You were taller than us and you wore a bra you actually needed. You were new and we’d been at camp for years already. Excuses, excuses. The bullies wrecked you. And I let them.
They called you names. They locked you out of the bunk. They peed on your pillow. And I watched.
I was relieved. If they picked on you, they’d leave me alone. And so I said nothing. Not to you, not to the bullies and not to the counselors. And I should’ve.
I understand now that silence is complicity.
I want to think you’re a grown up now and camp is a distant memory, but I know better. If the summer we bullied you is my dark spot on my otherwise happy camp experience, than I can only imagine its a barely healed wound that easily bleeds for you. I wish I could go back and tell the mean girls to stop, because now I understand they would have. They were just as scared, just as insecure as I was. We could’ve stopped it. And we didn’t. And I’m forever sorry.
Mandy M. Roth
Michelle M. Pillow
Jackie Morse Kessler
Jesse L. Cairns
Ruth Frances Long