It’s September and autumn is just around the corner (although with the heat and fires here in L.A., it feels like the start of summer). And all across the country, children are returning to school for a new year full of promise, growth and…bullies.

I don’t want to belittle the bullying that many children experience because it’s clear it’s a serious problem with real consequences. A study conducted by the National Institute of Child Health and Human Development found that 1.6 million children in grades 6-10 in the U.S. were bullied at least once a week. Bullying creates many short and long term problems for both the bully and the bullied, including depression, higher rates of suicide and alcohol and drug use. You can read more about this here.

But before I go further, I do have an admission to make. Those who know me now may see me as a pathetic deluded are you fucking serious bad ass mofo, but the truth is that as a child, I too was bullied. Hard to believe, I know. So this installment of the “How to Survive” series will be my most personal yet. None of what I’m about to write is necessarily what I’m suggesting anyone reading this who is being bullied should do (just say no to violence, kids), but maybe you can find a lesson in my true-life tale of how one lone and scared boy dealt with his oppressors.

My bullying took place in second grade. My bullies lived just a block away. Led by a boy named Tracy who was the same age as me, he and his four older brothers were our school’s wild boys. They regularly picked on the younger kids; threatening to beat us up if we didn’t give them our lunch money. When asked, everyone gave up his or her money. No one was stupid enough to refuse them because they knew they would get their ass kicked after school.

Well, there was one kid who was stupid enough to refuse. And that was me. It wasn’t that I was trying to stand up to them or be a hero. The only reason I refused to give up the 50 cents for my daily cafeteria lunch was because I saw how hard my parents worked for that money and I thought I’d let them down if I let the bullies take that away. My parents were young immigrants—at the time, we were dirt poor and my folks were working long hours every day to provide for my sister and me. The other kids could afford to give up their money because their parents had more, but I didn’t have that option.

What this meant was that I started getting my ass kicked on a regular basis. Because Tracy and his brothers lived close to me, they would get off at the same bus stop after school and that’s when the beatings would take place. As soon as the bus stopped, I ran as fast as I could; trying desperately to outrun the five dudes chasing after me. I think I made it home about half the time. The other times, not so lucky.

At first, the bullying wasn’t too bad. Maybe a cut here, a scratch there—I could hide it from my parents and the teachers. But then one day, I got a particularly bad beating (regular readers may be shocked to know I was a smart ass and probably mouthed off; ensuring a harsher ass whooping). There was no way to hide it this time. I came home with my clothes ripped and covered in blood. My sister saw me and freaked out because my face was completely red from the blood. She called my dad who rushed home from work and took me to the doctor. I was OK, but could no longer hide what was going on.

To make a long story short, the school and the principal got involved and Tracy’s parents were called, but nothing happened. His parents didn’t think anything was wrong and brushed aside the incidents as examples of “boys being boys,” and the school technically couldn’t do anything because the bullying was taking place off campus and after school hours. Back then, there weren’t as many options available to kids in my position. In essence, I was screwed.

If you’ve never been bullied, it’s hard to explain that sinking feeling in your stomach you get every morning knowing you will probably get punched and kicked to a pulp at some point during the day. By this time, it had also gotten to the point where even if I gave up my lunch money, I’d still get beaten up so I felt there was no way out.

My dad’s solution was to enroll me in the free judo classes at the local Japanese American community center every Wednesday and Friday nights where the idea was I’d learn martial arts and fight back. But being both the only Korean and youngest student in that class meant that I was also getting my ass kicked there too, though in a more culturally acceptable way, so not only did I now dread going to school, I dreaded those two nights of judo. The only thing I learned from the class was to feel more fear. But that’s a story for another day.

I don’t know if there was that big moment of revelation like people have in the movies, but I decided one day I was going to do something about the bullying. I knew I couldn’t take on all five brothers at once. I also didn’t have any money to hire someone to protect me like in the movie My Bodyguard. So in my twisted second grade mind, I saw only one option. If I couldn’t take out all the brothers myself, I’d at least take out Tracy.

  (My Bodyguard)

So the next day, as I walked to the bus stop, I found this big chunk of a brick and carefully placed it in my backpack. I went through the whole day with that brick in my bag; waiting for the school day to end. And when I got off the school bus and Tracy and his brothers surrounded me, I took that brick out of my backpack and lifted it up in as threatening a manner as I could. Tracy and his brothers just laughed. I’m going to overtly dramatize the following dialogue for effect, but our exchange went something like this:

Tracy (laughing): You think you can hurt all of us with that brick?

Me: Nope, Tracy. Just you. I’m just gonna kill you.

Rightly thinking that the only advantage I had was the element of surprise, I rushed Tracy and whacked him on the side of the head with the brick. As his brothers jumped me and gave me my biggest beating to date (I still have a scar from that one), I saw a huge rush of blood rolling down the side of Tracy’s face and that made me happy. Very happy. The brothers must have thought I was a lunatic since I had this big grin while receiving my beat down.

From that point on, I would always go after Tracy and if I was lucky, get in a few good licks before his brothers pummeled me. The turning point was when I found this dead pigeon in the playground. I picked it up with a napkin and covertly placed it in Tracy’s lunch pail with a note that read: “Have a nice day.” And when Tracy opened his pail during lunch, saw the rotting bird and screamed—I saw the fear in his eyes. Of course, I denied I was the one who did it, but now I knew what I had to do. I was going to devote my life to terrorizing Tracy.

When he brought his Star Wars action figures to school, I sneaked into his backpack and ripped off their heads. I put dog shit in the hood of his jacket so when he put it on, he got feces all over his hair. I convinced some high school boys to write Tracy’s phone number on the wall in their locker room so guys would call Tracy at home to “ask for a good time.” Every night, I’d take pleasure in trying to come up with a new way to torture the motherfucker.

I still got my ass kicked, but the beatings didn’t seem as bad and they grew less frequent. Again, I don’t think there was a big dramatic moment, but eventually the bullying stopped. Maybe poor Tracy got sick of my abuse or, more likely, he and his brothers probably just moved on to easier and newer targets, but that hellish experience–which probably lasted for six months–taught me a valuable lesson which I like to think I still remember to this day:

Even if you’re cornered and it looks like you’re totally screwed, you have to find a way to fight your way out. You may get bruised and bloodied in the process, but at least you have a chance.

Keep that in mind, kids. Oh, and all the best to all of you starting a new school year.