Cameron Academy-Personal Narrative Essay

Standing up to a bully was super nerve racking. I was super scared and nervous. I had to make the decision whether to keep getting bullied or standing up to the bully. My choice was to stand up to him. He would always make me feel embarrassed and as if I were an alien because he would always pick on me. He would call me names in school where his only audience was.

I may have started the verbal fight, but he was the one that threw the first punch. Normally physical fighting is way beneath me, as I find it unnecessary, but this guy was just so arrogant. So I hit him back. The teachers got mad and sent us both to the office. I got off with a warning and a disapproving stare from the principal, who I am now pretty sure hates me.. The Jock wasn’t so lucky. He got three days worth of suspension. I don’t think this was his first offense.

The school bus was a cesspool of all sorts of not-so -nice things. I had a very strict bus driver, and a couple of my friends and I made quite a bit of noise, so the bus driver split us up, assigning me a seat with the 8th graders. It was like waving a baby in front of a pit-bull, and I got destroyed. The girls were nice enough but those 8th grade boys really enjoyed calling me all sorts of various male genitalia-based names that I probably shouldn’t repeat here. It was my first experience as a bullying victim, and I was determined to make it my

There was was a boy that got picked on everyday that he came to school. His name was Paul Blart. He was in 5th grade with 7 boys and 14 girls. Most of the boys would pick on him and a few girls too. He would always get put down and by the kids just because he wasn't athletic and he would always be telling you what to do.

The classroom quietened as Michael spoke, which he took to be a good sign, and he stepped away from his desk, with papers in hand. The request for the scene to be recapped was issued as he glanced around the room to put a face to the name of the first paper; a boy by the name of Brendon Jones; and was met with silence.

When I was younger I was bullied by half of my elementary class mates. Everyone would just watch as I was getting beat up by the main kid. Never once did I give up and trough out all those beatings I learned a way to defend my-self. I memorized every punch and kick he would throw at me and eventually I stood up to him. I showed him that he couldn’t pick on me or anyone else. Eventually he learned to forgive

I can't remember exactly when it started, but i do remember going through it. I can remember almost everybody who had bullied me. I think it was because i was a small tiny girl barely 5’0 or maybe it was because i would come with my hair braided back and i would look like a boy. Could have been because i was just too quiet and couldn't take up for myself. I remember all the names that they would call me. I remember crying because

From 3rd grade on, there were people in my class that did not like me, no matter how nice I tried to be to them. It started out as simple name calling, which hurt a 3rd grade version of me tremendously. It progressively got worse until the 5th

How can anyone defeat an opponent if they can't even defeat themselves? The struggle between internal conflict and external drowned out any ability to reason as I took on something I knew well, but I hardly recognized it for it's true nature. Ignorance is not the bliss that it is often mistaken for.

The time in my life when I was bullied was a very rough patch and unfortunately a time that I have no memory of. My brain has seemed to block out these events from my mind as I have no recollection of the third grade. I was bullied at a very young age due to my shyness. The second reason I was bullied was due to the fact I was one of the youngest students in the class and also extremely tiny for my age. I fit in better playing with the boys because they were more friendly and just as smart as me, and I was much more girly than the other 8 girls in my class.

As I looked around, my eyes landed on Mr. Tate, he was just sitting in his desk completing some paperwork, while I was helpless. I looked out the window; my ears focused on the clicking noise the students made while typing. Not a single word was said when doing the assignment, but I wanted to raise my hand and let the teacher know that I didn’t know what to do; instead

Consequently, the bullying and bashing did not really start until the end of fifth grade, on the way up the ladder of being “big kids” in the sixth grade. With the intention of making Camilla uncomfortable, one day a boy by the name Josh of took her lunch bag and dumped it on the table vociferously stating, “What’s that Camilla? You bring your whole fridge today?” I remember her crying and going home later that day because of the continuous jokes being made at her expense. After that day, I made sure no one else uttered another reprehensible word to her. Every time someone said something cruel, I was sure to speak up. Over the next couple years, I lost multiple

When I was in middle school around the sixth grade, a student in my class always picked on me and made me

Twenty-six students, myself included, chattered at our desks in Mrs. Jacob’s bright orange, poster covered room. “Hey, when is that paper for history due? Today? You have to be kidding me.” “Can you submit some artwork to the Student Literary Arts Magazine? We don’t have nearly enough.” “I was up until three A.M. AGAIN last night doing homework.” “No band practice tonight! I can go home and sleep!” A melodic buzz of voices saturated the air, accented by the rhythmic tapping and scribbling of pencils. A low hum could be heard for a millisecond before the bell toned over our voices, signaling the start of class.

Simeon stared down at the paper hoping that the words would just appear there. Why did teachers make him write stuff? Why essays? All they did was make Simeon’s hand cramp and his head throb, and that tapping was getting really annoying. “James!”