The Crisis Killing Our Boys

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When I was 6 at Sunday school a boy a year older than me leaned over at snacktime and punched me in the stomach. We had been sitting silently next to each other. There was no provocation. It took the wind out of my breath and I did everything in my control not to show to the rest of the kids that I had been hurt.

When I was 8 I was walking home from school and a boy a year older than me spit in my direction from across the street. I spit back, meters away from where he was walking. In seconds he was sprinting towards me, tackled me to the ground, climbed on top of me and punched me once square in the center of my forehead. I walked the rest of the way home in great distress, not from the pain, but from fear that I wouldn’t be able to conceal what had happened.

When I was 12 on a bus ride home from a field trip a boy in my grade turned around and sucker punched me between my eyebrows. He sat back down just as quickly and giggled like it was a harmless prank. I was stunned and didn’t say a word. I just sat back down so as not to draw any attention to what had happened.

I wasn’t a target for regular bullying — these were just random acts of opportunity. I was smart at school, a fast runner, good at…