Sticks and stones

When I was in eighth grade, Patrick, a boy who shared my busstop called me some horrific names. I don't really remember what he said, exactly, just that the language was intensely sexual, threatening, and that I felt sort of weird afterwards. (I think he used the 'c' word). A few years later, an older boy in my driver's ed class whispered something similarly offensive, and mysterious, to me after class.
I didn't know what to make of these words, their meaning obscure (to me, anyway, and possibly to them, too), and their intent unclear. I knew I didn't want to have sex with either of the offenders (or with anyone, at that point, for that matter). And I knew that it wasn't okay for them to speak the way they did, to me, but I wasn't sure why, or, what to say.
So, after the incident at the busstop, I enlisted my best friend, and decided I had to seek revenge; I literally didn't know what else to do. Telling an adult would have been so embarrassing, and, I was old enough to fight my own battles. Limited means and resources meant that our options were limited; we decided on toilet papering his house (using eggs and liquid soap as an adhesive). Not my finest moment, but in some ways, a glorious one. Somehow, it seemed just right: the mess of it all. I had no idea if he would suspect me, but I didn't care. As far as I was concered, he was getting off easy.
One phone call from the cops (which turned out to be a hoax) later, my mom marched me up the street to apologize. I can't remember what I said, but I apologized to his mom, for making a mess, and not to Patrick, who was outside, picking toilet paper out of the trees and scowling. It was all I could do to keep from grinning with pride and glee. Even though my parents were furious with their would-be vandal of a daughter, I was, and still am, so not sorry. Revenge was sweet. Patrick never picked on me again.
What I am sorry about is that there was no other recourse available to me at the time. My parents were too obtuse to imagine their daughter would encounter sexual taunting (even though I'd alluded to it before). Counselors and school administrators were too busy dealing with 'real' problems (vagrancy, violence, and, ironically, vandalism), and were an unfriendly bunch; I can't think of anyone I might have approached, or what I would have said. I did well in school; no one would have guessed that I needed any kind of assistance, except maybe more challegning classes. But never in my life had I felt more vulnerable, and more powerless, than in middle school. I wish I'd been more able to speak my mind. When I have kids, I want them to be able to.
And while I'm amazed at the advocacy skills of my students, sometimes I wonder if there are any among them who need help but lack the access, or resources, or both, to get it.