School hazing

I was once a terrible bullies. My parents from the fiftieth to the fifty-third year of the past, the 20th century worked in the small, then still district, Ukrainian city of Cherkasy on the banks of the Dnieper, just below Kiev. My mother taught the history of the CPSU( b) in the pedagogical institute, and my father was a teacher of history and geography in high school. Once in the third grade( then I studied in Moscow) a real music teacher came to us, with a violin. I sat at the fourth desk and saw the violin only from afar. But I was fascinated by this violin of a limping teacher. He played the real violin. I could not then guess, and he did not explain to us how everything is arranged in the violin, he just played good music and learned songs with us. I then did not know that the horse's hair was tight on the bow. I thought that the bow was a long plaque with a notch attached to the wand, so that they would touch the string. But the bow with the "notches" not only suited me, but fascinated me. In Moscow in 950 I could not dream of a music school. Musical schools were not only located too far from my working area, but also morally unattainable. When we were in Cherkassy, ​​my dad, knowing about my dream, found out that in this city, and not so far from the apartment that was given to my mother, there is a muse

school. He took me there for a trial;to his surprise, they accepted me, and I did not become the very last student there. Then only I realized that on the bow - horse hair, and not a plastic plate with barbs. And my violin teacher Yakov Lvovich Yanov went with his parents and with me to the local musical instruments store to choose the violin half. Factory, not a master. .. But still my happiness was almost immeasurable;it was clouded only by the fact that the parents did not have enough money for the case. And my mother made me a flapper from my flannel for my violin. You will understand why I wrote about it in detail. Flannel was not very well separated from the street fragile defenseless tool. A boy with a squeak - it irritated the boyish freedom. Yes, and the girl Tanya, nicknamed Peach returned all the time with me from the music school. This also annoyed. And I was beaten from time to time. A feeling of just anger was embracing me. But more than for my honor, I was afraid for the violin. And when they started to beat, I blocked my violin with my whole being and all the low-power biomass. Well, they were beaten and left, but the violin is intact, and I once again, embarrassed by the cheholchik, went to see TanyaPersik. And after spending some time, he ran into the zagradotryad from Yakovenko's bodyguards, a two-penny schek, a head in scars, a repetition, a two-man, who occasionally switched to cola. And one day I "quietly" put off the violin - whatever happens - and moved to the zagradotryad. I did not see any of the detachment. I saw only Yakovenko with my narrowed consciousness. The friends parted. I said:

- Are we jumping?- My voice was shaking. ..

Interrupting - this was for Yakovenko habitual. But with the younger ones. I was a classmate. And Yakovenko was a repetition. However, we were the same in the weight category. To the honor of Yakovenko, he did not scare - well, how: There were a lot of large and smaller scars on the shaved head - peculiar "medals for courage".The then "skinheads" were sheared by school hairdressers violently, and this was not a uniform, but a "sanitary norm".Only us, intelligent boys with scratches and musical folders, teachers allowed a tiny bang that represented the object of envy. Interfacing - it meant that the boys from the team did not dare to beat. Interrupting is a duel. It should be on an equal footing. Yakovenko became a standard position. But I worked non-standard - where such an experience? Approaching closely - eyes in the eyes, I chtom hissed, seemingly not preparing to beat. I already knew that Field Marshal Suvorov was feebly talking about speed and pressure, and poet;I did not wiggle my arms and legs, but, clenching my fists, I suddenly put them under the chin of the reptile. Elbows closer to the bottom. And, gathering all the strengths of his weak hands to the point, Yakovenko fell with two fists. And then I kicked him where I had to. I do not know how many shramovmedaley added to his shaved head but bruises on his "hara" was a lot. And the whole school case about hooliganism of the pupil of the fourth class has been got. His parents were called. And how is this: a mother teaches history in a teacher's college, a father-teacher is old at school, and brought up a bully.

It was the hardest time for me to talk to my mom and dad. I said that if I was still touched, I would kill Yakovenko. Of course, right now I would not ask the court even to put this boy in the story. In the story, I gave only all the emotions that I experienced. But my parents moved me to another school just in case. And in it there was a similar story. Fifth grade. There, the storm of classmates was the second year of Semenchenko. It was in Ukraine. So - Semenchenko. He had ringworm on his head. And he did this: he carried his palm along his head and immediately on the head and face( dada, and on the face) of any boy. As a result, many of them also had ringworm. Parents and teachers did not notice or, at least, were silent. To me, Semenchenko for the time being did not fit. But my happiness did not last long. Approached. And he made his own key gesture - he ran his hand over his head. .. But he did not have time on my head. .. I decided earlier that we will not give. And again a non-standard solution( now, maybe it's standard, but then I came up with it myself suddenly).I stepped on his foot and pushed him with both fingers into his chest. He fell. And again the beating of Eagle Arkasha by the hooligan - on the head from the blows of my heels it was difficult to understand where he had ringworms, and where bruises. I had to translate the hooligan Egides into a parallel fifth grade. Now I understand that Semenchenko was so assertive that it was hypercompensation: Ugly, lagging, with ringworm, unhappy. Teachers should have pity him, do something good for him, of course, apart from treatment. But then I, too, was unhappy, and the only happiness was to beat the offender.

And in the sixth grade of the same school I had to fight for the right to "shoot", that is, to take care, for an excellent pupil( and I, too, was an excellent pupil, dammit) Alla Lysenko. Here already a Russian boy Avdeev from the seventh "B" came up to me and resolutely said:

- For Bald - do not shoot Did you understand?

I had to fight - again a duel, but not by the rules. I was struck by a blow to the head - a well-known hooligan reception, no creativity - so simple, one impudence. As a result, my parents were called to the director: take, they say, your bully from school. .. But here we moved to Russia, to Penza. To say that my situation has changed, I can not. All the same. Only more terrible, because the blows were more powerful. It was the seventh class. But my parents, believing Khrushchev, left to build socialism in a separate collective farm in Penzenshchina, and I went to my grandma and grandfather to my native Moscow, where I continued to study at a music school, finished seventh grade and entered a paramedic school with girls all over, andsmall boys were no longer so pugnacious.

Teaching in the eighties in the teacher training Universities, I specifically became interested in aggression in the children's and adolescent environment. Other psychologists for some reason and teachers were more interested in anything: left-handed, nearsighted, alcoholic, but not conflict. But I remember my school life as a constant struggle for dignity, which was trampled on by the older guys, and therefore this topic is close to me. And when they talk about hazing in the army, I understand, as we saw on the example of my misadventures, that