Jumping ahead to a seven-year-old, Christopher, a transitional part of my life and story unfolds. Two eventualities related to the transition of this story give me encouragement. First, moving beyond the reckoning of my formative years, I can scrape the mud of tragic abandonment from my boots. Second, from this point forward, I grab my memories confidently by the scruff of the neck.
Thus far, I have borne my stories from a compilation of dated conversations with Doreen, knitted together with sketchy childhood memories. Drafting a loose variation of each story I relate to, I attempt a faithful rendition of events. Implying if my memories were strong or weak, I tried to give you a helpful tool for identifying when I took literary liberties. Accurate details play an important role in storytelling; integrity must be the most essential element of the writing process. Tiresome has been the challenge of not having the memories to offer a definitive firsthand palette from which to paint my past.
By this time in my life, I knew Doreen as my saviour. Understanding the uniqueness of long-term foster care, I valued her and the Dos Santos family. Assessing my emotional state at this age, it is fair to suggest that I have never been better adjusted. Calmed was the deadly emotional riptide that once carted me out to sea with impudent regularity. Smooth as the sailing had become, fear remained a steady undercurrent that stretched my emotions thin. Thankfully, my spirit was no longer regulated by the daily rage of emotional storms. Beyond being dominated and consumed by my fears, a light of normalcy shone at the end of the dark tunnel. Martin could finally talk as loudly as he wished. Sudden movements no longer sent me scurrying under my bed. Exceptionally pleased with my progress was Doreen. Successful in her bid to coerce me into the bathtub, Doreen was impressed by my courage.
Within the community and school environs, I developed my first childhood friendships. Insecurity, bitterness against the world, and distrust of adults were some of the burdens that still plagued me during the innocent time of my seventh year. Emotional torment that once streamed out of me with the ferocity of a fire hose now sedately trickled like the flow from our bathroom faucet. Rich as my progress had become, the Vultures pecking at my brain still found ample occasion to roost for a meal. I knew they would never leave, but I was thankful the chaos was subdued. Musings aside, another story awaits recording.
Small Change:
Plated for afternoon brunch, dollops of irony are best served on a chilly day. Stewed within this next story is an ironic juxtaposition. Contrasting a measly fifty-cent allowance against the emotional undertow of feeling undeserving, a lifelong struggle begins on this portentous day.
Children and adults alike love a Friday afternoon. Elevating the pre-weekend excitement, I amused myself with a favourite game. When Old Man Winter slowly yields to spring, new entertainments fill a young boy's agenda. Having finished school for the week, I was outside in my billy boots and a light coat. Melting snow mixed with light rain fills roadside gutters with flooding water. Playing the important role of a riverboat captain, I amused myself as the balmy spring air caressed my cheeks.
Facing our home, from right to left, Gauvin Street slightly dropped at a gradient of less than three degrees. When spring runoff was favourable, I would dedicate at least an hour to captaincy. The famed canal I manufactured extended between two roadside sewers. I named the two ports Lake Titicaca and the Sewerville terminus. Fabricating a ship to navigate the waterway was all about striking a balance between flotation and ergonomics. Bulky ships would get caught up on the slightest of obstacles. Green wood or water-logged sticks always perished in the river depths. Running a seaworthy course was a job well suited to a popsicle stick. Svelte, buoyant and racy, the popsicle stick was the ultimate sailing vessel. With half a dozen popsicle sticks in my pocket and the balmy Friday afternoon sun at my back, I prepared for the first race.
Extensive preparations were required before launching the inaugural vessel of the 1968 sailing season. The first task was to manufacture a series of three boulder rapids. Each boulder formation needed to be cleverly designed as a fiendishly treacherous obstacle. The next call to action was the creation of three iceberg alleys. Moulding hardened snow into tight racing chutes would challenge the sailing skills of even the most adept river captain.
Time was finally at hand for Captain Dos Santos to guide the first two vessels from Port Titicaca to the launching site. Cheering, the imaginary crowd leapt with excitement. Quickly rising, Lake Titicaca inflated behind the immovable dam. One inch raised the teetering boats, two inches elevated the vessels off the lake bottom, and three inches caused a stir of bridled anticipation. Upon achieving the requisite four-inch lake depth, Captain Dos Santos ordered the engineers to open the floodgates.
Whoosh roared the canal waters. Carried along the raging river, the two ships hurled toward Boomtown Boulders, the first obstacle of the deadly race. Careening off a huge rock, the Bluenose spun around, then sat immobile. Laughing ecstatically while sweeping past the hobbled ship, Captain Ahab sneered at the unfortunate Captain Dos Santos. Righted by the rushing current, Dos Santos quickly relaunched his Bluenose. Back and forth, the sailors perilously battled the raging waters. Bouncing off glacial chutes and avoiding tricky boulders, Captain Ahab enjoyed clear sailing. Everyone could see the Ahab victory was all but assured.
Only a miracle could enable a race win for the fabled Bluenose.
Imminent as victory appeared, Ahab knew better than to count his sea turtles before they hatched. Strange and unusual racing events had often snatched victory from Ahab's grasp. As if on cue, a rogue wave ferociously struck the Ahab stern. Captain Dos Santos was gaining on Ahab, but the speedy schooner was hard to catch. Miraculously, out of the Heavens, a two-thousand-foot-tall size 6 black and orange Wellington boot slammed into the Ahab stern. Surrendering to the powerful force, the once invincible Pequod sank to the river bottom. Screaming, Ahab vowed revenge. Speeding past the floundering Ahab, Captain Dos Santos sailed the undefeated Bluenose toward the finish line. The crowds cheered with excitement as the Canadian vessel crossed the finish line in first place.
Having defeated the Pequod, the Bluenose sailed back to Lake Titicaca, where Captain Columbus had prepared the famed Santa Maria. Stirring crowds were agog with excitement in anticipation of the second race. Billed as the sailing event of the century, Columbus could not wait to strike the first blow across the Bluenose bow. Unfortunately for Columbus, a blue 1967 Dodge Monaco was spotted on the horizon. Martin was home from work. Running to greet him, I arrived by his side as he exited the car. We shared a big hug and then walked to the house together.
When a little younger than seven, I would beg Martin to walk me to the house like a robot. Hanging on tight, I would attach myself to his leg. Martin would swing his powerful leg in an exaggerated arc while I cooed with delight. Riding Martin's leg was immensely fun. Offering the same gate as a mechanical horse ridden at the town mall, the motion made me giggle with delight. Unfortunately, the days of riding Martin's leg had passed; I was a big boy, almost eight years old. Thankfully, I was not yet too old to hold his massive hand.
Many eventualities conspired to make Friday the best day of the week. Top of the list for us kids was the allocation of our weekly allowance. Martin's Friday routine would involve a couple of shots of whisky or vodka with Doreen. Martin and Doreen would spend the next half an hour sharing their daily events. Soon after their chat, Martin would call us children to the kitchen. Answering his summons, we all knew an open wallet would be in his hand. I will remember the sight of Martin's brown leather wallet. Every other Christmas, one of his children bought Martin a new wallet. I recall buying him a Christmas wallet on two separate occasions. Presented with a clear plastic top, the wallet impressively occupied the cardboard gift box.
Highlighted in all its glory, the newly purchased wallet was a sight to behold. Improving on the fabulous presentation, a sticker proudly announced the item as genuine leather. Nothing fake for my Pops. Examining the wallet further, the manufacturer tucked artificial credit cards in the left-hand slots. Each credit card was owned by Mr J. Smith. Mr Smith must have always known his card number because, without exception, his credit card number was 0000 1234 5678 9012. Impressive as all this was, tucked in other slots were glossy photos of beautiful people Martin would never meet. Knowing how many wallets Martin received over the years, his dresser drawer must have been chock full of wallets in every colour imaginable. Although Martin never used the gifts, I do not think his children hesitated to eyeball the next genuine leather Sears candidate.
Reaching into his worn brown leather wallet, Martin gave Debbie and Marty a one-dollar note. Cathy and I received 50 cents. Incapable of fully appreciating the purchasing power of money, I felt sorry for Marty and Debbie. Never would I trade four shiny coins for a solitary paper note. Pocketing my treasure, I jumped for joy. My allowance made a super day infinitely better. In fact, if I were not so distracted by pleasure, I would have assimilated the look of consternation Martin flashed in recognition of my exuberant thanks. Unprocessed intelligence does not bode well for a foster child looking to win the game of fostering survival. Early in my childhood, I learned to pay close attention to the hidden messages in the eyes of everyone I met. It would not be long before I came to regret my careless lack of attention to Martin's quizzical look.
Skipping to my bedroom, I jumped on my bed to inspect my new riches. Bearing the etching of the great Bluenose Schooner, I loved the dimes more than the other coins. The nifty polygon shape and beaver etching made the nickel my next favourite coin. The caribou-clad quarters were nice, but only the commemorative centennial quarters were regarded by me as special coinage. Regardless of what coin I held, the most exciting discovery would be if it were minted in 1961. Coins minted in the year of my birth were always put aside. Having adequately inspected my allowance, I tucked the silver carefully into my pocket and raced to the hallway closet. Grabbing my coat and boots, I ran out of the house to play my favourite Friday game, Flash.
Flash was a wonderfully exciting game. It did not last long, but like an amusement park ride, it never failed to entertain. We have all had the sensation of being watched. Discernibly palpable, the feeling sits right at the back of our necks. Like a whisper preying on your senses, the feeling of being watched begs you to look about. Struck by this sensation, I spotted Martin as he stood in front of the living room window. I was idly amused to see him watch me play. Heartily, I waved a greeting. Casually, he responded.
Moving along with my game, I never gave a second thought to my audience. Hovering above Port Sewerville, I spied the murky depths below. Lying down on the sewer grate, I held my dime perfectly flat and then dropped it into the void. With a subtle splash, the dime struck the watery grave. Swaying back and forth, it emitted bright silver flashes as it danced to the sewer bottom. Clear sewer water would gift me five or six bright flashes of light before the coin disappeared into the murky depths. Unfortunately, the muddy spring water reduced my reward to two quick dashes of light. Disappointed but not entirely deterred, I debated tossing the next coin.
One of the best parts of Flash was the attempt to make one coin land on top of another. Without seeing the sewer bottom, the game was a shallow version of its true glory. Unable to stop, I reached into my pocket to secure a nickel. With great precision and intent, I let the silver flasher fall. Unfortunately, the coin failed to land flat. Slicing into the dirty water, it bit into the darkness without providing a single flash. Unhappy with the utter failure, I reached for my quarter. Quarters were the best flashers. Quarters that landed perfectly flat would deviate three or four inches left to right. Flashing brightly to their destination, the Caribou-faced coins always offered the best entertainment.
Soon after dropping the silvery coin, I saw Martin tearing out of the house.
Open coat dancing in response to his hurried pace, he rumbled at me like a freight train. Boot buckles left undone, the flaps of his goloshes flopped about in search of forsaken mates. Steaming like an old kettle, Martin raced my way. His reddened face and angered look left me utterly confused. Quizzically, I looked behind me to see what caused his obvious distress. Nothing I saw relieved my concern. Perplexed by the state of unnatural affairs, there was nothing I could do but remain by the sewer motionless. Frightfully attending the drama of Martin's animated and furious approach, I cowered. Towering over me like a giant, Martin stared me down. Within this utterly confusing moment, I knew I was at the source of Martin's anger. Never had I been at Sixes and Sevens with Martin. Being a cautious child, I knew when the metaphorical hammer blow was imminent.
Hand on his hips, Martin shone the light of his despair directly in my eyes.
Did I just see you throw your allowance into the sewer?
Probing sentences are always an enigma for children. How does one proceed? Lying would exacerbate the outcome but furnish a slim chance of not getting caught. If I failed to lie, then immediate ruin was assured. What to do? Rolling the dice in my head, I ceased on my only hope and lied.
No Dad.
I did not throw my allowance into the sewer.
Chris, do not lie!
I saw your every move from the window.
You know I was watching.
Damn, his clever trap had slammed shut on my lying tongue. Trick questions are not fair play. Caught in a lie, there was nothing I could do but lie again. In for a penny, in for a pound. Stammering, I hesitatingly responded.
But, Dad, I did not throw my allowance into the sewer. My feeble rebuttal landed on deaf ears.
Then empty your pockets, he quickly replied.
Obediently, scared as a scalded cat, I emptied from my pocket the remaining nickel. Holding the lone nickel out for Martin's consideration, I carelessly blurted.
See, Dad, I still have my allowance.
Snatching the coin from my hand, Martin turned a deeper shade of red. Where is the rest? Your allowance was fifty cents, Chris, not one nickel! Martin growled impatiently.
The rest fell into the sewer by accident, I awkwardly stammered.
The gambit was lost; I had no recourse but to accept my comeuppance. Grabbing my wrist with steely power, a single motion saw Martin lift me in the air. Then, in a blur of events, he swatted me hard in the ass. When I regained footing, I tried to run. My spinning legs were useless against his powerful grip. Blackened horribly was my wonderful Friday afternoon. Martin ruthlessly dragged me to my bedroom. Lying in bed crying, I tried to solve the riddle of why my day had gone horribly awry.
What was wrong with playing Flash? It was a terrific game.
Would I ever learn to be truthful?
During the 1960s, spankings were an acceptable tool in the administrative arsenal of many parents. Contrary to traditional child-rearing techniques, Martin was not of the mind to spank or berate his children. Managing our unruliness, Martin was consistently calm, patient, and nurturing. When necessary, Martin was forceful, but he never haphazardly wielded an overpowering nature. Martin hit none of his children, nor would he scream or diminish their stature. The reliable course of his gentleness made the swat on my behind ever more painful. My heart ached much more than my rear end. Disappointing Martin would always lay a burden on my shoulders that I was desperate to remove.
Half an hour after being sequestered in my room, Martin appeared. Remarking on his broken look, he was clearly upset by our encounter. Martin looked me in the eyes and sincerely told me how much he regretted his violent response. He explained how his frustrations had taken hold of his senses and admitted his actions were unacceptable. Asking for my forgiveness, he held his arms out for a hug. We talked about respecting the value of money and how hard he worked to care for our family. Patiently, Martin reminded me again of the importance of never lying. Unfortunately, the die had been cast. For the next twenty years, I habitually resorted to lying as a survival mechanism. During our conversation, Martin said something that will forever stick in my mind.
Everyone makes mistakes, son. How you handle yourself in the aftermath of mistakes will define you in the eyes of others.
We spoke for another few minutes, laughed at our stupidity and made peace with our transgressions. Martin never grounded me, nor did he dispense further retribution. One would suspect the lessons I learned that afternoon would have ended the sordid ordeal. Such was not the case. When the subsequent Friday arrived, I refused the allowance Martin offered. Over the following month, Martin casually urged me to accept the weekly gift. Politely but steadfastly, I refused to take the offerings. He would joke, reminding me that as long as I did not throw my allowance in the sewer, it was mine to do with as I saw fit. Nothing Martin would say affected my choice to abstain from partaking in the weekly ritual. After weeks of pressing coins my way, Martin respected my wishes.
Somehow, this little ordeal ballooned into a decision to never take a penny from Martin. When Christmas approached, Martin would give all the children money to buy presents, but I refused to indulge. Chores around the neighbourhood, shovelling sidewalks and mowing lawns allowed me to earn plenty of cash. When all was said and done, I found earning a wage was far better than waiting for an allowance. Often, I had money stashed away while my siblings waited for their Friday allowance to arrive. Being an innocent child, I failed to see how my stance had nothing to do with independence, self-sufficiency, or a desire to prove myself. Hidden within my choice was a profound lack of self-esteem.
I was worthless.
I deserved nothing.
Sitting at my laptop this evening, serenaded by crickets, I understand why I will never be entirely free of the emotional current of unworthiness. Climbing Mount Everest or swimming across the Atlantic would be easier for me to complete than finding a way free of the unworthy human stigma. Ever-present, the current of unworthiness consumes all modules of my life. Broken relationships, failed business ventures, poor health choices, torched friendships and constant self-depreciation. Until my last breath, the beast must eat. Long before my fifty-cent lesson, the beast was gnawing at my self-worth. However, this coin-tossing episode was the singular incident that allowed me to give the animal a proper name.
Unworthy me!
Inescapable is the irony of how a small amount of change triggered a cognitive connection with feelings of unworthiness. What might appear to be an insignificant life event was a portentous signpost pointing to my false identity. Properly introduced, the beast and I could get to the business of self-sabotage. Sitting on my back porch, fingers lightly tapping my laptop keyboard, I see an image of a little boy moulding a snowball in his hands. Rolling the ball across the snow-covered field, its presence grows until it is unmanageable. Unavoidable is my reckoning with the mighty beast.
The Birthday:
Burdened with self-depreciation, bonding with family, friends, or acquaintances is impossibly challenging. Riddled with angst, anger, and distrust, I cannot imagine how anyone could have been oblivious to my diseased nature. Operating within the darkness of my pseudo-identity, forging childhood friendships always proved a more difficult proposition. Appropriately, having only nurtured a handful of friends, each relationship was as rare and valuable as a Stanley Cup win. My first stab at a friendship, one I coveted dearly, blew up like an autumn firecracker. Hurtful was the loss, so much that even to this day, my heart stings. His name was Tan Comas.
In what they affectionately considered the south shore of Greater Montreal, the French-speaking town of Chambly was rather quaint. Within the confines of our subdivision, Doreen allowed me a play area extending a three-block radius from our split-level bungalow. Contained within my region of play, there lived only two English-speaking families. Fortunately, the Richardette and Comas families both had children close to my age. Tan Comas was a few months younger than me, while Lyle Richardette endlessly reminded us he was one year our elder. Off and on, I would find myself in the privileged company of these boys. Likely, at least in the beginning, they also coveted the chance to be my playmate.
More often than not, we located an old tennis ball for street hockey or baseball games. When a tennis ball proved unavailable, other pastimes like hide and seek, tag, bike riding, fishing, or fort building would keep us entertained. Rainy days drove us indoors, hopefully at a friend's home. Boiling summer afternoons would have us scrounging up enough coinage to play at the local pool, Piscine Chambly. Piscine, the French word for swimming pool, made us howl with laughter. Have a fun time swimming, but no pissing in the piscine.
Ha, ha, ha, stupid frogs!
Punctuating our youthful social calendar were big event days like Christmas, Easter, Halloween, or a birthday celebration. From my perspective, as a child forever searching for a best friend, the birthday party was the most daunting of all calendar celebrations. Being invited to a boy's birthday party represented assurances that he and I were bona fide friends. The invitation card itself was a prize worthy of considerable note. Clearly etched in my mind is the only invitation I ever received. Closing my eyes, I can see the envelope as I type these words. Pristine white, the envelope was sharp as the crease in my Sunday pants. Within the envelope, a colourful card bedecked in finery. Tan's seventh birthday was right around the corner, and I was invited.
Wow!
Reaching into my tickle trunk of memories, I recall lying in bed, clasping my coveted prize. The seductive noontime reverie, to which I now relate, proved a solitary moment three to four days distant from Tan's fast-approaching birthday. Rain, passionately drumming upon the window pane, did not provoke within me a grievance as it would normally. For in my little hand was an invitation envelope. By design or coincidence, Mrs Comas had not sealed the envelope. The eventuality of an unsealed invitation pleased me greatly as it granted me many opportunities to reopen the envelope as if for the first time. Slowly releasing the contents for animated review, the invitation card reads as follows.
Christopher Patrick, we cordially invite you to the birthday celebration of Tan Comas.
Beyond those magical words, the birthday date, time of arrival, and departure time filled the card. This was my first birthday celebration at the home of a genuine friend. Believing I was through the moon with excitement would have proved a considerable understatement.
Even though all of us kids knew the special event was soon to arrive, I was damn sure I would not be invited. During the preceding year, my naughty behaviour forced Tan's mother, on many occasions, to request that I leave their home. Most English-speaking parents in the subdivision had suspicions about the little Patrick / Dos Santos boy. The word about our community suggested that little Christopher was a wayward foster child. He was a handful most of the time, a terror if left to his own accord. My sullied reputation translated into me missing out on many birthday celebrations. Yearly, the pain of expected invitations that never arrived in the post.
Past disappointments made the colourful little card vigorously clasped to my heart even more special. Adorned with fancy balloons, twisters, tooters, and sparklers, the card was a sight to behold. Not to mention the appeal of elegant writing with nifty words like cordial and celebration. During the special childhood moment of seeing my name written in such a style, I knew I was consuming the emotional candy reserved for good boys. Mixed feelings prevailed as my surname reads Patrick, not Dos Santos. Still, within the joyful moment, all that really mattered was the undeniable fact that I was an invited guest, cordially invited at that.
Each weekday leading up to the big Saturday afternoon event passed slowly enough to make me want to scream. Eventually, with no favours bestowed by the God Chronos, Tan's birthday finally arrived. True to form, Doreen faithfully illustrated careful admonishments, demanding good behaviour. Doreen's persistence convinced the prevailing cowlick in my hair to yield to her will, and with my church clothes pressed sharp enough to slice bread, the inaugural big-boy social affair appeared.
Arriving at Tan's home, Doreen motioned toward the stylish black doorbell. My heart was pounding, and I was grateful Doreen firmly held onto my sweaty hand. With bated breath, I attended to the creaking of the sturdy Oaken door. Thankfully, Doreen had gifted me with the opening greeting. Well-practised, I was ready for whatever might transpire. Confidently, I blurted the greeting in a single, breathless sentence.
Hello, Mrs Comas. Thank you for inviting me to Tan's birthday party. Please accept this present for Tan. The gift is a pack of swell Hot Wheels cars.
Sincerely smiling, Mrs Comas accepted the gift and graciously thanked me for attending the party. My senses burst for the reward of entry to her home; awkwardly, I waited for the pleasantries to be exchanged between the two women. The requisite goodbye kiss and hug for Doreen meant I had passed all the pre-party tests. Finally, at long last, ushering me into the hallowed halls of party land, Mrs Comas stood off to the side of the open door. Like most houses in the 60s, their three-bedroom bungalow had a finished basement. Passing through the living room, Mrs Comas ambled down the narrow hall with me in tow. Almost immediately, I could hear the din of celebration; my heart leapt into my throat. With Mrs Comas at my back, we navigated the carpeted stairs leading to party land.
Hello everyone, for those of you who have never met, this is Tan's friend, Christopher Patrick, announced Mrs Comas. Wow, a proper introduction, followed by a few echoes of my name. Thrilling was the feeling of being an important guest. Tan advanced toward me with a big smile, heartily pasted across his face.
My eyes were agog with joy; filling the room was, at the very least, a dozen children. Some kids I knew from school, others from the neighbourhood. Possibly another five or six children I had never met. Judging by the copper-tone shade of their skin, I suspected the outliers were family members from the exotic lands, unknown. Rounding out the party posse were elder children and a smattering of adults. More than just your average birthday party, this was a monumental event.
The birthday room, bedecked with celebratory furnishings, resembled an array befitting a storybook page. After weaving through a few bodies, I discovered an ample goody station ornately blessing the glass-topped rattan coffee table. Bowls of chips and delicious candies book-ended a more cerebral collection of sliced fruit and sandwiches. Almost as an afterthought were unidentifiable meats haphazardly loitering on the platter. More enticing were the sausage-tipped American cheeses effectively skewered by multi-coloured toothpicks. Sweating more profusely than my hands, the meat offerings were suspected of being fodder that the adults were better off consuming.
Ornate paper plates accommodated children who wanted more than their tiny hands could manage. Taking centre stage, in a fancy faux-crystal bowl, was a punchy concoction of unknown origins. Fascinated by the sapphire blue colour of the beverage, I happily accepted the bright paper cup proffered by the old gentleman whose toothy smile left me a little uneasy. Pockets filled with the goodies I could not hold, I realised this was the classiest affair I would ever attend.
Many party games punctuated the multiple raids I made to the goody table. Pin the tail on the donkey, Kerplunk, and musical chairs, to name a few. Parents really should not include musical chairs as a party game. Rubbing my bruised shin, I thought it might have been a good idea to avoid the musical mania. Mingling about the room proved fun. This birthday party was an epic adventure well beyond my wildest dreams. Between the plethora of goodies, gloriously entertaining games, and smiling children, everyone was having a terrific afternoon.
Sidling away from the densest part of the room, I spied a new Singer sewing machine. I knew the model well; Doreen owned the same item. Eaton furnished many Canadian mothers with a new, jet-black Singer. Proudly, I would like to share the surprising eventuality that I did not touch the sacred sewing machine. Doreen had taught me to never risk playing with women's toys. Walking the nifty, turtle-shaped pin cushion across the sewing machine table, a wonderfully exciting idea popped into my mind.
The first balloon went off like a firecracker. Sharp was the report, causing many to laugh. Bolstering my confidence were the hurrahs of the festive party faithful. Soon after, the second and third balloons ruptured in quick succession. Enrapt in the devilish game, I missed the few investigative heads that turned. Still, nothing to worry about. Smiles all around meant I was onto a good thing. The mood remained jubilant as I headed for the next unsuspecting victims. When balloons five through nine expired like the rat-a-tat-tat of a Tommy gun, a quiet permeated the room. For the briefest moment, no one knew what to expect.
Penetrating the uncomfortable silence was the wail of two little party girls. Obviously, they were distraught by the wanton destruction of their fairground balloons. I refer to them as fairground balloons because they were helium-filled. In the late 60s, only rich children were fortunate enough to gain a floaty balloon. They were the type of balloons I would see at the fairgrounds. Balloons, children would furiously petition their mothers to buy. Mrs Comas had ensured each child would go home with a floaty, or so she thought. If I close my eyes as I type, I imagine Mrs Comas going to sleep the night before the party. She dreams of smiling children skipping from her home with a grab bag of candy and a floaty balloon. The entire neighbourhood would speak of her birthday coup de grâce. Like a puff of smoke, Mrs Comas's dream had just evaporated.
Turning our attention back to the screaming girls. Soon after a couple of adults pacified the anxious lasses, three sharp pops echoed through the room. The gravity of the escalating situation had entirely escaped me, an omission soon remedied by the pointed finger of a little boy, perhaps two years my junior. Desperate to silence the little rat, I slashed at his cheek with the needle. Crimson was the trickle escaping from his ivory-white skin. The savagery of his incredibly violent shrill drove the final nail into my coffin. Indeed, I have never heard a child scream with such absolute conviction.
Deposited in a swirling toilet bowl of despair, the party scene appeared as an oscillating slow-motion vignette. Many probing hands violated my freedom of movement. With pace and alacrity, someone deftly disarmed me. Immediately after the pin was snatched from my hand, it was ceremoniously elevated in the air. Why the foreigner opted to raise the pin high was anyone's guess. He was jubilant as if he held a glorious torch. Perhaps the pin was evidence held up for all to witness. It could be that the pin was proof that they had put the tragic ordeal to rest. Either way, the ceremonious pin was like the Star of David, a beacon for all to follow.
Ushered closely behind the now parading pin were multiple adults. Two more large foreigners hastily marched me up the stairs. Past the kitchen, directly to the vestibule, like a sac of rotten spuds, they carelessly deposited me next to the coats and boots. There was no mistaking the desperate state of affairs in which I was catapulted. This closeted location meant I was going home. Catching up to the magnitude of my actions, I did what any little boy in my position would do. Pressed closely against the heaped pile of shoes and coats, I hid under my jacket and wailed relentlessly.
Peeking over my makeshift blind, I could see Mrs Comas. With fingers trembling, she stabbed relentlessly at the rotary phone dial. Shaking her head, Mrs Comas began dialling. Clearly, I heard the echo of a perfectly reasonable refrain. "I knew inviting that boy to the party was a bad call! She told me it was a bad idea, but I refused to listen." Who she was of whom Mrs Comas referred, I did not know. Was it Doreen who cautioned her? Regardless of who issued the warning to which she alluded, I did sympathise with her sentiments. What were they thinking, inviting me to a party? The playback of Mrs Comas frantically forcing the rotary telephone dial reminds me of a crass but appropriate exchange from the movie Natural Born Killers.
Once upon a time, a woman was picking up firewood. She came across a poisonous snake frozen in the snow. She took the snake home and nursed it back to health. One day, the snake bit her on the cheek. As she lay dying, she asked the snake, why have you done this to me? And the snake answered.
Look, bitch, you knew I was a snake.
Leaning against the back of the closet, I knew there was no coming back from this egregious offence. Sitting on my haunches, I waited for the bombs to drop. Having been in similar situations, I knew pleading or proffering lame explanations would be futile. The soft echoes of Doreen's voice resonating through the telephone made my position painfully clear. Samplings of their conversation had left no doubt of how utterly scathing the review of my incorrigible behaviour. Fifteen minutes after the phone was cradled, I was standing on the stoop with fresh tears staining my reddened face. I was ashamed when Mrs Comas recounted my wicked deeds.
Having travelled similar roads, I knew repentance and subservience were my only chance to defuse the smoking adults. Within the moments of my reckoning, I am convinced Doreen, and I were consumed by an equal serving of shame. Doreen squeezed my hand white as we shuffled out of the Comas' abode. My last half-hearted echo of regret fell on deaf ears. Sheepishly reviewing the scene, I turned to look at Mrs Comas. While Doreen was tugging me down the cement stairs, I caught sight of Mrs Comas's eyes. Watching the nasty urchin leave her property invoked the satisfied look of relief I knew would be present. Silently, as in a slow-motion movie, Mrs Comas and I exhaled.
Closing my eyes as I type this sentence, I can almost see Mrs Comas standing by the kitchen sink. She frantically scrubs the stench of my presence from her supple caramel hands. The walk home proved quietly menacing. Doreen steamed with passionate anger. Boy, oh boy, she sure blew hotter than an old locomotive. Rounding the Gauvin Street corner, she abruptly stopped, bent down and turned me to face her eye to eye.
What would possess you to do such a horrible thing?
Fair play was the question posed by Doreen. I did not begrudge Doreen's anger and confusion. In fact, I had the same question running through my mind for much of the previous hour. I did not orchestrate my actions that day from a position of intent. Much like the storied snake, I merely exhibited natural behaviour commiserate with that of a damaged child. Entirely incapable of identifying with my psychological profile, I had no prayer of suggesting an excuse that would speak to reason or logic.
Pondering Doreen's valid but unapproachable question, I idly nudged dried oak and maple leaves hugging the roadside curb. My response was what one would consider patentable child speak. Woefully shrugging my shoulders, I counted my shoelaces and stammered an answer known well to parents around the globe.
"I don't know, Mom."
Within these moments of re-enacting the event, I am handcuffed from expressing the true motive for my actions. Turning the idea over in my mind during my morning shower, I searched for additional insights into the mechanics of the choices made that fateful afternoon. Sitting at my laptop, an idea percolates. Envy was an emotion that always directed me to chaos. I sourly envied the smooth life of well-behaved children like Tan. Good boys were liked, treated lovingly and gifted with countless joys. Nasty foster children struggled to be admired by other children. Rarely were kids like me included in games or respected by peers.
Hosting a birthday party with lots of guests, swell games and exotic foods perfectly illustrated the rewards befitting a good boy. Outcasts, like myself, were the proverbial peeping Toms relegated to standing in the snow drooling over riches they would never realise. I was incapable of creating a good boy persona. Subconsciously facing my shortcomings made me feel powerless. Popping the balloons was my way to capture the power, love and attention I so desperately craved.
Once in my childhood, I was fortunate enough to host my very own birthday party. Doreen wanted the event to be a special occasion. Tirelessly, Doreen worked to ensure that many neighbourhood children attended my tenth birthday. Surrounding me with a group of young playmates would have proven a risky decision at the best of times. Having me as the centre of attention was like tossing gasoline on fire and hoping it would not ignite. The event went surprisingly well until Martin entertained the children with impromptu golf lessons. Golf balls were soon dancing around the backyard. Martin was savvy enough to ensure I had the first lesson. When he started teaching the other children, I boiled with intense jealousy.
In my mind, the other children were stealing my spotlight. Martin was my foster dad, and every special moment should be mine. Within a few desperate moments, without foreplanning, I quickly set right the perceived injustice. Standing proximal to the child stealing Martin's attention, I deliberately cocked back my club and swung through the golf ball with vigour. Holding his bloodied face, the poor little boy writhed in pain. Can you imagine the fallout of such a heinous action? Yes, the boy hollered like a stuck pig. His eye swelled bigger than the golf ball he had been addressing. Indeed, Martin knew I had constructed the malicious act with a vengeful heart. Just like the balloon incident, I felt hurt, insignificant and unloved. Incapable of communicating or identifying with my pain, I concocted an uncalculated act of bitter defiance.
Unravelling the chaos of my childhood, there were many similar chaotic events. Each time my insecurity was exposed or if my self-esteem was threatened, the undeserving child snarled with malevolence. I constantly found myself in a pickled state of upheaval. During each nasty event, I was bamboozled to furnish an excuse for my wicked behaviour. The tail was wagging the dog, and this poor mutt had no idea why life went sideways or how to prevent the next debacle.
There is a good reason why the courts offer latitude when judging if a child can know their mind or control their actions. Should we juror emotionally challenge children with the same vigour as healthy children? Each of us views the world through a unique lens. When judging foster children, the gavel must compassionately fall? Psychiatrists are capable of comprehending the nuances of social deviance. Professional caregivers know broken children have a hard time adapting to society. Laypersons often cannot appreciate that a child could be incapable of avoiding their malicious deeds.
Damaged children are not capable of colouring inside the lines of societal expectations. Although this snapshot of a child out of control is not a revelation, I suspect few people comprehend the depth and scope of the many challenges faced by foster children. Whenever I am disgusted, confused or insulted by the actions of a wild child, I try to remember their path has been difficult. Compassion, realised in the heat of a moment, can help me withhold askance looks, silence accusatory whispers, or retract the pointed finger.
When witnessing the chaos of others, I hope the deadly look of relief will not sparkle in my eyes as they take leave of my company.
Addressing parents, natural-born or foster, childcare workers, and CAS administrators, I beseech you to respond quickly and effectively to antisocial or sociopathic behaviour. Instead of asking why I did such a terrible thing, Doreen might have directed the same query to my CAS care worker. Guidance from a child psychiatrist would have gone a long way toward offering me a chance at a well-adjusted childhood. Conversely, in the absence of support, left to my own devices, I stomped on every pretty balloon that crossed my path.
Unattended, the weeds in my garden did not wither, then die. They wildly flourished.
Foster children, severely scarred, often suffer on so many different levels. During my childhood, I saw stepping stones invariably leading to an empty field on the outskirts of town. Fear of abandonment manifested in unrelenting pain. Sharp was the knife whittling away my self-esteem. The more worthless I became, the faster I raced toward social chaos. Darkness begets darkness as the diseased mind reflects outward the fear, disorder, and anger existing within.
Socially unacceptable behaviour pushed me to the fringe of society. Fearful that my company would corrupt their children, the neighbourhood parents ostracised me. Fingers pointed, whispers met wanting ears. My reputation promulgated my role as a social pariah. Compassion requires effort and love. Supporting needy children is a choice we all can make. Some people can understand bedevilled children, but most do not. Experience has taught me that ultra-compassionate individuals are a rare breed. Within our community, playgrounds, and schools I attended, my vile behaviour invited scorn, ridicule, and ostracisation.
How else should Mrs Comas react? No one would or should begrudge her reaction to my misdeeds. Any mother would want to cast aside a devilish child ruining her son's birthday party. Hurt by my actions, ridiculing my behaviour and hating me was a normal reaction from Tan's perspective. Why should anyone want to befriend a nasty boy? Perplexed by my actions, what else could be expected of Doreen? When children misbehaved, admonishment and penance were the norms. Parents would never entertain a dive deep into the psyche of their child. Even the mention of psychiatry would scare parents.
Living with the sharp end of the stick pointed my way, I held no grudge. I understood all too well the relationship between my behaviour and the quality of my life. Storylines of a lost child bereft of friends were my norm. Reasonable reactions to my behaviour were school hall whispers, pointed fingers, and disgust in the eyes of those who wished me gone. Experiencing the ramifications of my party shenanigans did not cause me to vilify my accusers. Contrarily, I sympathised with their position. Every morning, the bathroom mirror reflected a disgusting little imp. Trust me, I hated the impish brat more than any child or adult who suffered my rudeness.
Sure, as tears wet my eyes, I knew that popping all the floaty balloons would make Tan hate me. Yet, if a metaphorical balloon were to be popped, someone would discover the requisite pin in my sticky little fingers. The pattern of continually scuttling any chance at making friends left me feeling dirty, damaged, and shamefully out of control. Nothing in my childhood proved harder to manage than the utter helplessness and disgust I felt when the proverbial windup duck crashed into the wall.
Child-rearing has become more liberal than fifty years ago; seeing their children caught in the raging storm of chaos, parents are more inclined to seek professional psychiatric help. Relative to mental health, proactive evaluation and care are essential. Spiralling into the depths of self-loathing was absolutely beyond my control. Actions and deeds fueling the ugly journey were a force majeure. Obviously, I could not self-diagnose my psychosis, nor could I magically will myself toward mental health.
Like it or not, capable or not, parents and caregivers are the frontline weeders. Simply put, we cannot expect any good to arise from forcing lost children to tend their own gardens. When I next encounter the axiomatic balloon popper, my checkered past will afford me the compassion to resist the knee-jerk reaction of repulsiveness. Instead of disgust, I might choose love and embrace the wayward child.
Mr Neville:
For children who fear abandonment, there are many instances, small and large, that heighten their desertion tremors. The events I am about to recount imprinted me with a lasting legacy of fear. Standing on the soapbox of good intentions, a person of power and community standing was haranguing me into obedience. Replicated often over five years were similar versions of this event. I was eight at the time of this torturous incident.
Being naughty at school ramped up the dreadful threat of being abandoned. Throughout my childhood, I was forever getting into classroom trouble. When disrupting the class, as I often did, the Catholic school penguins would rap my knuckles with the metal edge of their wooden rulers. Mr Buckley, my home form teacher, would throw the chalkboard eraser at my head. Unfortunately, his horrible aim would further spike his ire. Feeling inadequate, he would tie me to my desk with my sweater or insist I stand in the corner with my nose touching the wall. When I really irritated Mr Buckley, he would lock me in the coat closet until class ended. To this day, I am claustrophobic.
Irksome as were the repercussions of my classroom tomfoolery, if the scolding stayed in the classroom, I was not too upset. Few things were more fearful than being sent to the principal's office. Mister Neville, the principal, was large and robust in stature. Matching his powerful build was a booming voice and stern visage. His intimidating nature instilled fright, but his words cut deepest.
Being directed to Mr Neville's office instigated a ritualistic response of cause and effect. When Mr Buckley sent me to see the principal, I knew precisely what horrors the next hour would offer. Like a movie watched many times, every word and nuance of the event was easily anticipated. The only difference between a movie and a visit to the office was that I could turn the movie off before it scared the Bejesus out of me.
The ordeal begins with a stern look from Mrs Bautista, the wrinkly old secretary. Sucking her teeth, then shaking her head, was the ritualistic behaviour preceding her tired welcome. Oh, you again, Christopher? Take a seat, and I will call you when Mr Neville is ready to see you. Punishment was a game Mr Neville knew very well. Before announcing me into the office, Mr Neville always let me stew for fifteen minutes. Stone-jawed Mrs Bautista ushered me into the Neville lair. Even seated at his desk, the man struck an imposing figure. Pointing to the chair, he simply nodded.
Mr Neville did not care why I was there. My presence alone assured him I had again snapped the end of Mr Buckley's judicial tether. Standing tall as a giant, Mister Neville slowly removed his black leather belt and nodded in the desired direction. Naturalised by routine, I simply bent over the wooden chair.
Similar to the brown hue of the United Parcel Service logo, the cushioned seat had a woven fabric of sandy beige contrasting with a poopy shade of brown. Thin lines of black thread crisscrossed the weave. Almost thirty years later, I saw an identical fabric covering a chair at the local Value Village. Sentimentality urged me to purchase the chair for a sawbuck.
Etching the woven tapestry to memory, I dutifully attended my lashing. Never four nor six, always allocated were five stripes. Over the years, I wondered if five was Mr Neville's favourite number. One unfortunate day, I mustered up the courage to ask. Ten is my favourite number, he growled. Sternly, he looked at the chair and then nodded. Unable to speak for Mr Neville, I assure you my pertness was worth the extra five lashes. I never had the guts to inquire about his thoughts on the matter. Harsh, as was the fiery end of his leather belt, the sharp lash was nothing compared to his hard-hitting admonishments.
Wagging his big fat finger from across the desk, he barked more than spoke. Pushing each word at me with his index finger, he said. Christopher, there will come a day soon when devilishness will land you in a Montreal boarding school. Trust me, Christopher, a boarding school is the last place you want to live. Sly as a fox, Mr Neville knew the mere mention of institutionalised living would scare the daylights out of any foster child. Firing up the metaphoric frying pan under my arse, he reached for the phone. Before his brain told his hand to grab the telephone receiver, I knew this was the next chapter in our sick movie. Crying defiantly, I frantically pleaded with the man, Please, please, please, Mr Neville, I beg you not to telephone my mother. Regardless of my heated entreaties, my howling never prevented the process from unfolding.
Often, Mr Neville and I faced this crossroads together. Each time he threatened me, fear paralysed me into believing Mr Neville's admonishment would come to pass. Seeing Mr Neville reach for the bulky black telephone caused my heart to skip a beat. Desperately doubling down on my only bet, I begged tirelessly until I knew Doreen had picked up the telephone receiver. Realising my doom, my heart sank like Ahab's famous ship, the mighty Pequod. Beaten into submission, I was a helpless spectator to their conversation. Closing off the ordeal was a demand that Doreen should pick me up from school.
Doreen did not own a driver's license or have access to a car. Consistently, she would petition her friend, Margot Rowan, to help retrieve me from school. The retrieval process usually took about half an hour. Another difficult thirty minutes would have to be spent under the glare of the ornery receptionist. When, at last, Doreen presented herself, I experienced a strange mix of agony and relief. Well-versed in the exercise protocols, Doreen nodded to Mrs Bautista as she quietly occupied the seat adjacent to mine. Together, like two peas in a pot of boiling water, we uneasily attended the invitation to visit with Mr Neville.
Blubbering, as respectfully as possible, I listened to the grave exchange between adults. When the conversation ended, I was ever so relieved to not hear the phrase, boarding school. With my hand held firmly in Doreen's grasp, we made our way down desolate hallways to the visitor parking. Head down, streaming salty tears with each step, I begged Doreen to please take me home. Years later, as a young adult, I divulged to Doreen how Mr Neville used to harangue me with boarding school threats.
When Doreen learned of the abuse, angry tears welled up in her eyes. Within the revealing moment, I deeply felt Doreen's pain. She had tried hard to make me feel safe, cherished, and a loved family member. Knowing Mr Neville undermined her efforts hurt Doreen deeper than I expected. Conforming to the expectations of my teachers, family, and friends was never attainable. Failing to make the social grade always left me feeling helpless and alienated. Children often cannot appreciate how impactful their struggles are to their parent's peace of mind. When Doreen and I spoke of Mr Neville, I finally comprehended how burdensome it was for Doreen to witness my emotional challenges. Although I felt alone growing up, Doreen was always by my side. Whenever I struggled, Doreen quietly shared my burden.
