Eden Wormer: when bullying should be a crime.

Eden Wormer, 14, committed suicide on Wednesday, after being relentlessly bullied for two years, at Cascade Middle School, in Vancouver, Washington.

From her photos, in the article I saw, in the Daily Mail, in the UK, Eden seems like a bright girl – at least her eyes tell such a tale. Those who knew her referred to her as “talented”. She was also evidently quite good looking. I am led to wonder if it was these attributes that led to her being bullied: the fact that she was most probably brighter than the others, and better looking than some of them. It is said she struggled to “fit in”, trying by changes of personal styling, hair colour and the like, to do so. So, it is clear that she was “different”. She paid a high price for her difference. She was bullied mercilessly by her fellow students – until she could take it no more. Her final words to her father were, “I love you Daddy, goodnight”...followed by a goodnight kiss. She was found dead in the morning.

Now, what gave me pause about all of this, was a statement from the Vancouver police. “We haven’t found any evidence that the bullying rose to the level of a crime.” Really? How much evidence do you need...the girl is DEAD! The stupidity of the police statement really gives credence to their image as donut eating dopes. Eden Wormer felt that the bullying was of such an unbearable intensity that she preferred not to continue living...her own action, in killing herself, is irrefutable proof that the bullying was of a criminal level. I realize that the world’s police forces typically do not attract the brightest people, but even they should understand that the effects of bullying are subjective – they are determined by what is felt by the victim. In this case, the victim was persecuted to death. Her death is proof that a crime took place, in my view.

The Vancouver police have seemingly indicated that they are not going to do anything about this death. Well, they should. Every one of Eden Wormer’s bullies should be arrested and charged with murder – for that is what they have committed. They murdered Eden Wormer and their weapon was psychological abuse. They abused her to death, abused her so much that she could not take it anymore and fled life, to death, to escape it. They murdered her as assuredly as if they had shot her. So, they should face the same penalty as murderers in her nation. I also believe that they should be charged as adults, since anyone, even a teenager, can understand that bullying is hurtful – after all, that is its intent and purpose, so, of course, they understood that they were hurting Eden Wormer.

I did some background research on this story by entering the terms “bullying and suicide” into Google. I was disturbed at the vast number of bullying related suicides that came up as news items...some of them from kids as young as 10 years old. Yet, it is clear that very little is done to stop bullying. Bullying was rampant at my school, King’s College School, Wimbledon – both of the physical and the psychological kind. I personally experienced one or the other (usually the latter) on most days of my entire school career in the senior school there. The culture was truly awful...one of bullying the brightest or those who stood out in some way. It was mindless, cruel and malevolent – and ever persistent...it just went on and on, on a daily basis, grinding away at one’s core. Somehow, I endured it...but it wasn’t fun being the brunt of so much hostility. So, I can fully understand what Eden Wormer went through. I fought back in various ways and adopted an outward persona that was so intimidating, in its own way, that it made many of my bullies back off...it worked. I created a barrier for myself, that kept away much of the bullying...a psychological barrier of my own – one in which it became less likely that anyone would challenge me. Yet, of course, though the physical bullying was snuffed out by this, mostly, the psychological bullying remained – the sneers, the whispered words, the social exclusion, and so on...that was unstoppable...but at least I found my own way to close down the physical aspect of the bullying. Eden Wormer, it is clear, found no way to deal with what she was going through. She found no means to protect herself. So, in the end, she felt she had no choice but to kill herself.

Schools, in general, the world over, seem to do little to address bullying. They seem to see it as an accepted part of the child’s world and don’t intervene too much. Yet, bullying is highly destructive. It can make childhood hell for its victims. King’s College School, Wimbledon, was hell for me, for much of my time there...but I endured it, because I had a very strong sense of myself. I understood that those who disliked me, did so out of jealousy for what I had shown I was able to do. Intelligence was not a characteristic that made one popular at my school. Indeed, it seemed to be a liability, particularly if combined with enough creativity to make one “different”. That always courted a venomous response. I remember one other boy, who was physically and psychologically different – though I shan’t name him to spare him embarrassment. He was laughed at, on many occasions...the other boys (it was a boys’ school), would just jeer at him, when he opened his mouth, when he expressed his view, when he simply talked. Partly this was because his speech was odd, in sound – but in general I think it was because he was different. He seemed to ignore it all – but really, it must have been hell for him, to have such almost universal disdain directed at him, on a daily basis. The one thing that seemed to protect him, was that he believed he was smarter than other people. I thought this a little misplaced, at times, though. He once said to me, when I asked him about a physics question: “Oh, you wouldn’t understand.”. That was funny because in S level physics, I received a grade 1 Distinction – and he ended up with a grade 2 Merit...so perhaps he was the one who wouldn’t have understood! Nevertheless, though he was not quite right in his view of superiority, it was good that he had this belief to protect him – for no-one ever intervened on his behalf.

It is time for bullying to be treated as a crime. If a victim commits suicide owing to the bullying, then the bullies should be arrested and charged with murder – for their psychological and perhaps physical abuse, had killed someone. Ethically, and legally, bullying should be regarded as an attack with a psychological weapon, where no physical attack is involved. It should be recognized that psychological abuse, on a persistent long term basis, can destroy a person’s will to live. In short, bullying can kill. It should, therefore, be treated in the same way as all other intentional behaviours that lead to the death of another. It should be treated as murder. Were bullying punished in this way, by those sentences appropriate to murder, whenever it results in a death, bullying would rapidly decline, in all nations that implemented such punishments. If the bullies understood that they could spend a very long time in prison, or in some severe cases, perhaps, receive the death penalty themselves, they would not be so keen to bully others. The world’s bullies must be led to understand that they place themselves at personal risk of very severe punishments, whenever they bully anyone else. There are simply too many deaths related to bullying, for the world’s societies to stand idly by. Punish bullies for their very real crimes. Stop bullying now – and save the next “Eden Wormer” from suicide.

Posted by Valentine Cawley

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Don't underestimate a gifted child

When I was 11, I wrote an essay for my teacher, Mr. Warburg. I put a lot of effort, into the essay, because, you see, I was a new boy in my school, King’s College School, Wimbledon. I wanted to show what I could do, with words and ideas. So, I put together as effective an essay as I could, in the time that I had. I remember, well, the evening of work that I put it together, perhaps because it was one of the first written tasks, I had been set, in my new school.

The next morning, I handed the essay in, not knowing how well I had done, but knowing that, I had, at least tried to complete the task, according to my understanding of it.

A couple of days later, when it came to Mr. Warburg’s English lesson, he looked over at me, from under his bushy, overgrown eyebrows and asked me to come to the front of the class.

“Read out your essay.”, he began.

His eyes were very intent upon me, too intent, though I didn’t notice it, at the time. I was too busy being nervous. I wasn’t accustomed to the idea of standing in front of the class and reading out my work. I was, as well, the “new boy” – or one of them, so I wasn’t really all that familiar with my classmates, either. They were still, largely, strangers to me.

I came to the front of the class as requested, with my essay in tow. I looked out across the sea of gazing eyes, upon me and then down at the page, before me – and began to read. I read it as carefully as I could, feeling a tight nervousness inside, as I did so. I didn’t want to be seen to make a mistake in front of so many unfamiliar witnesses. I didn’t want to seem to be a fool, in front of my new classmates. It was early days, in school, and I wanted to build a reputation, not slaughter it.

I stumbled over one word, as I read. I still remember that word: “Hieroglyph”. I had seen it written down, many times – and had used it, myself, this time, but never before had I said it, before an audience. My tongue clambered over it, and tripped a little on the task.

Mr. Warburg sat silent beside me. His dark eyes, darkened – but he said nothing.

Once I had finished reading, the class applauded me, for my work. Hands clapped together, in appreciation of all the effort I had put in, to crafting my work. They really seemed to like it. I was very pleased, but rather shy to be so applauded. I didn’t quite know where to put myself.

Just as the clapping began to ebb, Mr. Warburg pounced:

“YOU didn’t write that!”, he accused, with a sudden bellow, that startled me. From a silent presence, he had transformed, in an instant, into a venomous, accusatory one. He sat coiled beside me, stiff with tension, as if ready to strike, like a snake.

There I was, before a whole classroom of evaluating eyes.

Silence fell, on all but Mr. Warburg.

“You COPIED it out of an encylopaedia!”, he further accused, with a snarl.

I felt, then, as if my whole world had imploded. Suddenly, all those eyes didn’t seem so friendly. Some of them even seemed gleeful. A generalized sense of discomfort pervaded the room – mine and that of all the other boys.

I began to shake a little, so overcome was I, with a sickening feeling. I was but a child and a sensitive one, at that. I was on the edge of tears and, were it not for so many cool, unmerciful eyes upon me, I would have begun to cry.

“I didn’t…”, I protested, softly, unable to muster the volume, to match Mr. Warburg’s.

He just scoffed at me.

“Get back to your seat!”, he ordered, dismissively.

I stumbled back to my chair, utterly dazed. I had written of my best. I had tried my hardest to do the work to the best of my ability. I had tried to show Mr. Warburg, what I, the new boy, could do – and this was my reward: to be accused of plagiarism and shamed in front of the whole class.

The fact is, every word of that essay had been mine and no-one’s but mine. I had read and researched the piece – but every word was of my own thought. It was clear what had happened: my best effort, had been rather too good for Mr. Warburg’s liking, and Mr. Warburg’s experience. He simply did not believe that an eleven year old boy could possibly have written it. Well, I had.

I learnt something that day – but it wasn’t the sort of lesson a gifted child should learn, really. Although I enjoyed writing essays, I never again put out the effort, for Mr. Warburg, that I had on that early essay. I never again tried my best – after all, I knew what happened if one tried one’s best for Mr. Warburg: he would publicly accuse one of being a plagiarist and shame one in front of the entire class. So, I made sure that that would never happen again. I wrote an answer to every question set – but never again strived for perfection, where Mr. Warburg’s work was concerned. It was dangerous to do so: best to just write the first thing that came into one’s head and leave it at that.

Over time, however, Mr. Warburg came to understand that I wrote well. However, he never apologized for his public accusation or the terror of that moment, that he had put me through. Furthermore, I never forgave him for it. For me, thereafter, Mr. Warburg was an ogre just waiting to happen.

A few years later, I heard some hot news, which was running rampant around the school.

Mr. Warburg had died of a heart attack.

I couldn’t have been happier. To my young mind, no-one on this Earth deserved an early death better than Mr. Warburg. The day of his death, was a good day for me. He was a rotten man, who could be truly cruel to his students. I was so glad he was gone. I felt, somehow, that he had finally got what he deserved.

The thing that made him a rotten man, was not just that he had publicly shamed me, as he had, on the basis of nothing more than supposition and the stereotyping of eleven year olds – but that, when he realized, later on in the year, that I ALWAYS wrote well, even on fictional pieces, that could not have been copied from anywhere, he NEVER apologized for what he had done. Nor did he make redress for the damage by admitting that he had been wrong, to the class, so as to repair the damage done to my good name – or at least, the good name I had wanted to build. Mr. Warburg had made it a whole lot harder.

A gifted child is often, not only not rewarded for their gifts, but punished for them – as I was, the day I read out my essay for Mr. Warburg. The problem with such moments, is not just the emotional damage of the incident itself, but how it might change the gifted child’s attitude towards their own gifts. Some gifted children may just give up “showing their gift” in any way, at all. Some gifted children would start to deliberately underachieve when faced with the kind of response I received that day.

Fortunately, I never lost my enjoyment of writing and kept at it, for my own happiness, if not for anyone else’s. However, from that day forward, I feared Mr. Warburg. Being in his classroom was a constant stressor, for I knew just how unpleasant he could be. I never wanted to be the victim of his nastiness again. Fortunately, I never was – but I never forgot just what he could be like.

That memory was what made me happy, the day Mr. Warburg died. The ogre was finally gone. Never again would he persecute a child for the essay they had written. It was a good day.

Now, I wonder, what would Mr. Warburg think of this particular little essay?

It isn’t as well written as the piece he attacked me for – but then, he doesn’t really deserve a great piece of prose. I have, instead, written the first thing that came into my head…which is just what he entrained in me, by rejecting my best efforts, as not my own.

I never did find out what Mr. Warburg’s first name was, otherwise I would write it here. Never mind – his surname is most evocative and seems appropriate for the kind of man he was. He was not a kind man. He was not a perceptive man. He was not a tactful man. He was not a particularly intelligent man. He was a cruel man. He had a bit of a temper. He cared little for the feelings of his students. He was my form teacher for a year. I came first in my year, in the final examinations – but he never said a word to me, of congratulations, of encouragement, or of apology for how he had treated me.

That was just the kind of man he was: an unkind one.

He only ever managed to make me smile, once. He did that by dying.

I wonder, now, at the lack of wisdom in Mr. Warburg’s life, that he should have lived it, in such a way, that the happiest moment, he ever created, in his star student, was inspired by his own death. If I still did not have that image of him shaming me in front of the class, I might find it in me, to pity him, for his lack of insight, into how to live a good life, in a good way, that makes a mark of goodness on the world. He knew nothing of that. He only knew how to set a child up, for a fall, in front of a class of merciless young boys. I suppose, that to modern eyes, what Mr. Warburg did, that day, would be termed abuse. It remains, to this day, one of my most indelible memories, of childhood. It also captures, the dilemma of being gifted, that I experienced every day, whether I was aware of it or not.

It is this: whether to show one’s gifts, and be denounced for them, or to fail to express one’s gifts, and be forever frustrated?

I chose to express them…and was denounced. Would I have been happier had I chosen otherwise? I think not. The right choice, is to express one’s self, never mind the reaction. To do otherwise, is to suffocate in public, each and every day.

The world is filled with Mr. Warburgs. The gifted must remember this and not allow the Warburgs to snuff out their gifts. Continue to express yourself, no matter how many people attack you for it. The only way to become, is to externalize, what lies within. The writer must write, the actor must act, the scientist must think – and the musician play. Never let the unbelievers, silence you. Think on – and one day the world will be glad that you did so, when it finally awakens to what it is, you have to say.

Believe me, that day will come…it just might take much of your life, in the becoming.

Be patient. Be strong…and just BE.

(If you would like to learn more of Ainan Celeste Cawley, 10, or his gifted brothers, Fintan, 6 and Tiarnan, 4, this month, please go to: http://scientific-child-prodigy.blogspot.com/2006/10/scientific-child-prodigy-guide.htmlI also write of gifted education, child prodigy, child genius, adult genius, savant, megasavant, HELP University College, the Irish, the Malays, Singapore, Malaysia, IQ, intelligence and creativity.

There is a review of my blog, on the respected The Kindle Report here: http://thekindlereport.blogspot.com/2010/09/boy-who-knew-too-much-child-prodigy.html

Please have a read, if you would like a critic's view of this blog. Thanks.

You can get my blog on your Kindle, for easy reading, wherever you are, by going to: http://www.amazon.com/Boy-Who-Knew-Too-Much/dp/B0042P5LEE/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1284603792&sr=8-1

Please let all your fellow Kindlers know about my blog availability - and if you know my blog well enough, please be so kind as to write a thoughtful review of what you like about it. Thanks.

My Internet Movie Database listing is at: http://imdb.com/name/nm3438598/

Ainan's IMDB listing is at http://imdb.com/name/nm3305973/

Syahidah's IMDB listing is at http://imdb.com/name/nm3463926/

Our editing, proofreading and copywriting company, Genghis Can, is at http://www.genghiscan.com/

This blog is copyright Valentine Cawley. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited. Use only with permission. Thank you.)

Is creativity encouraged in the classroom?

I ask this question because my own life supplies the answer.

Looking back over my schooling, my childhood and my education, I see something, in the young boy and man I was, that I have rarely seen in the students I have taught in the decades since. I used to approach every task given me, not from the point of view of what have other people thought about this problem, or question, but from what did I think of it? I always did my own thinking. It was not something I made myself do, it was something I did naturally, anyway. Indeed, I think I would have found it much harder to do it the other way, the way almost everyone else did it: with reference to the thoughts of others. I couldn't do that. I didn't think that way. I wasn't built to absorb the thoughts of others and make them my own, undigested and uninterpreted. Yet, that was the way of most people.

So, when given a question to answer, I would answer it in my own way. Typically, this would result in an original answer, because I was not influenced by other people's prior thoughts. Yet, how was this creativity received? Was it welcomed by my teachers?

Well, the short answer is sometimes, yes, but often no. Even the times when it wasn't spurned, it wasn't really respected.

Once, for instance, I gave the beginnings of a book I had written, to my favourite English teacher, Mr. Stephen Kerruish, so that he could read it and give me feedback. He smiled his customarily broad smile on receiving it, took it from me, and listened as I asked him to let me know what he thought of it. I would like you to guess what he did with it. Have a good think.

I expected Stephen Kerruish, being my favourite English teacher, and one whose opinion I valued, to read my science fantasy story and perhaps provide some helpful comment. I hadn't shown it to anyone else and I trusted his opinion. He was the only person in the world, I let read my work. Not even my family got to read it. Well, I asked him about it, a week or so later, but he hadn't read it yet. He just nodded, and smiled and didn't commit himself to anything. A few weeks later, I still hadn't heard from him, so I asked again. He nodded again, smiled and didn't commit. I decided to be patient. Weeks became months and soon the months stretched to the end of the year. He never got back to me about it - and he never returned it. In time, I forgot to ask him anymore and I never saw my work again. Now, it had been perhaps a sixth of a book, written very quickly, over a few days. So, its loss was, to me, at the age of 15 or so, quite a loss, indeed. I never got the chance to read it again and I never got the chance to finish it. Of course, it was not anywhere near as well written as my later works - but, you know what, I would give anything to have it back, again, so I could have the chance to read my teenage thoughts and once more, come to know the boy I had been.

I found Stephen Kerruish's response discouraging. Clearly, my creative efforts meant nothing to him. He didn't even value it enough to return it to me - even if he couldn't be bothered to read it. The saddest part of it was that I respected him as an English teacher and really would have liked his opinion. In asking for it, I lost my work, because I never saw it again. How disenchanting.

That was my best experience, with teachers, with regards to creativity. So, at best, I received a smiling indifference.

I had an art teacher called Jeremy Bournon, who used to do something very demoralizing whenever I discussed my art ideas to him. He would laugh at me. He would laugh in my face. Now, I understand what he thought was funny. He thought my enthusiasm for my ideas was funny, he thought my passion was funny. He found it hilarious that I should care so much about my ideas - so he laughed at me. What is more he would encourage anyone else who was present to laugh, too. So, I would end up being laughed at, for ideas which were, actually, very original and striking (so much so that they were typically plagiarized and used professionally by others, in later years). I remember those discussions well. Jeremy Bournon would begin with a smirk, and end in a mocking laughter - and any others watching, would join in the general amusement at my expense.

That was how creativity was encouraged at my school, King's College School, Wimbledon.

Jeremy Bournon had another habit, too. He was forever mocking me for my name. He would try a dozen different variations on it, in one conversation. He would never get my name right. He would pretend that he couldn't remember it and would pretend to struggle to recall it. He would refer to me with a long list of wrong names, finding my irritation at being misnamed, most amusing. Again, he would invite witnesses to laugh with him. So, everytime I met him, he would go through this routine. He never failed to find it funny - perhaps because I never failed to find it irritating. I would, of course, supply him with my correct name, and he would pretend it was news, to him, and stop the chain of misnomers.

Another interesting habit of Jeremy Bournon was that he never attended his own lessons. I took A level art, but this "teacher" never showed up to teach me. So, I had no art teacher for A level at all. I don't know why this was so. Perhaps the school, in all its administrative efficiency, had not informed him of when my lessons were supposed to be. Who knows...or maybe he just couldn't be bothered.

The only interest he ever took in my art was to present it at a public showing, without my permission, to make it look like he had been doing some teaching. The art works were cut and framed up (thus permanently altering their characteristics in a way I had not chosen). Furthermore, I was not allowed to take them home, despite repeated enquiries. After I had left the school, I asked for my art back and no-one seemed to know where it was. There were indications that, perhaps, it had been thrown out. So, there went all my painstakingly created adolescent work. It should be noted that I had a very detailed style in those days, and would sometimes spend months on a single work. What a waste.

Then there was Cambridge University, which I have written about before. I would just like to remind you though, of the incredible hostility I received, from the academic staff, whenever I handed in a creative essay. Staff guilty of this included, Dr. Barbara Politynska, a psychologist of little apparent intelligence, who crumpled up my essay, most intently, and handed it back, after ironing it flat again. In the margins she had written comments like: "Is this a moral thesis or an extract from the Sun?". She behaved as if she had been highly offended by what was, after all, nothing more than an analytical work offering a different, perhaps challenging, perspective on some established thinkers. When she handed it back, she HAD TEARS IN HER EYES and said I was "precocious". Now, why being precocious would make her angry and tearful I have no idea. It was a most disturbing experience for me.

I never saw her again. Nor did I have a supervisor for the rest of the year, in Psychology. It was most bizarre.

Another terrible supervisor was Dr. Robert Lee Kilpatrick, who refused to mark my essay, called its 22 pages, a "work of inappropriate length", made an OFFICIAL COMPLAINT ABOUT ME to my college, for writing it, blamed me for Barbara Politynska's disturbed personality problems - and I ended up being disciplined, in a special hearing, for my "misconduct". Oh, and he never returned the essay, so I could not benefit from all the work I had put into what amounted to a thesis.

What had I done wrong? I had written essays based entirely on my own thought - and not that of others. That is all. It was really perturbing.

From that moment forwards, I wanted nothing more to do with Cambridge "University". It had shown itself to be positively inimical towards anyone with any thoughts of their own.

This post has been deliberately brief. It is little more than a precis of the events in question, a suggestion of what happened. Much more detail would make it too long to read. However, the lesson of my own educational experience, at school and University is this: creativity is NOT welcome, in the present education systems, in the UK at least. Being creative won me indifference at best and a venomous, seemingly jealous hostility at worst. I was even punished for being creative, at Cambridge. Now, how is that for encouraging creativity in the young?

The best place for a creative person is out of the school and University system altogether. There is no place for the creative person in the education system I grew up with. "Education" might as well be spelt "ERADICATION", where creativity is concerned.

So, what advice can I give to a creative person? Firstly, don't expect a positive response from authority figures, of any kind, if you choose to reveal your creativity to them. Expect jealousy and consequent hate from the more insecure and competitive ones. Expect to be plagiarized. Expect to be marginalized, for it. Secondly, find a quiet place of your own, secure from the interference of others, where you can work on your ideas and creative products, yourself. Work in peace. Expect no help from others. When you are ready and feeling strong, you may show your work, to someone in a position to bring it to the wider world (a publisher, a gallery, a scientific journal etc.) but preferably not someone who would be in a position to feel competitive towards you.

It won't be easy, but this is, unfortunately, the only safe way to proceed, if you are creative and wish to build any kind of creative career. You have to be tough - and you have to be immune to the discouragement that you will, inevitably, receive along the way, from the insecure, the jealous, the spiteful, the incomprehending, or the simply indifferent.

Don't give up, however. If you have something to say, make sure you find a way to say it - but like I have said, don't expect the journey to that point to be a happy one or an easy one. It won't be.

Best of luck.

(If you would like to learn more of Ainan Celeste Cawley, 10, or his gifted brothers, Fintan, 6 and Tiarnan, 4, this month, please go to:
http://scientific-child-prodigy.blogspot.com/2006/10/scientific-child-prodigy-guide.html

I also write of gifted education, child prodigy, child genius, adult genius, savant, megasavant, HELP University College, the Irish, the Malays, Singapore, Malaysia, IQ, intelligence and creativity.

My Internet Movie Database listing is at: http://imdb.com/name/nm3438598/
Ainan's IMDB listing is at http://imdb.com/name/nm3305973/
Syahidah's IMDB listing is at http://imdb.com/name/nm3463926/

Our editing, proofreading and copywriting company, Genghis Can, is at http://www.genghiscan.com/

This blog is copyright Valentine Cawley. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited. Use only with permission. Thank you.)