These are just a couple of the many derivations of my name that were leveled at me by bullies when I was young. Coming up with derogatory versions of a person's name is, by my estimation, a gateway to greater and more perverse psychological and physical bullying.

It happened to me regularly toward the end of grade school. Some asshat decided they wanted to make an example of me, called me names, made disparaging comments about my appearance or my family or something else, and then proceeded to fight me. When I lived in Connecticut, it happened to me pretty much every other day. If I was lucky, they were one-on-one fights. More often than not, though, I was surrounded by people who each took their turn.

I hated Connecticut for it. Yes, the whole. damn. state. My two-and-a-half years of living there were a complete and utter hell. Having my parents call in to try to make it stop or getting school admins involved only made matters worse. The best I could do was learn to fight back or make a friend that would be willing to help.

I did both.

I took Karate lessons. Heck, before we moved from Connecticut, I had attained my third degree brown belt in Kenpo. I was a little more than a year away from testing for a black belt. Ralph Macchio had nothing on me.

I also made a friend in a scrappy little kid named Wayne who was often the subject of bullying himself. He and I fought together and became pretty close.

Defending myself became less of a problem by the end of sixth grade. I was thankful for it. Even if blood and tears were shed in the process.

I moved from Connecticut to Illinois and, while fighting still occurred, it was far less frequent. In middle school, I can count on one hand the number of fights in which I was involved. High school? Non existent.

The specter of fighting was still there. I knew the warning signs of a bully and I was committed to not letting them get to me. I wasn't going to let Illinois become the next Connecticut. I liked Illinois. This state grew kids that were big... huge, in fact.

In Connecticut, I was the tallest kid in a K-6 school when I was only in fourth grade. This made me a target. "Prove yourself by fighting the big kid!"

At six feet tall in Illinois, I was merely average. I LOVED IT. I blended in. I no longer had crosshairs burning themselves into my skin.

If I saw someone trying to make an example of me, I found alternate ways to deal with it. No, I didn't run and hide. More often than not, though, I would give them a look like they were profoundly mentally unbalanced and then say "whatever" and walk away. Not wanting to fight back apparently confused many bullies in middle school.

I still advocate a more peaceful approach to bullying. I realize it doesn't always work. But for the most part it did.

I soon found out, though, that this "more peaceful approach" can have unexpected consequences.