“When my father didn’t have my hand… he had my back.”

—Linda Poindexter

Today’s story is contributed by Jason Dwurple.

Until I was 14 or so, my life at school was hell.
Every day, a new humiliation.

My name is Jason Dwurple — yep, you heard right. As if being the only Catholics in a small town wasn’t bad enough, I grew up with the strangest name on the planet (Dwurple became “Dorkel,” “Twirple” — you get the idea).

Jason and his father Bob on a hike in Northern California.

For these reasons and more, I was a natural target. I was bullied unmercifully day after day.

Today there is public awareness of how bad bullying can be. Not when I was young. It was largely ignored — “just part of growing up.”

I didn’t tell my parents — I was embarrassed. I didn’t want Mom to worry. And Dad — well, we were never that close.

I was sensitive, pensive and awkward, the polar opposite of Dad. In fact, I spent most of my childhood thinking I was a disappointment to him. Unlike me, my father was a tough guy, a character. People laughed at his jokes. They listened when he spoke. READ MORE