never change. Emotional manipulation, gossip and isolation seem to be the norm. Sometimes I look at them on the bus and I can see subtle signs of the war they are engaged in.
It can be something as simple as body language that leaves one member of the group completely baffled, or a comment that has everyone cracking up, all except one girl.
At least I can tell my daughter that the bad girl years get better and the person you become to survive them will get better too.
Names have been changed.
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