Chicken Hats and the Power of Love

“Oh, sick!” John smirked as he looked me up and down before laughing and walking away. His jaunty step, brand-name clothes, and curly blond hair attracted my classmates to him like flies to honey, but I felt sick inside. The gavel had fallen, the verdict was set: he was popular, and I disgusted him. He was the new kid, from some novel place that was “cool” and distant, and I was simply fresh meat. He didn’t hesitant to show me that I was nothing to him.
This singular incident would set the standard for the next two years of my life. Every day, I braced myself for the attacks that I knew would fall unmitigated from John’s mouth, the glares and smirks that would mark his disdain for my presence. These things came to be such a normal occurrence that I began to block them out, to turn my attention to other things in hope that they might take my mind off of my misery. This seemed to be working rather well, until the day that John did something I simply could not ignore.
It was spirit week, when students would participate in the themed days by dressing up in costumes and competing against each other for small prizes. This particular day was dubbed “Animal Day”, and the school was alive with excitement and laughter that morning as each new costume was examined and critiqued. I myself was dressed as a groundhog, complete with tail and fuzzy brown ears that carried my outfit over the top. My younger brother had a chicken hat on his head, the product of a festival that had taken place in our small town months before. We made quite a pair as we marched in the door, and the day promised much hilarity.
For the vast portion of the day, I was in high spirits and expectations. Many people complimented me on the originality of my costume, and I was smiling by day’s end. As the bell rang, and the students flooded the hallways, I grabbed up my bag and headed outside to meet my younger brother. We stood outside the door and laughed together over our success. Then, like a dark cloud, John stepped out the door.
The words that advanced from his mouth were aimed to injure and, like poisoned arrows from an adversary’s bow, they were headed straight towards my brother. “What is that?” he asked, mockingly. “What has he got on his head?” The words were loud enough for all to hear. Some bystanders laughed at his words, but I felt my blood boil inside of me. Hatred welled up; more than that, an explosive fury. How dare he say such a thing to a 6-year-old, and to my brother! I could no longer stand silent. I stepped in front of my brother, and leaned slowly forward until I was breathing into the bully’s face.
“How dare you?! How dare you say that to him, my brother! Listen, I don’t care what you say to me, say whatever you want, but don’t you dare talk bad about him!” I was wound up; I didn’t care who heard. “You think you’re so big, that you can say anything you want, but don’t you ever be mean to him!”
My adrenaline pumped as I stopped talking and tried to slow my heavy breathing. I waited for the inevitable reaction, only to be surprised by what didn’t happen. He didn’t immediately lash out, he didn’t smirk and smile. In fact, seconds passed before he said anything at all. Instead of speaking, he simply looked shocked. I may have imagined the look of pain that crossed his face, but the hesitation was real. When he finally spoke, it was only to brush off what happened, deliver an anxious grimace, and turn his back to walk away.
I didn’t need to hear bells, chimes, or horns to declare my victory. My heart was pounding, my mind was reeling, and my spirit was leaping in my chest. I had done it! I had stood up to him, and he had taken notice! No one could say anything to me now, for I knew the power of my own voice, and I was no longer afraid to use it. I turned to see a bit of fright and puzzlement on my brother’s face, but it didn’t jar the feeling of victory I felt. The world was mine.
This incident didn’t mark the end of my troubles with John. He still bothered me, mocked me, and went out of his way to be unkind. Now, however, I felt less pain. My heart felt less like it was breaking. I knew that in some small way, I had defeated him, and that everything he said to me from that point on would be discredited by the reality of that defeat. I was glad.
There are few feelings like the one that comes from confronting and overcoming an obstacle that seems insurmountable, and I experienced that feeling the day I acted on behalf of one close to me. John never bothered my brother again, and I knew that he dared not. The day I stood up on behalf of my brother, he had heard the sound of something far greater than his hate. He had heard the sound of a sister’s love, and that sound is more powerful than all the insults and mockery in the world.