She never saw it coming, and then there was peanut butter everywhere. Her new khaki pants were ruined, the whole classroom burst out laughing, and she didn’t come back to school for the rest of the day. She was my best friend, we were 13, and it was all my fault.
Earlier that day I decided it would be funny to smear the tan paste all over the seat of her wooden desk chair. The mess was hidden so well that I barely held back giggles as I tiptoed away from her chair and waited from across the room. The moment she sat down I felt a twinge of regret, but the cheers from my classmates almost immediately filled my ears. I had managed to make everyone laugh and only one person cry.
None of us is our finest self at 13, but that particular memory is not one of which I am very fond. Much worse, the peanut butter incident is not the only instance of its kind. My junior high years saw other practical jokes and public humiliations, which unfortunately won me a sort of feared popularity. I eventually snapped out of it (probably around the time puberty concluded), but even at 25 I still find myself holding sadness around what I did at 13. At least for a time in my life, I was a bully.
Though I did not bully on the explicit basis of sexual orientation, race, religious affiliation, or gender, my bullying did stem from a similar place: a need to distance myself from the other. I recognized that if I could find a way to draw public attention to the ways in which a classmate was different from me, I could confirm my own normalcy and acceptability. By humiliating the other, I tried to find affirmation in community. What I actually found was disunity, brokenness, and ultimate self-rejection.
On some level we all know that bullying is wrong. We don’t need the Golden Rule or complex systematic theological arguments to convince us of this fact, but we do need them to help us hold each other accountable. That, I believe, is the wonderful task of a good theologian: to remind us of that which we already know, give us the courage to pursue the higher path, and encourage us to ask for forgiveness when we are not our finest selves.
One of my favorite theologians on the subject of otherness is Eastern Orthodox metropolitan John Zizioulas. In his book Communion and Otherness, Zizioulas argues that while it is in our nature to define ourselves against the other (or in my case, to seek affirmation by humiliating difference), the nature of the triune God calls us into a different model of self-understanding. As God exists and finds unity within a mutual acceptance of three distinct persons, so are we to find unity among one another. In other words, the Trinity models for us what we are to strive for in our communities: true and free love that comes only from allowing otherness.
What might this mean in a little less abstract terms? Zizioulas in a way affirms my own experience at 13: community, love, and true acceptance never comes from suppressing or bullying difference. Though I was popular for a time, the social cohesion brought on by bullying was an illusion loosely knit together by fear, anxiety, and misery.
Furthermore, I had not only rejected my friend as other, but I had also rejected the otherness in myself. In bullying my friend I presented to the class a version of myself that I thought was acceptable – a version of self that denied whole parts of me. While looking for group acceptance, I found self-rejection. In sum, bullying sucks.
If suppression of difference does not build community or foster unity, what does? How can we work to love and accept otherness? Zizioulas’ argument is incredibly challenging in that he recognizes that only God has accomplished what God calls us to do. I suspect we are simply not capable of achieving the sort of perfect unity that is professed in Trinitarian theology, but that is not to say we should stop striving for it. This is hardly a zero sum equation – we either achieve perfect unity or fail.
Instead, I suspect that we live in countless moments where the opportunity for unity and freedom in love can exist. When we, as Zizioulas says, “love the other not only in spite of his or her being different from us but because he or she is different from us” then we both live and love in freedom and joy. Though it may only last for a moment, when we love the other and the otherness in ourselves, we are privileged with a glimpse at the remarkable creativity of our Creator and our own baffling, precious part of creation. And so may we all strive to love as we have been loved by the Author of diversity.
Wow, I’m a bully too–I pulled the chair out from under one of my best friends in 4th grade and everybody shunned me afterward. I had never realized until you clearly articulated how and why we do this–I thought I’d get a laugh, but instead of being more popular, I was considered mean. I didn’t like how this felt and how you tied it together with a Trinitarian understanding of faith was really comforting to me–thanks for your unique perspective and post.
Beautiful reflection, Kari – I appreciate your vulnerability, too.
I think Zizioulas offers a helpful model of relationship through perichoresis (of course I’m biased toward Orthodox theologians!). I can’t remember if he discusses this specifically in “Communion and Otherness,” but one of the connotations of the term “perichoresis” in greek is dance/dancing. It might be interesting to stretch this idea and conceptualize acceptance of/community with others as a dance. Sometimes its awkward – it gets off on the wrong foot, we don’t know the song or the moves are unfamiliar. But with practice and commitment dance partners can settle into a graceful step – maybe even appearing to move as one unit on the dance floor.
Anyway – I’m grateful you’ve offered perichoresis as a conceptual model for community. Now you’ve got me thinking about other possibilities… stay tuned for a post down the road!
This spoke to me, “I recognized that if I could find a way to draw public attention to the ways in which a classmate was different from me, I could confirm my own normalcy and acceptability. By humiliating the other, I tried to find affirmation in community. What I actually found was disunity, brokenness, and ultimate self-rejection.” I think we have all been there, in one way or another. Recognizing this is half the battle. What we do next is up to us. Thanks for a great read! 🙂
Kari, while most of us will quite willingly recount those instances in which we were victimized, it is a truly courageous person who will lift up stories of being the victimizer. It is this courage that will begin to reshape the culture–somehow we must not simply communicate “stop!” to those who bully; we must find a way to say, “we will love you deeper than the roots of this impulse.” I love the “It Gets Better” campaign, as this is such an important message–but it seems like one we should also somehow give to bullies as well. Perhaps if they/we had a sense of the possibilities of true communion with others–as described so eloquently in your piece–they/we would not seek the cheap and temporary thrill of bullying.
Kari – thanks for this lovely post! I found it insightful and helpful. Also, I think the definition you gave of a theologian is fantastic and I will probably use it – and credit you, of course.