Cruel Encounters of the Third Kind

Cruel Encounters of the Third Kind

“If you have never been hated by your child, you’ve never been a parent.”

-Bette Davis

Reader discretion advised: repeated references to oppression and suffering.

Early and often, that is my tale of woe. It was only though a strong spirit, mental toughness, and the grace of God that I survived. I remember it all like it was yesterday. Traumatic events leave lasting scars.

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“Waa, waa, waa.”

Who could ignore the anguish of a crying child? My parents, that’s who! At the vulnerable age of one, I was left alone in a darkened room... all night long! My parents’ bedroom had plenty of room, but my dad insisted I go through something he fiendishly referred to as “separation”. My Mom, whom I assume at one time liked me, at first stood up for me but caved in a New Yok minute.

“Maybe we should let hm sleep in our room for just another month. He makes such a fuss when we leave him alone.”

“We have to do it sometime. He can’t be a baby forever, Susan.”

Can’t be a baby forever? Hello, I was one! So, there I was, doomed to solitary confinement at such an early age. Then they put a ticking clock in the room. I couldn’t even tell time, so I knew it was only there to add to my anguish. I would stand behind those bars in my crib screaming my brains out until my voice gave out, and I collapsed, abandoned and alone, onto my uncomfortable pee-proof mattress. The screws ignored it all. It was my first taste of the cold-hearted treatment that would plague me throughout my youth.

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“You might be right, George. Maybe it would be a good idea to have Tommy do some chores around the house.”

What? Did I hear that right? Chores? For me? What the heck?

“Nothing too difficult, Susan. Just a little something to teach him some responsibility.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I thought maybe it could be his job to feed the cat.”

What? I hated the cat. Why would I want to feed the stupid cat?

“As long as he’s feeding the cat, we could also have him clean out the litter box, George.”

What?! Are you freaking kidding me? I almost tossed my cookies just thinking about it. I was eight, and I’m going to be handling hazardous waste materials? Did we have any child labor laws in this state? I would have called Child Protective Services if I would have known how to do it.

An allowance for my efforts? Oliver had a better chance of getting more porridge.

“No, Tommy, you don’t get paid. You’re part of this family, and we all need to contribute.”

“Jack gets $10 a week, and he doesn't have to do anything. I should get something, Dad.”

“You will get something.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll learn responsibility, and it will help you understand we all have to work in this life.”

‘I'd rather have the ten bucks.”

“Too bad, so sad,”

Cruel and unusual punishment for a mere child. I considered running away from home, but it was raining.

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“Mom, Jack and the guys are going to the gym to play basketball. I’ll be home by eight.”

“Is your homework done?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Tommy... ”

(Moms have a gift- they can question and accuse with one word.)

“Well, maybe just a little.”

“Like what?”

“Well, just a few math problems.”

“And... “

“I guess I have to read a story and then write something about it. I can get it done when I get back. Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.”

“Sit down, Tommy. You get your homework done first. Then we’ll talk about the gym.”

This was classic bad parenting. I missed out on so much as a child- my physical fitness regimen, developing my social skills by interacting with my friends, the invaluable lessons of teamwork, and dampening my chances of someday making an NBA roster. It’s like they wanted me to fail.

This same sad scene was played out over and over again during what should have been my carefree childhood:

“Mom, can I go to Jack’s house to watch the game? They've got the biggest screen in town.”

“Sure, after you clean your room.”

“Dad, can I go fishing at the pond with Jack?”

“Sure, right after you finish raking the leaves.”

Seriously, there must be some terrible place parents go to learn how to be mean to their children. My parents probably taught the class. Why couldn’t my parents have been more like Jack’s?

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“Dad, Jack’s parents got him a new cell phone.”

“Good for them.”

“Everyone in my class has one.”

“Wonderful.”

“So, I think it’s time I got one.”

“Why do you think you need a cell phone, Tommy?”

“To call my friends.”

“We’ve got phones in the kitchen and in the den. And you can always use mine or Mom’s.”

“But...”

“No buts, Tommy. We don’t want you playing games , talking on the phone all day, or checking out the garbage on the internet. We’ll let you know when we think it’s the right time.”

This was the atomic bomb of inflicting pain and suffering on a defenseless child. I was deprived of one of Nature’s most basic needs. Everyone in the 8th Grade had a cell phone, so I knew that this was clearly designed to punish and humiliate me, even though I had done nothing wrong... that I can remember.

It has long been established that a parent’s basic responsibilities include providing a child with food, shelter, clothing, and a cell phone. This was beyond the pale.

“Dad, be reasonable. Jack’s brothers and sisters all have their own cell phones too. Jack’s on his third. Every time something new comes out, his parents get it for him.”

“Well, if a cell phone is what you want, maybe you could go live at Jack’s house. Don’t forget to feed the cat before you go.”

There are no words to describe the depth of my anger.

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High school offered the evil duo limitless opportunities to make my life one miserable episode after another. I felt like I had a target on my back, and my dad was the Rifleman, and my mom was Robin Hood. Their aim was to shoot down anything that could put a little fun in my life.

“No, you can’t go to Jack’s house for the big overnight party. Your mom and I know what goes on over there. We hear that his parents even buy the beer.”

“Dad, everyone is going to be there.”

“Not everyone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not you.”

“Mom, Jack’s older brother has a car, and he and Jack ride to school together. Jack says they can swing by here and pick me up.”

“No, I don’t think so. We don’t even know his brother.”

“Mom, I’m like the only high school kid on the bus. I sit next to Billy Barnes, and he’s nine.”

“We just want you to be safe.”

No, no, no. They were the “No Twins”. Dad was the drill sergeant barking out orders while my mother was the prison guard making sure the rules were observed. I was deprived of so many things growing up. I believe the phrase “life isn’t fair” was coined by my parents.

“Holy shit, Dad...”

“Tommy, we don’t use that kind of language here, especially when your little sister is here.”

“You guys are such prudes. I’ve even heard Jack’s dad drop a couple of F bombs on him.”

“My, how special.”

“Well anyway, Jack’s dad got him a new Corvette for graduation!”

“You’re kidding. That does not sound like a good idea. He’s too young for a car like that.”

“Well, I guess I don’t need a Corvette, but I was thinking...”

“No.”

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Well, I got that off my chest. I don’t like to complain, but those were some pretty hard times. There’s lots more I could tell you about, but I don’t know if your ears could take it. Besides, I have to get over to the cemetery. I try to get over to Jack’s grave every so often. He got wasted one night, got caught speeding down a country road, tried evading the police, and put his Vette into a tree. It was a horrible tragedy for him to die at such a young age, but at least he had a good childhood...well... at least compared to mine... mmm... let me think about that one. I'll get back to you.