Picture, if you will, a small, quiet girl with glasses, wearing an ugly blue plaid school jumper and knee socks, her hair pulled back in a long ponytail. Of the 6–8 kids at the bus stop, only her two older sisters were dressed like her. All the other kids wore regular clothes and attended public school. When the bus arrived, the pecking order ensured that the older kids rode in the back of the bus, with eighth graders holding court in the very back row. Kids in other grade levels spaced themselves in descending grade order, with the youngest kids nearest the driver. As a second grader, my seat was closer to the front, under the watchful eye of our bus driver, a silent man who seemed to keep order with just a purposeful glance in the rearview mirror.

The din of boisterous kids grew louder the further back you traveled. If it began getting out of hand, the bus driver would threaten to hand out demerits, effectively kicking troublemakers off the bus for a few days. That was before kids were regularly driven to school, so it would be an inconvenience for busy parents. The bigger kids in the back were caught up in their own conversations. This is where my sisters sat, joining in and trying to blend in.

So every school day, I’d make my way to my seat four rows behind the driver. And every day, the annoying older boy in the seat behind mine would poke and prod, and eventually grab my hair and give it a good yank. When I’d turn around and tell him to stop, he’d laugh, mimic me, and laugh some more. This went on every morning, without fail. I stopped wearing two pigtails, as he’d grab them with both hands, smacking my head against the back of the seat with more force than one would expect.

As a middle child, I was used to fighting my own battles, but this kid was relentless. When I finally told my mom what was happening, she told me I should just ignore it, and he’d lose interest. She said he was probably doing it for attention and that he probably liked me. She told my sisters to watch out for me. I wondered why I was expected to just put up with having some jerk pull my hair until he grew tired of the game.

The next day after school, right after I took my seat, Mr. Grabby Hands gave my hair another big yank. When my head hit the back of the seat, I snapped. I jumped out of my seat and whipped around—52 pounds of pure anger—flailing fists of fury at whatever parts of him I could reach. He was completely caught off guard, too shocked to even cover his face, getting hit by a small, angry girl in glasses, knee socks, and a plaid jumper. My frenzy wasn’t over until the bus driver, who unbeknownst to me had stopped the bus, forcibly pulled me away. With angry tears streaming down my face and fists swinging in the air, I said through clenched teeth, “I told you to stop pulling my hair!” My little fists caused more embarrassment than physical injury, but that outburst had been a long time in the making.

Without a word, the driver moved me to the seat directly behind him. The rest of the ride home was quiet, except for the big kids in the back, who were far enough away to speak in hushed tones. As I got off the bus, the driver gave me the usual nod, but no demerit. I assumed my mom would be getting a call, so I walked slowly home from the bus stop, certain I’d be in enough trouble to merit the use of my middle name.

“Stacy Lynn, you’re in big trouble. Wait ’til your father hears about this!”

But no call ever came—not then. Not ever. My sisters didn’t tell, as they would have gotten in trouble for not looking out for me. In hindsight, I bet the bus driver was a girl dad, because he didn’t seem to take issue with my actions.

The next morning, the ride to school was equally subdued. It wasn’t until after school that day when the neighbor boys, who were my sisters’ age, began chanting with raised fists as we walked toward our houses, “Bobcat Lynn! Bobcat Lynn!” Apparently, they delighted in sharing the story of how a fierce little girl seemingly jumped out of nowhere, like an angry little bobcat, and beat up a kid much bigger than herself. Before long, the excitement died down, and normal order returned to the neighborhood.

If that whole exchange had happened today, I wonder how it would have been handled. Would the kid have been stopped sooner? Would I have? And would we both have been held accountable? While some believe that violence is never justified, it was my last resort when other options failed. It’s important to note that my violent streak ended there. Maybe it was because once I proved I wasn’t an easy target, I didn’t get picked on anymore.

Back in those days, kids were encouraged to handle things on their own on playgrounds and buses, and in many ways, it helped make us resilient. As parents today, our roles have become very different from what was expected back then. The world seems bigger now, and threats loom larger. And there’s no denying that today is full of more dire things than hair-pulling and fistfights.

Interestingly, bobcats were an endangered species when I was young. Today, the species has recovered—so maybe there’s hope for us, too.