I remember shuffling into the musty auditorium as kids streamed through the six entrances, looking for a spot next to their friends. Each seat was a potential friend or foe. Depending on the lucky or unlucky soul that sat next to you, the next two-hour assembly could go in opposite directions. I make my way to the modest middle row in the sea of unknown faces and finally find one familiar face and quickly claim my spot. We joke and talk as the somber-faced administrators attempts to quiet us. They tell us the same sob story of how terrible bullying is, and its negative effects on those who are hurt. We all laugh it off, noting that we have heard the same exact speech twenty or even fifty times, depending on how dramatic the kid you are talking to is. Slowly, the lights dim as the creaky projector screen comes down, and the auditorium falls into a quiet hush.

“When I was a kid, I used to think that karate chops and pork chops were the same thing…” Cackling laughs throughout the crowd spark conversations and whispering among the students not taking the video seriously. As the video continues, rather than the expectant silence that came at the beginning of the film, a thoughtful silence overcomes the audience. The stories continue and gasps can be heard and shaking heads can be seen in that same sea of faces. The group is split: those who clearly understand and those who do not. If you look back closely at that crowd, you can see those who are watching the video, trying to understand. And then there are those lost in their own minds, replaying their own experiences being recounted through Shane’s words. You can almost see the names they were and are called appearing on their foreheads.

My friend taps me on the shoulder and mouths, “Are you okay?” Her face blurs before me as I pretend I do not hear her. I lose myself in the animation, pretending I cannot relate to the stories being told. Pretending I have not been hurt. Pretending that there is no damage in the names appearing on my forehead. But they will not go away. I rub and scratch. but they will never come off. I look back up expecting to see everyone pointing and laughing. Instead, I look up and see those around me, rubbing and scratching at their foreheads. The other half simply sitting there, idly looking on as if they do not see anyone around them ripping into themselves. I wonder whether I would sit idle if I did not have the names on my forehead. Would it be that easy?

“They were wrong…they have to be wrong, why else would we still be here?” On the way out, the sea is split again: those who are talking and those who are dead silent. We do not learn anything new about ourselves or bullying. But now we cannot ignore it. The names are forever ingrained on our foreheads. Maybe it’s better this way. I can now look out in an even larger sea and see those names. I can reach out across the vast oceans and remind others like me that it is only us who can begin, not to erase the names, but cover them up. We can build a better ocean, world, and day for those behind us so they never must know the pain of having the inscribed names on foreheads forever reminding you of the past and attempting to pull you back down to the deep depths of the sea that you refuse to return to. I will not let those simple words on my forehead destroy me, but never for a second will I let you claim that they do not influence me every day since being written on my head.