I was a bully at his age. I see that now.

I didn't think I was. I thought I was a nice guy. So did my schoolmates. Most of them. And the ones who didn't? The ones who flinched when they saw me coming? They didn't matter. They didn't count.

That's what made it OK. OK to make fun of them. OK to scare them a little. Or maybe even hit them when no one was watching.

Not that I thought of it as hitting. More like rough-housing. A shove in the hallway, a punch on the arm.

All good fun, you know?

Nobody ever told me it was wrong. If anything, they cheered me on. It made me cool. We were the ones that mattered. It helped to have someone who didn't, who always got out of our way.

Someone like my son.

I want to tell him to fight back, to be tough. To deal with it. But I know better. He's not like that. He's never been like that. And I don't want him to be. I love him just like he is. Just like he's been since I first held him in my arms.

So how do I protect him? How do I protect him from people like me?