Month: May 2016

In 1961, I was thirteen years old and in grade seven at Litchfield Jr High School. The year before, my father had been diagnosed with Prostate cancer.\r\n\r\nIn those early days, cancer was not very well understood and I remember the fear in both my parent’s eyes as they struggled with all the ramifications. I remember my clueless sister giving pop a Christmas gift of a bra due to the fact that he was placed on hormone treatment and he developed breast enlargement. I could tell it hurt his feelings very much.\r\n\r\nSeventh grade was the beginning of my adolescent years and like most teenagers, it was fraught with growing pains, self-discovery, and much self-doubt. Looking back I realize how much of an impact my pops health had on me.\r\n\r\nMy pop was old school when it came to discipline. Born in 1890 in Tiffin, Ohio, it was not uncommon for third-grade students to bring guns to school. Pop told of two boys who pulled out their guns in the classroom and shot each other dead. In the early 20th century, child-rearing was focused on the Dr. Spock teaching of spare the rod, and spoil the child. The general consensus was children needed to be spiritually broken in order to then be able to control their behavior.\r\n\r\nMy father beat me and my older brothers mercilessly. The beatings left me with PTSD in the worst way. It has taken years to even attempt to overcome the trauma. Three examples. When I was about 8yrso, I was sitting next to pop at the dinner table, quietly eating. Suddenly a hand came across my face and struck me so hard it knocked me and my chair\r\n\r\nThree examples. When I was about 8yrso, I was sitting next to pop at the dinner table, quietly eating. Suddenly a hand came across my face and struck me so hard it knocked me and my chair backwards and I found myself lying on the floor, wondering WTF. I quietly set my chair up and sat down. Not a word had been uttered by my mother, brother John, or sister Molly. When I started eating again, pop said, “Don’t have your hand on your glass and eat at the same time. It shows you are too anxious about life. I don’t have a lot of time left to teach you these lessons, so you better learn quickly”.\r\n\r\nOn another occasion, my sister told pop that I had not vacuumed the living room properly. I was taking a summer, afternoon nap when he came into my room. Without waking me up, he began beating me with his belt. It left huge welts on my back. Again, nothing was said, but I knew what had happened. I lived in constant alertness of his intolerance.\r\n\r\nOn another occasion, my brother John took a Yankee drill to my oldest brothers new briefcase, and would not confess to it. Pop put us side by side on a fold out couch and took a 2×10 board to our bare butts so he could hit us both at the same time. When I cried out that I did not do it, but would confess that I had in order to get him to stop beating us, he said, I know you didn’t do it, but your brother has to confess. My brother refused to confess but did admit to me in our later years that yes he had done it and was proud of it. When pop had not gotten my brother to confess through beating, he gave up. We both went into the dining room and sat down for dinner. No words were ever spoken and my mother never stood up for us in any way. Obviously, she had tremendous fear.\r\n\r\nThat being said, there were times when I felt some closeness to pop. He always seemed more like a grandfather figure than a father. I remember being seventeen and consciously making the decision that he was an old man and I needed to forgive him. I realized, even at that age, that he was a product of his father, who was a product of his father. Maybe it is Stockholm syndrome, however, I felt that perhaps he wasn’t a mean person, but just a product of his upbringing. His childhood, as well as my mother’s childhood, are another topic for reviewing.\r\n\r\nBack to seventh grade. A couple times, pop did stick up for me at the school. I was part of an initial program to teach French as a foreign language in my grade school, starting in fifth grade. When I reached Jr high, the counselor wanted me to continue in French stating that I had been at the top of the class in French. Pop wanted me to take Latin, due to the fact that he had been a lawyer and recognized the importance of Latin in law and medicine. I wanted what he wanted.\r\n\r\nWhen the school refused to allow me to transfer into Latin, pop had to attend the school and basically demand that they transfer me. As it turned out, Latin did help me later in my medical education.\r\n\r\nSeventh grade was the first time that students got to change classrooms and teachers depending on the subject. I must have impressed somebody because I was placed in an advanced English class that ran two consecutive periods. The teacher I had would continue to teach during the time that other students were changing classes and taking bathroom breaks. I could see no reason why we shouldn’t be allowed to take those few minutes to go to the bathroom, or at least benefit from the break between periods. Being a leader and rebel, I raised my hand and asked if the class could take the break as other English classes were allowed to take? The teacher asked if anyone else had the same desire. 7-8 students raised their hand in agreement. He then said, those who want to take a break may stand at their desk for the 4-5 minutes. When the bell rang, we all started to sit back down. The teacher said, No you may not sit down. You will stand for the 45 minutes remaining in his class. At the end of the period, he dismissed the rest of the class and instructed those standing to submit a 500-word essay the next day on discipline in his class.\r\n\r\nThe next day, when I refused to hand in the essay, I was taken to the principles office, where I was told I would be expelled if I did not submit the paper. My father was called and he supported my decision, however, he told me when he got home that it would be better to write something and get them off my back. I set about writing a 1000-word essay on the tyranny of discipline used to illegally torture children. I really wish I had kept that essay for posterities sake. The following day I turned the paper into the principle. The day after that, I was transferred to an intermediary English class with Mr. Ost. Mr. Ost did give the break time between periods and allowed students to leave the classroom and return at the bell.\r\n\r\nMr. Ost attempted to be my friend. He took me to my first college basketball game. I am not sure what the incident was, however, we got into a disagreement in the classroom. All I remember is that I was told to either conform or go to the principles office. I chose to leave. On the way to the door, Mr. Ost approached me and lost his composure. He swung his fist at me, and I caught his arm. Holding onto it, I said that will be the last time you ever try physical violence with me and I left the room.\r\n\r\nThe following day I was transferred into the English class for the below-average, that only required one period rather than two. I excelled in that class and found it easy to get high marks. I remember that female teacher as a comic character. We had her class immediately after lunch. Nearly every day she would show up with her hair askew and her lipstick smeared as if she had been making out and not had time to freshen up.\r\n\r\nI think this autobiographical sketch pretty well describes a lot about me. I have been a rebellious activist from an early age. Having digested the Harvard Grant study, and Grit by Angela Duckworth, I am convinced that turbulence in childhood brings great to bear on future growth.\r\n\r\n