When I was in third grade, a few kids were terrorizing the school yard.
The aids on the playground were useless to stop it, which actively made things worse. If you told them about the bullying, they replied that nobody likes a tattle-tale.
My teacher decided to show us how to outsmart a bully. He asked one of the kids to come up in front of the class and chase him.
He didn't move. "Well, chase me." He said. He still didn't move.
"See?" He said. "If you don't run, they can't chase you."
We all nodded, obediently.
I was mad, though. I knew his zen wisdom was bullshit. He was a teacher. He didn't live in our world. We couldn't take proper advantage of his refusal to run. We couldn't write on his shirt or rub dirt in his hair or stomp on his toes.
I wanted to put dirt in his pockets, and see how he handled that. Would he then wear clothes without pockets? What if I rubbed dirt in his hair, or stomped on his toes, or spit in his ear? What if I invented a new torment for him every day for the rest of the school year? Would he cry every morning because he knew he'd see me at school?
Or would he send me to the principal's office? I bet the principal wouldn't call him a tattle-tale.