When I was a little kid I talked funny. I still do, but it was worse then. I slurred my s sounds. It wasn’t a lisp. It was more of a slur - like my tongue was kind of lazy and just didn’t want to do all the work. 

 My mortal enemy

So, in first grade for the whole first week Jay Jamison (almost his real name) made fun of me. I’d raise my hand and answer and he’d lean over his desk and repeat whatever I said only super exaggerating the bad s sounds. 

So, if the answer was Sunday, I’d raise my hand and say, “Sunday.”
And then he’d lean over and go, “Ssssssshunday.” 

And something inside me would tighten up. And something inside of me would want to cry so I’d have to press my lips together really hard. And something inside of me would die a little bit.

Then, things got worse. Jay got his friends to mock me too at recess. They’d stand around me and say s words, copying my voice, making their voices really high, laughing. They made fun of my last name, which was Barnard, and call me, “Carrie St. Bernard.” It was pretty bad. Sometimes they’d pull at my jacket or my hair. Sometimes they’d monster hug me, which meant they’d try to squish me. The entire time they’d make fun of my voice, my s’s, me.

So, I stopped talking. I stopped raising my hand. I stopped answering questions. I’d talk to my best friend Kathy Albertson and that was pretty much it. They had silenced me. And I also tried to be invisible because I figured if they didn’t notice me then they couldn’t hurt me. I wanted more than anything to have invisibility be my super power. I would pray for it every night.

Pretty much all of first grade I didn’t talk. It was too scary to talk. I didn’t ever raise my hand even though I always knew the answers. And when I did talk I would try really hard to find words without s sounds. (David Sedaris has a great essay about this. He did it too). And the teacher thought there might be something wrong with me in a special ed and/or emotionally challenged way. And she told my mom. And I promised my mom I would talk more in second grade. 

I spent the whole summer trying to learn how to talk better. I watched Sesame Street over and over to learn how, so yes, I modeled my voice after Muppets, which pretty much explains my voice now. Note: It is not the best idea to model your voice after Elmo and Big Bird and Grover.

 Yes, I taught Carrie how to talk

Then in second grade people still made fun of my voice, but my teacher, Mrs. Snearson gave us a haiku assignment that I totally aced and she realized I was smart, and pretty much protected me all that year. I also learned that if you give your snacks away to the kids who never had enough money for snacks they would protect you, too. And I also learned that if you asked people what was wrong when they cried, they’d protect you, too. And I also learned that Timmy Bourassa also liked smelly stickers, so I gave him some and then he protected me too. It was weird, but it was how I dealt. 

 The price of Timmy’s protection

And things got better for a long time. But then in seventh grade after years of speech classes that didn’t help my s sounds at all, one of my teachers made me stay during recess and said, “Carrie. You are never going to succeed because of your s’s. You’re a smart girl but you’ll always be a loser if your voice sounds like that. “

He told me I had no hope.
He told me that there was no point in me trying or going to college or even finishing high school if I didn’t get those s sounds fixed. 
He told me I would never succeed. 

I cried a lot in the hall and another teacher asked what happened. I still remember how red his face got when I told him. I remember him hugging me while I sobbed. I remember him storming into the first teacher’s room and yelling so loudly the whole school heard. That teacher saved me. My mom saved me too. She went to the school and complained. Nothing happened to the teacher, but I knew she cared and that was important. But no matter what either of them, or any of my friends said, that teacher’s words echoed in my head and in my soul for a super long time. They still echo there sometimes and I hear them in that teacher’s voice, and Jay’s voice, and those recess boys’ voices, and sometimes I hear them in my voice and that’s when it hurts the most. It hurts the most when I, myself, am thinking: 

I have no hope.
There is no point in me trying.
I will never succeed.
I am a loser. 

My two newest books have made the New York Times bestseller lists and bestseller lists in France and I’m published in a bunch of countries and I get fan mail, but I still can hear those words sometimes - not all the time - but sometimes. And I realize I cringe every time someone makes fun of speech impediments on tv or movies or books. And I realize that I still do what I did in second grade - I surround myself with people who protect me by making me feel better. If I’m really hurt, I’ll friends-lock blog about it and people are always so kind. That’s how I cope. But other people? They aren’t so lucky for a bunch of reasons. 

So, thanks to all of you who have ever helped me through a bully experience. I hope you know how awesome you are. 

 This is Phoebe.

So, I’ve been posting about bullying because of what happened to Phoebe Prince and others. Megan Kelley Hall and I are leading an effort of writers, readers, bloggers and people to raise awareness. We’ve a Facebook page with a lot of cool information going on, and that’s just the start of things, but please join if you have an account. Also, I’ll be posting links to people’s stories about their own personal bullying very soon, so please let me know if you’d like me to link to you. Thanks. 

Oh, and in super good news I just signed contracts for NEED and/or CAPTIVATE to be published in Bulgaria, Portugal, and somewhere else. Crud. I can’t remember where. Hold on...I’ll go look... Romania!