My Son Keeps Getting Called a Stick at School – What We Did That Actually Helped
The first time I heard about it, we were sitting in the pickup line. My son, Leo, was in the backseat peeling the lid off his yogurt tube, and he said it like it was just another fact about his day: “The kids in my class call me a stick.”
I remember gripping the steering wheel a little too hard. “What do you mean?”
“Like, I’m skinny,” he said, shrugging. “They say, ‘Hey stick, come here.’ Or they laugh and point. It’s not mean. It’s just what they do.”
I didn’t want to make it into a big deal, but my stomach dropped. Because I knew that kind of teasing. The kind that sits somewhere between a nickname and an insult. The kind that doesn’t leave a bruise but stays anyway.
I asked a few more questions, trying to sound casual. He told me it happened mostly at recess and lunch. A couple of boys would call out “stick” when they wanted his attention. Sometimes a girl in his group would say, “You’re so skinny, like a stick.” It wasn’t all the time, he said. But it was often enough that he’d started to notice.
He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t even upset. He just seemed puzzled, like he didn’t quite know what to do with it. And honestly, neither did I.
So I did what parents do. I asked other parents. I talked to a friend who teaches fourth grade. I read a few articles. And slowly, I realized this wasn’t really about the word “stick.” It was about what happens when a kid gets singled out for a physical trait, especially one they can’t change.
The word itself isn’t purely negative. Thin is valued in some contexts, mocked in others. But for a seven-year-old, the issue is less about body image and more about social belonging. When you’re called a stick every day, you start to feel like you’re not a regular kid. You’re the skinny one. And once that label sticks, it can feel permanent.
Leo is actually a healthy, active kid. He eats constantly, in that bottomless-pit way. He’s not underweight by any medical measure. But kids don’t need a reason that makes sense. They just need something that stands out.
What helped most was talking to his teacher, Ms. Rivera. Not to ask for discipline, but to understand the classroom dynamics. She told me she hadn’t heard the name being used, but she wasn’t surprised. She explained that kids at that age often use nicknames to test social boundaries. It’s not always malicious, but it can be persistent.
Here’s what she suggested, and this turned out to be the most useful advice we got: help Leo practice a response that wasn’t a fight and wasn’t silence.
She said, “If he gets upset or ignores it, the kids will keep doing it because both reactions give them something. If he shrugs and says, ‘Yep, that’s me,’ it takes the air out of it.”
That sounded simple, but we had to actually rehearse it. So we did. Leo and I would sit at the kitchen table after dinner. I’d pretend to be a classmate and call him a stick. He’d try different responses.
First he said, “I’m not a stick,” which sounded defensive.
Then he said nothing, which felt sad.
Finally, he tried, “Cool, I can reach the cereal,” and we both laughed. But that was too jokey for him.
What eventually worked was a plain, flat, almost bored response. “Yeah, I know,” with a small shrug. Not angry. Not sad. Just okay.
It felt strange to practice something so small, but it gave him a script. Kids don’t know what to do when they don’t get a reaction. That’s not a magic fix, but it does change the rhythm.
The other thing we did was give him a little more control over his own story. We started talking about what our bodies can do, not just what they look like. I brought it up naturally, while we were playing catch or climbing at the playground. I’d say things like, “That was a quick sprint,” or “Your arms are strong for pulling yourself up.” Nothing heavy. Just reminding him that his body was useful, not just something to be looked at.
I also stopped myself from saying things like “sticks are good because you can fit through small spaces” or “skinny is fine.” That felt like a defense, and he could sense it. He didn’t need reassurance about the word itself. He needed to feel that other people saw him clearly.
There was also a conversation I had with Ms. Rivera about how she handles teasing generally. She said she doesn’t single out the child who’s targeted, because that can make it worse. Instead, she weaves in lessons about how nicknames affect everyone. She does a morning meeting where kids share their own names and what they mean. She asks, “How does it feel when someone calls you something you don’t like?” Not in a lecturing way, but as a discussion.
She told me, “I don’t force an apology, because that can create more resentment. I help the kids who are doing the teasing to notice the effect they’re having.” She gives them a chance to change, rather than painting them as bullies.
That felt like a shift for me. I had been thinking of the boys who called Leo a stick as little villains. But they were just kids playing with words. The real problem wasn’t their intent. It was that Leo didn’t have a way to respond that made him feel okay.
After a few weeks, I asked Leo if it was still happening. He said, “Sometimes. But I just say ‘yeah’ and they stop.” He said it in a matter-of-fact way, and then he asked if he could have a playdate with one of those boys. I said yes.
That playdate was awkward. Two seven-year-olds building a fort out of couch cushions. At one point, the other kid said, “Leo, you’re so light, you can sit on the top.” And Leo said, “Yep, that’s me.” And then both of them climbed up and the fort fell down.
I don’t know if the nickname is completely gone. It probably isn’t. I know there will be other words in the future—about his height, his hair, his interests. That’s part of growing up. What I’ve learned from this is that my job isn’t to make sure nobody ever calls him something unkind. It’s to make sure he knows that he gets to decide how much weight those words carry.
So we keep practicing. Not just comebacks, but conversations. We talk about what makes a nickname okay and what makes it sting. He doesn’t always have an answer. I don’t always have one either. But we’re talking, and that feels like the right direction.
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