Kirk Smalley wears a baseball cap, cowboy boots, jeans, and a T-shirt that proclaims "I Stand for the Silent." (SFTS at www.standforthesilent.org is the student-conceived organization that emerged from the Smalley family’s tragedy.) Smalley is what your grandfather would have described as "a tall drink of water" from out West, and he makes no apologies for his manner of speech or expression. Neither does he soften his story, difficult as it is to share. He says "ain’t." He addresses women as "Sugar," and references ethnicity as "red, yellow, black, and white," expressions that would make any politician cringe. But he wouldn’t care; he doesn’t like politicians, or attorneys either, he tells us.

But kids—"babies" as he calls them—he cares about a lot. Continually reading the faces and gauging the emotions of his audience members, he strides back and forth and among them as he tells his story, occasionally handing someone a blue wristband or returning a spontaneous "lmL" gesture—the sign language for "I love you"—thumb, index and pinkie raised up, two middle fingers folded down. He introduces this sign to the audience early in his presentation and imbues it with special new meaning: "I love you. I support you. I’ve got your back." And he encourages his audience to sign it whenever they see that he is having trouble telling his story. The rest of the presentation is punctuated by random hands in the audience rising up, sometimes timidly, to show support and encouragement for the speaker.

While all this is going on, teachers and administrators are patrolling quietly on the sidelines, conferring on interventions, and approaching individual students to offer reassurance and the option of leaving the room with them if they wish. It is an impressive show of strength on their part because, clearly, the adults too are gripped by the raw emotion this man is arousing. Assistant Principal Paul Bratcher is walking around carrying a box of tissues. A touching picture of futility and compassion, he is working hard to be in all places at once, for he is needed everywhere. Principal Regina Cellio stands guard at the side of the stage area, studying her chicks like the proverbial mother hen, directing assistance to where it is needed.

What were they thinking? This is, on the surface, an obvious reaction to what is happening in this room. But the answer to the question is also obvious: We cannot shield our children from life’s challenges and at the same time expect our kids to manage them successfully when they face off. Imparting coping skills, and teaching character, necessitate immersion in reality. Positing that a little empathy goes a long way, Cellio says, "The power of this assembly presentation is that students are able to feel the impact of what bullying means to the victim, and in some cases, what it feels like when you recognize that you have bullied another person."

These anti-bullying assemblies were sponsored by the Ossining Communities That Care coalition, and district administrators were in evidence at the three grade-specific presentations at AMD last Wednesday and Thursday (December 5 and 6). Raymond Sanchez, deputy superintendent, acknowledges that dealing with bullying has become a necessity for schools everywhere. "As a district, we pro-actively address the issue of bullying. We want to deal with the prospect before behavior can get out of control. It’s such an important topic, and Mr. Smalley’s presentation leads us all to think very carefully about our actions."

Helena Herman, the staff member who leads the AMD Stand Up Against Bullying after-school club, concurs that there is efficacy in giving students the opportunity to reflect on their choices. "And I hope that they will be inspired to join the Stand Up Against Bullying Club next term and to share their ideas for change," she says.

Whether this wish will be fulfilled remains to be seen. Things are getting darker still in the AMD cafetorium. Smalley takes his presentation beyond the boundaries of his own personal experience. He shares the stories of other victims, other suicides—one little girl as young as 6 years old—to drive home the pervasiveness in our society of bullying, and its potentially horrific consequences. His statistics are shocking, depressing, ghastly: "Twenty-five percent of kids will not only think about suicide, but they will have a plan for how to do it, before they get out of high school." "Every seven seconds in this country a child is being beaten, neglected, or bullied." "In just one state, in one month, there were nine kid suicides." "Suicide is second only to car accidents as the cause of death among ten-to-twenty-four-year-olds in America."

Finally, blessedly, the man gets to the redemptive part of his visit, and tells his audience there is actually something they can each do to make sure his story never, ever repeats itself. "You be the change. You be the one," Smalley ordains, "to walk up to that new kid and offer a hand in friendship. You could change somebody’s whole world." And this is the reason he has come to Ossining, and Pleasantville the day before, and the five hundred other schools he has visited: He made a promise to his son on the Father’s Day after Ty Smalley killed himself that he would put an end to bullying in the world. "[My wife], Laura, and I—we plan on fighting bullying forever. Because our baby is gonna be eleven years old . . . forever. We’re not gonna stop till there’s laws against bullying."

Since that promise was made to Ty in June of 2010, Kirk Smalley, a construction worker from a small town in Oklahoma, has addressed 638,000 school children, from preschoolers to seniors, bringing his message of awareness and empowerment against bullying. He has been featured in the recently touted documentary movie Bully, which is to be released on DVD this coming February. He has become a student of, if not an expert on, bullying, child suicide, and the legislative branch of government, as part of his as-yet-unsuccessful efforts to realize laws against bullying at the state and federal levels. He has garnered the support of celebrities like Lady Gaga and Oprah Winfrey, and accepted his invitation to attend the first White House conference on bullying. He has been instrumental in establishing one single helpline for kids in crisis to call—whatever their circumstances—to replace the confusing proliferation of case-specific crisis lines.

He has developed a list of more than 800 child suicides occurring in recent years that are attributable to the victimization and hopelessness that bullying evokes. He and his wife have already reached out to 250 of those families and will be traveling in the coming months to meet with more of them, from as far away as Australia, where there are also chapters of Stand for the Silent, and stories as heartrending as his.

Smalley’s resolve to keep his promise to his son is rock solid; he makes this clear. But his belief that he can pull it off is faltering now, right before his audience’s eyes. "I need your help" he says with the self-effacing humility that has characterized him from the start. Student leaders take over the microphone then, and marshal the support of their peers, leading them in the pledge to "not stand silent as others try to spread hatred" and eliciting their firm declarations that "I am somebody. And I can make a difference in the world." Now every hand in the AMD cafetorium is raised in the sign that says "I love you. I support you. And I’ve got your back."

As grueling as this hour has been, a lot of the kids don’t want to leave when it’s over. They go up to the empty chairs on the stage that have represented "The Silent" throughout the proceedings, and they study the pictures and bios of other kids about their own age who have committed suicide in response to being bullied. They swarm around Kirk Smalley, to speak a few words, to sign lmL, to ask for a signature, to give and get a hug. It can’t have been easy for him either, but Smalley stays till every last one of them gets what he or she needs. He gives it all he can, probably because, as he says in his presentation, "You never know whose life you’re gonna touch . . . or save."

This article by Heidi Hellmich originally appeared in The Ossining Gazette and is reproduced here with permission.

The MedReturn unit accepts both prescription and over-the-counter medicines (preferably in their original container or bottle) that are expired, unused, or unwanted, and ensures safe disposal of them before they can be misused. In addition to pills, the unit accepts prescription patches, ointments, and samples, plus vitamins and pet medications. Over-the-counter liquids such as rubbing alcohol and peroxide, or ointments like Ben-Gay should not be deposited.

To protect privacy, you are advised to remove or obscure any personally identifying information from the packaging (such as name, phone, prescription number) before depositing in the MedReturn.

CTC Coordinator Alice Joselow is hoping the new permanent installation of the unit will make it both easier and more commonplace for people to properly dispose of unwanted drugs. "When people pick up their books and DVDs to return to the library," Joselow says, "I'd like to have them thinking, 'Do I have any meds I can drop off at the police station?' That kind of everyday thought process is what will make the MedReturn unit a real success, and keep our community safer for everyone." Joselow suggests that when you reset your clocks and check your smoke detector, go right over to the medicine chest and clean out unused, unwanted, expired drugs. "The MedReturn unit will be there for you twenty-four-seven, no questions asked."