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"My Living Nightmare with an Online Bully: Episode 8"

Growing up, I was made fun of by my younger brother and male cousins for being an ABCD (American Born Confused Desi) because I was “too American,” aka “too white,” and not Pakistani enough to their expectations. And I went through a phase, mostly during my college years, where I wished I had lighter skin, even choosing to wear green or violet colored contact lenses to appear prettier or more exotic because I wanted to be accepted by the cute white boys, I found myself attracted to in college. Since I never dated or was even asked out by guys in high school, I figured the new eye wear could help boost my chances with a love life on a college campus.

It boiled down to this: I was being ridiculed by my family for not being Pakistani enough, and I was being overlooked by the cute white boys (possibly) for being too Pakistani. I couldn't win.

And now here I was, several years later, being accused of hating white men?

What the hell was happening?

Did I lapse into some alternate universe?

Like really, y’all, what the fuck?

I don’t think I’ve wanted white people’s approval more than anything in my life. I say this as a partial exaggerated statement, but growing up, in my eyes, white folks had it all. They lived in the better houses on the better side of town, not the South Side of Monroe where all of us “coloreds” lived where our homes looked nothing like the beautiful two-story houses on Deborah Drive over on the North Side. Plus, white people were usually the beautiful cheerleaders and the handsome football players at Ouachita Parish High, and they were most likely to be voted on the homecoming court as queen or elected as prom king because everyone loved and accepted them. I wanted that for myself, but more importantly, I wanted them to love and accept me back.

And when I finally got to a point in my life where I was and am okay with my beautiful brown skin and my dark brown eyes, where I am happy with being just me and not caring about what others think, where only I need to be loved and accepted by ME—I am now being accused of hating the one people I admired the most, the one people whose approval I deeply wanted once upon a time?

What. The. Fuck?

This experience with “The Bully” has been a betrayal in great proportions for me, and I don’t know how I will ever be able to reconcile what happened to me. In the days, weeks, and now months since last summer, I have found myself feeling very uncomfortable around some white men. And I say “betrayal” because I always played “the game” right by adhering to “their” rules, assimilating into the American culture—even at the cost of losing my own Pakistani identity at times, where I felt like an outcast within my own family.

For every guy who broke my heart, who all happened to be white, I still felt I was to blame for them not loving me back, believing there was something wrong with me.

I was spiraling within my own thoughts:

I felt less than.

I blamed myself for not being what they wanted me to be—whatever that may have been.

Maybe I was supposed to be weak and dependent, relying on them for help so they wouldn't feel intimidated by me.

Maybe I was supposed to be the one who made less money than they did so they wouldn’t feel inadequate around me.

Maybe I was supposed to be the stereotypical submissive Asian girl who should keep her opinions to herself and her mouth shut but remain exotic enough to fuck.

Or.

Maybe some white men are just insecure, misogynistic, racist dipshits.

I don’t know, but it wasn’t enough; I was never enough.

After all, if I had been better or enough, then the “Actor” would have never cheated on me and left me.

“Howard Hughes” would have never ghosted me.

And the “Dude,” aka my (former) handsome neighbor with the cute dog, would be knocking on my door right now, begging for me to grab a bite to eat with him and his sweet pup again.

*Right?!

Again, this would all be so funny if it wasn’t so bizarre and dangerously hurtful for my mental well-being.

At this point, I had started confiding to a few of my close friends who were not fellow educators, letting them know what I was dealing with, that my emotional psyche was being greatly affected by “The Bully’s” torment. In the past, I’ve always shared little of my teaching world with my non-teaching friends because sometimes I just don’t want to talk about work when I’m with them, plus it’s sometimes hard explaining my world to folks who’ve never been on the teacher’s side of a classroom with 35+ students. It might not be fair to assume, but I’ve never felt like they get it. But now, with what I was dealing with, I needed their support, and they needed to know what I was going through. And in the midst of this experience, I was still dealing with the loss of Jerry, one of my closest friends from college who died earlier in the year, way too soon at 47. Jerry L. Johnson, my dear friend, a beautiful black gay man who would understand and actually “get” what I was going through was not around for me anymore.

Ever since I started teaching in 2007, I have dealt with my fair share of students complaining to me about their grades and even about my teaching style. It’s just part of the job—you’re never going to satisfy every student. And I’ve never shared much about this with my non-teaching friends or family. Teachers do a lot of work for very little pay and gratitude. It’s not really a field known for its high paying salary, even if college professors make more money than the K-12 educators. But let’s be honest, it is a profession that should pay more than it does because of the amount work we do and for the services we provide for our students—with very little appreciation in return. Yes, we are in this profession for the students, and my best memories from teaching stem from the many positive interactions with students whose lives were made better from being in my classroom and vice versa because I learn so much from them as well. Some of my friendships today are with former students!

But even with all the good we do and the great experiences this profession can bring, there have been hazards with this job that we don’t talk about, and here I was going through the most hazardous part of the job—being bullied by a student over a fucking failing grade. (Workers' comp, y'all!) And this experience was affecting my personal well-being and mental health in a really shitty way, and I never felt more alone in my life.

Read on to Episode 9.

*Just for clarification, for the last 2 years, I've gone out with 4 men. I walked away from all of them since I didn't feel I should settle for less. I do know my self-worth.

Source: "My Living Nightmare with an Online Bully: Episode 8"

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