Love Letters Nearly Turned Me Into A Supervillain

Today, I want to tell a true story, which will give you insight into who I am. It may totally change how you perceive me, for better or worse, and I may create a series of true stories about me, depending on how it goes, but allow me to move on with this particular little diddy.

When I was in the second grade, four boys bullied me. By “bullied” I mean they beat me up. Usually, it was on the playground. I had to learn to stay where the teacher could see me. That was all I could do at eight years old. The teacher didn’t help me. She was the meanest teacher I ever had (more on that later). If I told her, I would get in trouble. This school had a funny definition of what tattling was. If you told on anybody for anything, you got in trouble.

Now if you feel sorry for me, don’t, because what I did to get back at those kids was one of the most sinister things I’ve ever done. It was clever, but I don’t condone my brilliantly wicked scheme that undoubtedly scarred these poor bullies for a time. Here’s the thing. While I had a couple of friends, I knew I couldn’t tell them what I was going to do. I was pretty friendly with the girls, too. We didn’t chat or hang out, but they didn’t mind me. None of them picked on me from what I remember. They stuck to themselves and loathed the boys who bullied me. They knew I was getting beaten up but didn’t tell because tattling got you in trouble. I honestly can’t remember if any of the girls tried to help me, but I knew that an enemy of my enemy could be an ally.

What I thought up, which was diabolical, couldn’t be known by anyone other than me. As I had mentioned before, this was a lone-wolf operation and it all started with me learning how they wrote. You can probably see where this is headed, considering the title of the post. It wasn’t hard to get samples of their writing, everyone usually threw away their classwork. These bullies didn’t write well. All I had to do was misspell words, leave out punctuation, turn some letters backward, and voila. I’ve crafted work that looked exactly like theirs. As far as how I voiced the letters, it didn’t matter as long as it sounded robotic. My name is Bryan. I like apples. Apples start with the letter A. Do you like apples… Easy peasy.

So at home and sometimes at school, when I had finished with an activity ahead of others, I wrote love letters from the bullies to girls, who again despised them. I planted these letters where the girls or the teacher would find them. When the girls found these letters, they hated the boys so much that they gave them to the teacher. I had figured that they wouldn’t be reprimanded because they didn’t want love letters from these boys. They hated them. I also had figured that the teacher, as mean as she was, would direct her rage at the one who she believed had written the letters. Remember when I said this teacher was the meanest I ever had? I wasn’t exaggerating. (Near the end of the school year, I snuck a recorder into class and taped how she screamed at us. I shared it with my mom, who referenced her shock many times, even decades later). Sometimes we cried as a class because of the teacher and it seemed she took some kind of pleasure out of it. So imagine her rage when she learned a boy had written a love letter to a girl in her class. (She lost her everlasting mind.)

Whatever we were doing when the letter came to the attention of the teacher was no longer a matter. After she read the poorly written note where the bully seemed to profess his love for a girl who hated him and he most likely hated in return, she went ballistic. A shouting match between the teacher and the innocent boy captivated all within earshot, and, as entertaining as it was, it was equally disturbing.

Yes, I did one letter at a time. Four letters at once would’ve blown my cover. But for each of them, the outcome was the same. They stood up to the mean teacher and said things that got them into real trouble. Sure, they ended up on the playground bench and had silent lunch for a while, but that and the humiliation was only part of the hell they had to endure. Who knows what they had to deal with when they saw the principal? I’m sure their parents may have been called, too. Now that I think about it, these bullies probably wondered who wrote these letters. If they ever thought it was me, they never said so. Most likely, they thought the girls hated them so much that they wrote it to get them in trouble. Good luck selling that to the meanest teacher ever or even to Aunt Selma, who keeps telling you and anybody else who’d listen, “You’re in love, so stop actin’ like you don’t have a little girlfriend back in school.”

Before the teacher discovered a second letter, I was already satisfied with the outcome. I had started with the meanest bully first, but I wanted to get them all back. I waited a week or two before planting it. Even as a child, I knew not to do this in one day or even a week. I can’t remember if it was the second or the third boy who snatched the letter from the teacher’s hand and threw it at her, but I do know that I felt bad for him. Even thought about stopping, but I would not, which nearly ended disastrously for me.

I remember writing the fourth and final letter. It had been weeks since I dropped the first one. It was time to finish it and fulfill my revenge. I wrote it, mimicking the bully’s handwriting. Of course, all the letters were written differently. Simply but differently. We were working at our desks. The love interest in this letter sat close to me. While she was with the teacher, I leaned over and shoved the final letter inside her desk. But there was a problem. Her other neighbor, another girl, saw me do it. She reached in and took it out. I watched her read it. Horror coursed through me. If she told the teacher, it would be known that I was the writer of all the letters. When she looked at me, she mouthed the words, “It was you.”

I can’t remember what I said. I may not have said anything. But I do know that I pleaded with her. Hands folded as if in prayer, begging for her silence. If the teacher found out, I would be in a world of the most unrefined stench. Ironically enough, it would’ve been justice. But like I said before, snitches weren’t honored at that school, and the girls weren’t friends with the bullies nor did they receive a verbal lashing on account of those letters. They didn’t ask for those letters. So, she gave me the letter back and said, “Don’t do it again.” And I didn’t.

I let it go. The last guy, the last bully, was spared. But for the rest of that year and even the year after, I avoided these kids by staying in view of the teachers. I went where they couldn’t bother me. While I found satisfaction in having them humiliated and scorned in the classroom, I knew what I had done was wrong—brilliant, but wrong. Had not that girl found me out, I’m sure I would’ve grown into a real-life supervillain. I know this because deep down a part of me is still willing to write the letter and plant it so that the last bully can face the wrath of the meanest teacher I had ever known. It may have gone something like this:

Hi Manby I see you qlay on d jum rooq I can jum rooq reel gud I like you vere mush you r my girfend but don tell we keep it a cekrit
luv
Tommy

I know. I’m horrible. Don’t tell though, please!