It's Not All Good.

The bus was already crowded when it stopped at 3rd and University. Passengers poured in and out, front and back, many eager to leave downtown after a long Monday. As I sat scribbling in my notebook, folks settled into their positions for the ride back to West Seattle. 

Without warning, a shrill noise bellowed from the speaker above my head, shooting through my torso and jolting my bottom into a pair of convulsing Bundt cakes. 

“Will the woman in the pink scarf sitting by the back door please come to the front and pay your fare?” It was so loud, the driver’s voice contorted like Motörhead in a Tuff Shed, somewhere between one-and-a-half and two chainsaws in volume.

"This isn’t the Rapid Ride! You must pay the fare to ride this coach,” the metallic shriek continued. "Please come to the front, pay your fare and it’s all good.”

My ears rang. All good? Really? I thought. Not for those of us just bludgeoned by your bountiful tweeters, and definitely not for the lady in the pink scarf. 

Sitting just a few feet away, the woman gathered her purse and stood, her head bowed. Fifty sets of eyes watched the shamed moocher as she weaved her way slowly toward the front, surely destined for one last admonishment from the captain.

Well that was bullshit, I thought. Come on. Sure, the lady didn’t pay her fare, but you, King County Metro driver, took it upon yourself to hijack your riders’ attention in the most invasive manner available, just so we’d all be present for the awarding of the scarlet letter. 

Moments later the woman returned to her seat, her face still pointed at the grainy floor. Passengers surrounded her but all ignored her, their eyes glued to their smartphones like Mrs. Butterworth to the Sunday sports section.

Most of us have encountered our share of bullies, especially growing up. But have you ever observed an oppressive adult and wondered the extreme: 

What if that bus driver was on the other side in 1940s Nazi Germany? What if she were given free reign to intimidate, to manipulate or worse?

Would she? Nah. Maybe.

Your brain may not perform these types of pointless exercises, but every so often I’ll run across a fellow American who makes me a little happier that the Americans came out on top in World War II. 

I’ve always liked the term, “It’s all good.” A friendly, positive phrase, it’s one used most effectively when diffusing an awkward situation. 

This time it created one.

Bullies to the left of me, outcasts to the right.

Have you ever been bullied?

Have you ever been a bully?

Have you ever felt so ostracized that you wanted to devolve into an amoeba and squirm back into the earth's primordial bisque?

Have you ever humiliated someone so badly that you felt as if someone else were actually inhabiting your body, manipulating the controls like an evil, goatee-wearing anti-you?

This morning, my ten-year-old daughter and I embarked on the first leg of Middle School Rush, 2011, where we visit a few schools and then make a choice. Upon entering the cafeteria at one of these sixth, seventh and eighth grade facilities, we were assaulted by the biggest non-freeway sign upon which I've ever focused my retinas.

The banner read, "I will report any bullying to an adult at school and at home. Our school does not tolerate bullying of any kind." The letters were hand drawn, but had they been digitally rendered, we're talking 4512 point, Helvetica Nueue Extra Bold Extended.

I stared at that sign. I focused on it while I should have been listening to the presentation. I thought about all the times I've been the victim of intimidation or have dealt it out myself.

There was that eighth grader who, every time his saw my chubby, seventh grade body walking down the junior high hallway toward him, conjured up a different creative way to terrorize me. Whether it was hawking a mouthful of his DNA into my face, slugging me in the stomach or sticking his foot out as I rounded a corner, in my dreams and conscious thought, his image personified dread.

I can't remember singling out my own victims back in those days, but I certainly never came to the defense of the exploited, nor did I avoid pointing out an individual's physical or intellectual anomalies to them... face to face, for all the minions in my mob to appreciate.

I, and so many others, wore both faces of bullying. According to the American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry, half of all school age children have or will be victims of bullying, and ten percent will suffer repeatedly. Most bullies have also been subject to physical abuse or bullying themselves.

Even if we don't recall being overtly bullied, who doesn't remember moments feeling ostracized, whether it was lining up to choose teams at recess and being picked last, or being the only kid not invited to a slumber party.

So many degrees.

Nothing beats a good Hollywood outcast story, where the social pariah defies the odds, defeats his oppressors and pumps his fist in slow motion to end the movie. I'm not sure real life follows suit so closely.

Both Karate Kids—Jaden Smith and the forty-two-year-old-who-played-a-fourteen-year-old-Ralph Macchio—portrayed outcasts who emerged successfully, but had to learn to kill flies with chopsticks first. The same held true for David Carradine in Kung Fu. He had to kick ass to get respect. I always thought he was the epitome of cool...right up until that last part.

Some movie outcasts emerge victorious with no talent or skill, just grit, determination or luck. Examples of this category are The Bad News Bears, Rocky and any role awarded to Keanu Reeves.

Others gained acceptance, but only due to a freakish attribute, such as Rudolph, Rain Man and John Holmes.

And finally, scores of cinematic misfits have typified the dark side of rejection, where insecurity morphed into angst, which exploded into psychosis. Cases in point: Robert DeNiro in Taxi Driver, Sissy Spacek in Carrie and Charlie Sheen in Winning.

As I sat in that middle school cafeteria, I finally commanded my brain to hail a mental taxi and return to the present moment;  I needed to cease with the ruminating about bullying. After all, I never spoke with my parents about it, and look how I turned out.

I think it's time to have a talk with my kid.