Bullies

Imagine spending your childhood in a subdivision with 20 to 25 other kids your age, a year younger or a year older, all living within a three block radius. That was Avonmore in southeast Edmonton and for me at least, life couldn't have been better.

Combine the abundance of like minded, similar aged boys with immediate access to wide open athletic fields, two community skating rinks and a wild but explorable ravine and you've created the perfect backdrop for a childhood full of activity and adventure.

Many of us moved into this new subdivision at the same time and inevitably, strong friendships were formed. 

One exception was an immigrant German family, the Strellos, who moved into a yellow bungalow at the end of our crescent, roughly four years after the initial influx of families.

Mr. and Mrs. Strello both worked, an oddity to us. Most Moms stayed home back then. Another difference; they had two adult sons living with them. Their third son was a quiet, dark eyed 13 year old, Hans.

Though he was our age, Hans had a tough time fitting in. He didn't like sports, he spoke with a thick German accent and didn't seem interested in making friends. It didn't help when his parents made him wear leather shorts known as "lederhosen" every day, all through the summer and well into the fall.

Hans was a handsome kid, something the local girls picked up on right away. Though he didn't particularly seek their attention, they seemed to flock to him. This was another character trait we didn't appreciate.

What we opted to do about this situation was something we'd all come to regret.

We started by paying no attention whatsoever to Hans, and when that didn't seem to affect him, we picked on him at every opportunity. We mimicked his accent, called him "Smello Strello," the whole gamut, all outside the earshot of adults of course.

Eventually, a number of these confrontations became physical. Hans stood his ground every time. He fought his battles, won most of them and slowly began to gain our respect. The only problem; Hans either didn't realize it, or he no longer cared.

One sunny morning roughly 18 months after his arrival, Hans Strello retreated to his basement, loaded his brother Mike's shotgun and shot himself in the head.

The news swept through Avonmore like a forest fire, and the resulting guilt we felt was tangible.

Two days after his death, Hans' brothers came to our school. There was an assembly of all 8th and 9th Grade boys and Hans' eldest brother, Mike, stood at the front of the room. He asked, "Which of you boys were Hans' friends?"

With the exception of myself and three others, everyone raised their hands. We four lived closest to Hans and the shame sweeping over us was tangible.

My stomach dropped when Mike pointed us out and said, "We want you four to be Hans' pallbearers. You're the only ones telling the truth here today."

We had no choice but to oblige.

The suicide and funeral of Hans Strello impacted every boy in Avonmore. Petty arguments, feuds and senseless spats all but disappeared. It was if our youth disappeared as well, replaced by a staggering sense of guilt, grief and sadness. Of course, it didn't last. Youth is resilient, if nothing else.

Within weeks of the tragedy, the Strellos sold their house and moved away. We never saw or heard from them again.

I've spoken to two of my fellow pallbearers a few times in the 50 plus years since Hans' death. Our one remaining constant is an intolerance for bullying. When we see it, we stop it, or at least make an effort to do so. Another commonality; these activities have done nothing to assuage our guilt, individually or collectively.

This is a rather pathetic epitaph I know, but Hans and his family remain in our hearts and minds to this day. I like to believe their suffering stood for something. What that might be, I cannot imagine.