I rode a school bus from 3rd grade until midway through 11th grade. Sometimes the bus was noisy, hot, or crowded but it was never bad except for a few weeks during 7th grade.

I was a painfully shy 12-year-old. I often had to sit next to one boy whose name I actually don’t remember. I’ll call him Harold.

After maybe the second time we sat next to each other, Harold started making mean little comments. Once he told me I smelled funny and then said it loudly enough for others to hear. I actually smelled the odor too that day, but I know it wasn’t me. I was still embarrassed though.

As the days went on, he started making rude and sort of lewd comments about me being a girl. I would just sit there, frozen. I didn’t say anything and tried to ignore him.

My mother Ann made my school lunch nearly every day of my public school career. For a while during junior high, she would send me to campus with a brown paper bag filled with fantastic lunch delights including a little plastic bottle of juice or Kool Aid. At the end of the day, I would put the plastic bottle back in the paper bag and carry it home to be washed and used again for another lunch.

One warm fall afternoon after school, I stepped onto the bus clutching my books for homework, my little 12-year-old girl purse, and my empty juice bottle tucked into its paper bag. I was dismayed to see the only empty space was yet again next to Harold.

I plopped down in the seat and stared straight ahead, hoping he would leave me alone this time.

Harold made a few noises and then a couple comments. The bus began moving and we headed toward our destinations. Harold kept needling me and chuckling to himself.

Then, in slow motion, he began to move his hand in my direction, toward my chest. He obviously was reaching to pinch, poke, or in some way put his hand on me.

With one strong smooth sweeping gesture, my right arm curved up and over toward Harold. My hand was clutching the bag holding the juice container. With a clear aim and strong thwack, I bonked Harold on the side of his head with the bag.

“Knock it off,” I said in a firm, steady voice.

He froze, tears came into his eyes, his face turned red, and he turned to the window. For the remainder of our bus ride, he was silent and stared outside at the passing scenery.

Harold never said another word to me and he never bothered me. I don’t even think he ever looked at me again.

Apparently, “girls aggress to protect themselves and their property, whereas boys aggress to dominate others and increase their status,” according to a study conducted on children four to seven years old. Julia T. Wood mentions the study in her book “Gendered Lives: Communication, Gender, and Culture” (p. 305).

I don’t know why I haven’t found the strength since then to figuratively bonk several people on the side of their heads. I don’t always defend myself very well against those who tried or succeeded in hurting me.

I need to do a better job protecting myself and my property.