Most of the boys charged across the playground in a hilarious Mad Max version of soccer.
A handful of girls played four-square with a red playground ball.
And the rest either dangled from the jungle gym or crouched underneath it in small clumps.
I spotted Nina sitting on one of the benches, back hunched, head down.
One of the four-square players lobbed a sneering taunt in her direction.
The other three players followed up with more.
Nina didnt move, so the player with the ball threw it at her.
The playground monitor materialized where was she before?
and put her hands on her hips while she spoke to Nina.
The other girls didnt even attempt to cover their smirks.
Then the bell rang, and the children lined up to go back inside.
The bullying began in earnest in second grade.
The town was small, the school even smaller.
They were nice kids, we thought, but something changed over the summer between first and second grade.
Each day our formerly lively daughter came home to us quiet, pale and withdrawn.
Ninas first grade teacher had been at a loss as well, when Id asked her the same question.
Some were hesitant, making their way haltingly through Hop on Pop.
Others moved quickly through Frog and Toad and were well into Mr. Poppers Penguins.
I thought each one was performing miracles.
I couldnt reconcile their sweetness they were so young with the pain and destruction they had wrought.
The school counselor confirmed that our daughter was being treated badly by students and teachers alike.
I wouldnt expect a positive outcome there, he said, without elaborating.
I tried talking with the parents.
Theres just something about Nina, one said.
I turned to books about bullying for guidance.
Third grade arrived as bleary-eyed as I felt.
My daughter was visibly shrinking, her blue eyes shaded a dull grey, her shoulders permanently bent.
I became a freak, a wild animal.
Since when did humiliation become a teaching tool?
It was almost too good to be true.
Itwastoo good to be true.
Ninas lunchbox tipped me off in November.
After Nina came home from school, I opened it to wipe it out.
Im just not hungry, Mom, she told me when I asked.
I squatted down in front of her and took her hands in mine.
Youre not on trial, my Sweet Pea, I said.
Her long lashes shadowed her cheeks, so soft, so vulnerable.
Later, I called Ninas teacher and explained that Nina was being attacked on the way to the cafeteria.
For the first time, I was hopeful that we might make some actual progress.
The day before the meeting, the phone rang.
I can see the playground from my window, and I know there isnt any.
She canceled our meeting and forbade the teachers from discussing it with us.
It makes more of an impression when a father comes to school.
Then three girls attacked Nina on the playground at recess.
They knocked her down and hit her and kicked her while the rest of the crowd watched.
We got her out.
Finally, we got her out.
Over the next few days, several mothers pulled me aside.
It had been so very difficult for their kids, they said, and now it would be better.
It was not better.
There was no real conversation.
Everywhere we went, every day, we saw those faces.
No, not the children.
The adults: the bystanders who, by their inaction, gave tacit permission for the bullying.
The onlookers who, by their silence, confirmed that the chosen victim, my daughter, was expendable.
Why do bullies bully?
It starts with an opening gambit, a first salvo.
The would-be bully makes some sort of move, a taunt, a swipe or a snub.
The test is not for the victim.
It is to see how others will react: thumbs up or thumbs down.
In many ways, the victim is powerless.
It doesnt matter how she responds.
Only the bystanders, the audience, can give a red or green light.
The community rejected the attack.
The local paper published a full-page picture of a menorah.
In days, 10,000 menorahs lined the citys windows, with the message:not in our town.
The police chief said, Silence is acceptance.
Why do children bully?
Because they have learned from adults who model it for them, who single out and disparage difference.
Invite neighbors to your home.
Seek out guests from all walks of life.
Encourage them to tell their stories and model listening with courtesy and curiosity.
Another way of doing this is to read widely.
Only by gaining physical distance have we all been able to rekindle our internal sparks.
For the longest time, I searched for a way to help Nina heal.
I often felt powerless and overwhelmed with guilt at not being able to protect her.
I had to fall back on the only thing I had left to offer: love.
Her wounds healed, but scars remain.
After we moved, Nina found friends in our new town.
This article originally appeared onHuffPost.
