It didn�t take long for my teachers and others to recognize that I was more intelligent than the other kids. Even though I did a lot of the usual stupid kid stuff, many of the questions I asked and directions of thought I would display were atypical. And it wasn�t long before they had me taking I.Q. tests and the like. The scores indicated that I was in the high genius range. Something like the top one half of one percent of the population. Math was one subject that I found particularly easy. There was an award based program of math that was based on assignments completed. This program carried over into every year of grade school and was cumulative. It was a point system where trophies were awarded for different levels of completion. The one hundred point trophy was something that few children reached, though some had gone beyond that to one hundred twenty or so by the end of fifth grade. I seem to recall that at the rate I was going in the program I would have received the one hundred point mark before any other kid ever and would set a new record by the end of my fifth grade year. It became this huge anticipation thing for my teachers and parents and everyone seemed excited about it. To me it was just something to do and I belted out the assignments consistently and quickly. But over time it seemed to become so important to everyone else that I began feeling some degree of pressure. I have never had much of a competitive drive and all of that pressure began to make me feel self-conscious. Everyone�s expectations weighed heavily on me and I simply stopped doing the assignments. Recognition of achievement, even then, was not really important to me. And so I let them all down. I don�t believe I ever even achieved the hundred point trophy.
Looking back I realize that this was something that shaped me to a large extent. Even to this day I have trouble dealing with other people placing expectations on me. And so, often times I would find myself then and in some ways even now, �playing down� my actual abilities. I have never really felt any strong need to prove myself to anyone. There were even times growing up where I would purposely throw tests and evaluations so that I could fit in with the more �normal� kids. My mother always saw through these things and I am sure that it gave her no end of frustrations. When I entered into sixth grade I was sent to a school for gifted children. My mother tells me that I didn�t want to go and that I only gave in to the idea on the condition that my best friend at the time went too. I don�t recall it that way and even though she says he went to that same school with me, I know that I never saw him there. I seem to remember that this school was even easier than regular school and the focus was more on understanding and comprehension than on math or a more fact based curriculum. There were lots of book reports and thought based activities and not so much historical or mathematical courses. I remember that year pretty well and I have to say it was my favorite year of school. The following year we moved from California�s bay area to the central valley and I returned to regular public school. That was at age twelve.
My early school years were for the most part memorable and happy times. But things at home were taking the opposite direction. It was sometime during those early years that my father began to become increasingly abusive toward us kids. And while it was no secret in the family that I was his favorite, and could often use that to my advantage, I was by no means immune to his wrath when it would surface. My father was a pretty consistent and heavy drinker. He would get drunk and often times would become rough with us kids. Probably not realizing that his roughness was often painful. In addition to the physical roughness he had this habit of poking, prodding, pinching and teasing in ways that might be termed inappropriate. He would pinch mine or my brothers privates, making some lewd comment and laugh about it. I can�t term it as all out sexual molestation because I don�t believe it was sexually motivated on his part. Other things he would do is to grab us, strip us down and laugh as we ran from the front of the house to the our bedroom in the back. I seem to remember one time having to run through the living room in this state, where my mother had some guests. I felt degraded, self-conscious and humiliated each time.
The psychological effects were far more damaging than any of the physical abuse. Even though some of the physical abuse was very extreme. I can remember three times in my life for certain where my father beat me with a belt so badly that I could barely walk. I remember laying over the couch and looking at him in utter horror as he mustered all his strength into swinging the belt. I remember him being drunk each time and often times his aim was poor, leaving huge black welts not only on my backside, but halfway up my back and down my legs. When my strength gave out from the first six or so blows and I slumped toward the floor, he would command me to get back up or pick me up himself and lay me back over the couch and continue. When I look back at these memories it is always as if I am somewhere outside of myself watching from outside my own body.
The last time my father was physically rough with me wasn�t until my teen years. I guess I was about fifteen or sixteen. He had mine and my brother�s heads locked in each arm and was banging them together. We struggled, but he was a strong man. My nose started bleeding and when he let us go I went to the bathroom and bled all over the sink, leaving it for him to see. This only served to enrage him and when he came after me I ran outside. I jumped on my mini bike and rode more than 60 miles, over two sets of mountains on the back roads to return to our previous home in San Jose. I returned the next day and the only thing he said to me was that if I thought I was man enough to make it on my own, not to come home. But it scared him I guess and he never hit me again. But this is getting ahead of the story.
As an adult in my mid to late twenties I came to realize where his abusive behavior stemmed from and was able to forgive the past. He is not some monster and you must know that I love him dearly. I can�t say I agree with or liked his actions in those years, but I understand them and he has changed much over the years since. But it was not all bad in those early years. My father had his good qualities too. The greatest gift he gave me was to instill in me a great love of the outdoors. For as long as I can remember he would take us up to the Sierra Nevada mountains camping and backpacking. We would also spend many times at the ocean and in our trips across country we would stop at places like the grand canyon and in later years, Mt. Rushmore. With him I got to be part of many different types of natural settings in every season and my love of nature is one of the strongest influences in my life.
My father taught me many other things in life as well. But given his own upbringing and beliefs I must say that most of the positive things I have learned from him were gleaned from negative examples. For example, my father taught me how to steal. He would take me into a store and show me how to pocket small items, telling me to make sure no one was watching. But after being caught stealing a magazine later in life while with my mother one time, and fearing so much that he would beat me that I nearly threw myself out of our speeding vehicle rather than face him, I learned a great lesson. I was made to wait behind the house for him to finish the work he was doing with my brother on the chicken coop. I sat there in complete and utter fear for what seemed like an eternity. And as he approached me after my mom had told him what happened I thought my heart would stop. I braced myself for a blow and prepared for the beating that I felt certain would come, but my father came up and looked at me and said these words exactly. �Boy, I�m upset with you. You got caught. Don�t ever get caught, and if you do, you make damn sure you got the money to pay for it.� Then he walked away.
Something that day clicked inside my brain and I somehow was able to begin understanding that there was something wrong with it all. I believe I was twelve at the time. And though I still stole occasionally for many years after that, each time made me think about that day and that sense of wrong I felt about it, until I finally understood how wrong stealing was. The last time I stole anything was in my early twenties. Oh sure, I might still �borrow� things from family without asking, but outright stealing has become something in my past. Heck, I wouldn�t even take a pen from the bank without asking first.
Several other lessons I learned this way from him. Things that have shaped my beliefs on the acceptance of others, taking life or harming needlessly, prejudice, drinking, respect for myself and others and being my own person. All of these and more I have pretty much learned about by taking elements of his negative examples and examining them through the eyes of Truth, turning them around in my brain and putting myself in the role of the victim or recipient of the topic at hand. By placing myself on the receiving end of such things, I came to define my own beliefs which often run contrary to my father�s, but not always. He has changed a lot too remember. He is a much better man in many ways and I love him.
Of course, my mother had her influence too. Hers was much more stable in those early years and generally more positive compared to my father�s. And she complimented his influence quite well. Where my father gave me the love of nature, my mother would take us to more cultural or social events. Cub scouts, bowling, ice or roller skating, museums, work picnics and such things like that. She would send us kids off to Sunday school, but as stated in my views on spirituality, it never amounted to much then. All in all it was a good blending of appreciation and exposure to the world that my parents gave me.
So to sum it all up, there were some very good times and some very bad times growing up. We moved to Tracy, CA just after I turned twelve in the summer of 1978. Before that time I guess I still considered them my family, a somewhat dysfunctional family, but my family. But in my teen years things changed very much, and that is in the next entry.
