Violent Acres

“I used to have a really bad temper. Seriously, it was really bad.”

My colleagues initially blow me off. “Yeah. Right.”

“No I’m serious!” I insist, “I used to have a very short fuse. The kind of short fuse that results in screaming and fist fights; the kind of short fuse that puts people in jail.”

They stare at me for a moment, confused. I can tell they’re wondering if I’m trying to pull one over on them. Some of them have half smiles on their faces as they wait for the punch line they are convinced I’m about to bestow. Others see the earnest expression on my face, understand that I’m serious, and look sincerely shocked. They’ve known me for years as an extremely easy going person who never even seems flustered, let alone upset enough to scream. Many of them have seen me in confrontational, stressful situations that have made them furious and watched, firsthand, as I responded calmly and even glibly. Painting me as a once unstable lunatic with quick fists is going to be a stretch for them. But it’s the truth.

I’m still trying to convince the nonbelievers. That they believe me is necessary to the point I’m trying to make. I take a deep breath as I search for the right words.

An image flashes in my mind. It is of a 10 year old me pinning my young brother to the ground. He’s crying; I’m punching him over and over in the face. I am tired and he keeps nagging me, so I hit him until his face is covered with blood, tears, and snot. When utter exhaustion finally slows my pounding fists, I can finally hear his screams.

No.

Internally I shake my head and switch to another image. I’m a teenager in school now. A classmate walks up to me and tersely tells me I’m sitting in her seat. I already know I’m sitting in her sit. Part of the reason I sat there in the first place was to be antagonistic. Realizing this, she walks away, muttering under her breath that I’m a ‘Bitch.’ I am. I know I am. But that doesn’t stop me from grabbing her hair from behind and repeatedly slamming her face into a nearby table. I hear her teeth crunch.

No. I think, No. Stop. Something else.

I’m still a teenager, but now I’m sitting in my guidance counselor’s office. I have just assaulted my teacher. My guidance counselor says, ‘V, you’ve got to stop this. You have to. I’m afraid you’re going to end up in jail.’ She looks at me and she’s so sad. She’s so fucking sad for me. I cry. I can’t help it. I try, but I just can’t seem to stop myself.

Jesus Christ, no.

I don’t use any of these images when talking to my colleagues. I just stare at them desperately. For most, it seems to sink in.

With their images of me as the Zen Master temporarily spoiled, I begin explaining how changing your fundamental personality is possible as long as you have definite protocol in place. It’s a bit more complicated than making a New Year’s Resolution which is what most people don’t understand. This is why they ultimately fail, not because it’s impossible for a zebra to change its stripes.

So how did I finally learn to control my temper? I used the following process:

Plan to Practice Without Any Duress

The first time an actor says his lines aloud isn’t the night of the big play. The first time a figure skater straps on a pair of skates isn’t moments before competition. Yet, people who aim to control their tempers expect to be able to reel their fury in during a conflict. It doesn’t matter how much you really, really, really wish you could calm down. If you haven’t practiced beforehand, it’s going to be impossible to control yourself in the heat of the moment.

Envision Who You Are

Take of a moment to picture yourself during your last outburst. Was your face all red? Were you clenching and unclenching your fists? Picture your face contorted and screaming. Picture your environment and your loved ones shrinking back in fear and/or horror. Don’t waste your time thinking about what was inside your secret heart of hearts when you were freaking out. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t really mean what you said. When you’re a violent fucking asshole, all that matters is what you did. So ignore what you thought and take a long, hard look at your actual actions.

Envision Who You Want to Be

For me, it was pretty difficult to picture myself without a temper since that was all I had really known growing up. Screaming was normal. So I had to picture someone else. In my case, it was a good friend of mine. Very simply, she was the nicest person I had ever met in my life. Further, she never got mad. Calm, easy going, yet assertive…I envied these qualities in her. Those qualities were exactly the ones I wanted to replicate in myself.

Don’t Forget the Physical

Now that I had an image in my mind of the person I wanted to emulate, I paid close attention to her in a conflict. I noticed her wry smile and the way she shrugged her shoulders. When her buttons were pushed, I watched fascinated as she made a clever joke. When particularly frustrated, she gulped down a large breathe of air, smiled, and rolled her eyes heavenward. Palms turned upward, she shrugged slightly again and changed the subject when it became obvious she was going to gain any ground. Instead, she decided to just let it be. This. This is what I wanted for myself.

Know Your Warning Signs

I suspect for most, losing their temper does not come as any great surprise. In the midst of conflict, there is generally a slow build up. I further suspect that before finally and inevitably blowing up, most make an attempt at control. My advice is for people to pay attention to the physical cues their body gives them that they are becoming overly agitated. For me, my teeth would clench and my hands would begin to itch. In particular, my hands itching was a pretty clear physical sign that I was about to start swinging them. If you don’t know and understand these cues in yourself, you have absolutely no shot at heading them off at the pass.

Follow Through

Remember how I told you that you had to practice without any duress? Well, time to start practicing without duress. I pictured myself in the middle of a heated conflict and I practiced being the person I wanted to be. I physically practiced. In my head, someone would say something or do something that would typically set me off, and I actually physically shrugged my shoulders. I smiled wryly. I mastered the art of rolling my eyes heavenward. I did this in my bathroom mirror. I held imaginary arguments in my car. I got up and gracefully exited the room as if I were walking away from a real, live confrontation. If you haven’t practiced these sorts of things beforehand, in the heat of the moment you will be sorely lacking in any kind of muscle memory. Therefore, all of your wry smiles will inadvertently turn into angry grimaces.

Act

OK, so now that you’ve done what I told you, it’s time to put yourself to the test. The next time you enter a conflict and your body cues start warning you of a potential melt down (Are your fists clenching? Etc), think this sentence to yourself, “Lights! Camera! Action!”

Then, act. Literally. As if you were an A-list celebrity in the middle of the movie that will make our break your career. Act. Smile wryly as you trained yourself to do. Say your pre-planned clever quip. Sigh and exit the room in such a way as to make the imaginary director filming you mutter to himself, “He/she is a star!”

That person standing across the room from you? They’re also an actor. Their job is to rattle you, but your character is not the type to be easily rattled. Once this is over, you and that actor will probably grab a bite to eat in your trailer. But first, you have to nail this scene.

Will doing this feel a little awkward and weird? Sure will. But it’s better than putting your fist through the wall, isn’t it?

Now a lot of people are reading this and saying, “She’s asking me to pretend to be an actor in a movie! Keyword: acting! That’s not being true to myself!”

To which I reply: You’re absolutely right. You are acting and you are not being true to yourself. But ‘yourself’ is a fucking asshole, remember? Why would you want to be true to that, particular, ‘self?’ You, in your natural state, possess a distinct tendency to act like a raging dickhead tornado leaving nothing but pain in misery in your wake. And you want to keep that up (despite the pain you cause others) all in the name of personal honesty? Come on! Get your fucking priorities straight!

Furthermore, the more you do this, the less awkward and fake it will feel. The more you act like your ‘unruffled, Zen master, character’ the more you will, in fact, become this character. Pretty soon, someone will say something to piss you off and you will not even think about acting. You will just do it and it will feel completely and totally natural. It’s not a character anymore. It is how you behave, it’s how you handle conflict; it is who you are. It’s how you feel inside.

Remember, when you have an out of control temper, it’s a part of you. That temper is who you are, fundamentally, as a person. It isn’t a bad habit like biting your nails or twirling you hair around your finger like a moron. It is a major part of your character. In learning to control it, what you are asking of yourself is to become a different sort of person. Accept that, embrace it. Currently, you’re an asshole. That’s OK because you don’t always have to be an asshole. You can instead choose to be a nice guy. Your personality isn’t something you’re born with. It’s a choice. And with a clear vision in your head and just the right amount of practice, you can train yourself to make better choices.

“So how long does it take to become someone new?”

Well, for me, it took about 8 months. I acted for 8 months and then suddenly, I wasn’t acting anymore. You wouldn’t know it from this website, but I’m actually a fairly laid back person.

However, I still do have a bit of a potty mouth.

I lost the password to my stats a long time ago, so I honestly don’t know if anyone still reads this thing. Like most monkeys, I need an audience to watch me dance. Otherwise, what’s the point? I might as well just take a nap. So, I’m going to ask you to do something I’ve never done before: if you’re still reading, let me know. I’ll try my best to keep writing. If not, nap time baby.

As most of you with elephant-like memories know, I started my own business a couple of years ago. (Holy shit, this thing has existed for a couple of years!) What kind of idiot starts a business in a failing economy, you ask? This kind of idiot. Nice to meet you.

My business has been fairly successful. However, the drawback to success is that I have suddenly morphed into a workaholic. No joke, I have not had a single day off in about 3 and half months. Further, my workdays are usually 13-16 hours long. I’m a fucking horse, people. A horse.

This is explains my lack of updates. That and the afore mentioned missing audience for the monkey. Oo-oo, ah-ah.

But, I still need to bitch. Living my life with a smile plastered to my face is making my teeth hurt. So, without further ado…..

I AM NOT YOUR FUCKING HONEY!

Sweetie. Dear. Honey. Darling. Sugar.

You know what those words are? Terms of endearment. FOR CHILDREN. I call all sorts of people ‘darling, honey pot, sweet heart.’ Fortunately, all of those people are under the age of 5. When I say those words, I am commenting on the child’s precious innocence and undeniable cuteness.

Therefore,I would not dream of referring to an adult as ‘darling.’ They are not undeniably cute, they are not preciously innocent, and they are definitely not children. Therefore, it is fucking disrespectful to use a term of endearment such as ’sweetie’ when speaking to them. Period.

Even worse are the people who refer to their elders as ‘dear, etc.’ How unbelievably condescending.

I don’t mind when someone significantly older than my calls me ’sugar’ because, to them, I am a child. But when someone 5 years my junior has the balls to talk to me like I’m 3, I feel like spitting fire.

I’ve spoken to people who use words like this to speak to their equals and elders, and they always insist the same thing, “I didn’t mean it that way!”

Well, listen, I don’t give a flying fuck what you meant in your secret heart of hearts. Talking to me like I’m a child is rude. So don’t fucking do it anymore.

I swear to fucking God, if I turn 80 and some snide bitchy waitress calls me ‘darling,’ I will beat her to fucking death with my cane.

Sorry folks, I just had to get that shit off my chest.

Two things happen to bullies when they grow up: they either become drug dealers or they become police officers. Which field the bully ultimately goes into depends largely on whether or not his parents went to college. If Mom was a school teacher and Dad worked for an insurance company, the little wet neck weasel that pulled down your pants in gym class will someday go for his badge. If Dad was nonexistent and Mom blew guys for food stamps, the crazy little asshole who socked you in the face on a dare will eventually start growing weed in his closet. The only person who has a more predictable life than a high school bully is the prettiest blond cheerleader on the squad. (She, of course, will gain 3 children and 60lbs by her 26th birthday.)

For the record, this article isn’t about the chumps you went to high school with. It’s about police officers. Or, more specifically, how to get out of traffic tickets. I wrote a little about the childhood tendencies of police officers because if you’re going to manipulate one, it’s best you have an idea of what makes them tick. You have to consider the fucked up little ways in which their shockingly small brains work. Sometimes that means you have to consider what the awful little shits were doing in grade school. Likely, he was being a bully. Imagine the smarmiest little asshole you went to school with. If he was dressed nice by his overtly liberal parents, had an incredibly sissy sounding name, and nearly always backed down if someone tougher stood up to him, it’s likely he joined the force. Basically, a police officer is nothing more than a grown up bully with a badge. Stand up to one now though, and you’ll find yourself sitting in a cell after 5 of them held you down and shoved a taser up your ass.

Make no mistake, a police officer’s job isn’t to ‘serve and protect.’ A police officer’s job is to fuck around with the average, every day Joe who forgot to wear his seat belt. AKA a police officer writes traffic tickets. If you want someone to keep you safe from rapists, burglars, and murders, don’t call the cops. Buy a dog.

With that said, police officers are actually pretty easy to deal with. Over the years, I have gotten pretty adept at escaping their greasy grasp without receiving a ticket. All you have to do is remember a few key rules.

Never Ask a Police Officer How to Get Out of a Traffic Ticket

Or, if you do, expect a lie. Don’t believe me? Give it a shot. I’ll bet you $10 that Officer Asshole advises you to ‘just be really respectful’ and ‘don’t give him a hard time.’

Bullshit. You can ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’ that fucking asshole to death. You’ll still get the ticket. Why? Please re-read paragraph one of this article. Remember when I told you that police officers are bullies? And what does a bully enjoy more than lesser beings feeding his ego? Calling him ‘sir’ does nothing but remind him that he has power over you. It’ll make him happy, sure. But unless it makes you happy to see him strut up to your window with a ticket in hand, don’t bother.

Pretend You Care About Him on a Human Level

The thing about bullies is they grew up either being overindulged and coddled, or ignored completely. No one, not even their parents, ever cared about them on a sincere, individual, human level. If you want to throw a police officer for a loop, be the first person in their lives to show genuine concern over their well being.

A good little maneuver to pull* when you get pulled over is to immediately scoot over to your passenger side seat. When the cop walks up to the driver side window, wave him frantically over to the passenger side window while simultaneously insisting, “Please come over here. I don’t want you to stand so close to traffic like that. If some idiot serves and hits you, it will be my fault.”

Sound concerned and flustered and as your police officer obediently walks around you car, you will notice his shoulders slump, his head bow, and a half smile will appear on his face. Someone is worried about him? Why, that’s never happened to him before! Now, all of the sudden, how fast you were going is the last thing on his mind.

Do NOT Make Excuses

When you make excuses, the only thing you do is set yourself up to be lectured. If there is one thing a police officer loooooves to do, it is to lecture. It’s how they psych themselves up into a frenzy of self righteousness which will make them feel good about writing you a ticket.

Instead, shrug and say, “I’m sorry.” THE END.

If the police officer persists in asking you WHY you were going so fast, just say, “I guess I just didn’t notice how fast I was going. Thanks for stopping me. I know you’re just doing your job.”

Anything after that, just repeat, “I’m sorry.”

Part of the fun of writing tickets for police officers is the part where you beg and make excuses while they lecture you and ultimately punish you. It’s their adult version of ‘Say uncle!’ Take the fun out of the game and they’ll be less likely to play it with you. You’ll actually see their eyes leave your face to scan the streets as they’re talking. Want to know what they’re doing? They’re looking for weaker prey. That teenager driving the red ford focus looks like a good target…

Change the Subject

If at all possible, change the subject. Try to get your police officer to forget that he’s a police officer. This is surprisingly easy to do.

For example, if your dog is in the car, allow your dog to crawl up on the window and solicit petting from the cop. Train your dog to do this if you have to, it’s well worth the time.

Then you can say, “I’m sorry, he just really loves people. Do you like dogs?”

(Do NOT say, “He really loves police officers!” Remember, you are trying to get him to FORGET that he’s a police officer, not remind him! Also, you will sound too obvious and suck up-y.)

The next thing you’ll know Officer Short Attention Span will be waxing nostalgic about some beagle pup he had in the 8th grade. Ask a lot of questions, sound interested in his stupid story and the next thing you know he’ll be waving you away without as much as a written warning.

Hate to Say it, But Boobs Help

Don’t be overtly flirty or the grease ball might actually want you to do something in exchange for leniency. But if you have a nice rack and are wearing a tight shirt, it helps to lean over a lot.

When All Fails, Go to Court

If you did everything exactly how I told you and still got the ticket, chances are your police officer walked away from your car feeling deflated or even a little guilty for hassling you. In that case, go to court and contest the charges. Nine time out of time, he won’t bother to show up as a witness against you. Which means you’ll get nailed with a small fine to cover court costs, but no actual points on your license.

On the other hand, if you copped an attitude, argued with your police officer, gave him a hard time, condescended to him, or otherwise allowed your utter disdain for him to show, your police officer will walk away from your car filled with FURIOUS ANGER. He will show up with a hard on in court just to fuck with you some more and it will be the highlight of his day to do so. Piss him off even more and he will convince his buddies to follow you around town looking to nail you for even the most minor of infractions. I know someone who pissed off a police officer so bad he ended up losing his license due to 12 point violation. He got all of his tickets in the span of 2 weeks and some of them were so ignorant that I still can’t believe they stuck. No joke, 2 of those points came from a traffic ticket he got for going 31 in a 35. Yes you read that right: he got a ticket for going four miles UNDER the speed limit.

Obviously, he pissed off the wrong pig.

Basically my list boils down to this: fake like you think police officers are human. Reward them when they act like one. Then drive away, ticket free, muttering to yourself about what a bunch of stupid fucking tools they are.

It’s what I do and it works.

*Unless you’re black. In which case, it’s more likely the cop will just try to shoot you through your back window.

I had intended to write a couple of follow up articles to Childhood: Then and Now, but something terrible happened. That damn article made it to the front page of reddit and got hundreds of comments. Which, in itself, isn’t a bad thing. I just made the mistake of reading said comments.

I should have known better.

Generally, I avoid reading feedback about my site like the plague. First of all, I’m boring. Second of all, it usually gives me a headache. I’ve been far too busy lately to nurse a throbbing skull.

Don’t get me wrong, most everyone said something humorous (intentionally or not) and a handful even managed to come up with logical or insightful anecdotes/arguments.

But the idiots always bray the loudest, don’t they?

One dipshit even implied that all my stories must be fake because I periodically write about happy memories of my childhood/Mother/Home life. Apparently, these stories don’t make sense when peppered with stories of child abuse. Oh, gag me.

Can I please point out the obvious? If my life had been a nonstop horror show, I probably would have committed suicide by now. Seriously, let’s be real here.

Secondly, am I the only one who understands that people aren’t characters? Am I the only one who knows the difference between the two? Please God, tell me I’m not.

There is no such thing as a virtuous hero. There are no witty sidekicks. Real life doesn’t contain crazed super villains who exist only to kick puppies and give the star of the show a believable character arc. Reality and fiction are two totally different things. People are complex. Situations aren’t black and white. There is a spoon, people! THERE IS A GODDAMN SPOON!

The reason I can write about both good and bad memories of my Mother is because I have both good and bad memories of my Mother. She is not a character in a movie. She is a living, breathing human being. Thus, she is made up of shades of gray just live everyone else on this godforsaken planet. I know, I know. Shame on her for not following the fucking script.

My Mother totally lacked the ability to be physically affectionate with her children. Never in my life has my Mother kissed or hugged me. As a child, when crossing the street she would refuse to take my whole hand in hers. Instead, she would distastefully present me with her pinky finger to clutch. When we made it to the sidewalk, she would snatch it away as if I were a dirty, repulsive thing that caused her physical pain to touch. Now, I can also be kind of weird about touching small children. It just doesn’t feel normal to me.

On the other hand, my Mother never censored me. I could read or watch any damn thing I wanted. When my concerned 1st grade teacher called home after I brought Stephan King’s ‘Carrie’ to sustained silent reading, my Mother snapped at her. “My daughter is not an idiot,” she said, “She knows the difference between fantasy and reality.” I was so proud, I slugged through the entire book with a dictionary carefully balanced on my knee so I could look up the words I didn’t understand. I ended up reading at such an advanced level, I skipped grades in school.

My Mother had an extremely bad temper and almost zero patience for children. Imagined disrespect, loud noises in the morning, a chore done subpar…everything set her off. She would go from completely calm and serene to violently out of control in a split second. Anything within her reach would become a weapon. I was beaten with hot wheel tracks, burnt with hot curling irons, or stabbed with steak knives. In the absence of a suitable weapon, my Mother would simply grab me by the hair and repeatedly slam my head into hardwood floors or walls. I would quickly learn to go limp when she started on me. Crying or struggling always made it worse, so I took my punishments silently and stoically. Today, I have an extremely high tolerance for pain.

My Mother never catered to our dietary whims. When she fed us, she fed us well. Fruits, veggies, foods from every nationality or culture were foisted upon us. Now that I think about it, she really was an excellent cook. It’s a pity she wasn’t in her domesticated moods more often. Either way, though, neither me nor my brother are picky eaters and we have her to thank for that.

My Mother had a hard time finding her own identity; her personality changed with every new boyfriend she acquired. Nothing ever lasted for her and ultimately her romantic relationships would fail and her situational friends would disappear with them. I think…this made her feel very, very low. And when my Mother was feeling low, the only way she knew how to soothe herself was to tear someone else down to her level. Mostly, this was me. She said things to me that I can’t even bring myself to type today. It’s far easier for me, emotionally, to tell you about the time she set my hair on fire. That, at least, is funny in a darkly humorous sort of way. But the way my Mother used to scream at me, for hours on end, viciously slapping my cheeks should I nod off around 2am…no….I can’t find anything funny in that.

My Mother had a talent for taking apart every aspect of your personality, magnifying the bad, and twisting the good until it was bad, too, all in order to replace every emotion you’ve ever had with shame and self loathing. Sometimes my mind would break when she did this to me. I couldn’t hear her anymore. My my mind would be filled with wailing, this god awful wailing, that reminds me of a dying animal whenever I try to conjure up the memory. I would slump over during these times, eyes open but unseeing, with nothing but the sounds of sirens in my ears. I never went to school after a night of this. I needed time to learn to speak again.

I suppose you could read all of these things and come to the conclusion that the bad memories far outweighed the good. Perhaps you’d be right, but that doesn’t mean the good never existed. I guess you could read this and assume I hate my Mother. But you’d be wrong. Hating my Mother for being who she was would be akin to hating a rock for being a rock. It’s an exercise in futility to hate someone for being a product of their environment. If anything, the fact that she could do this to a helpless child just proves the depths of her own despair.

I’m still afraid of my Mother. But if I weren’t, I’d like to give her a hug. I wish I could tell her how sorry I am for whatever happened to her as a child that scarred her so deeply and drove her to this. I wish my Mother could learn how to feel love and empathy and find peace within herself and some semblance of joy in her life. I wish I could help her. But I can’t.

She’s broken. She’s broken beyond repair and it was inevitable that she’d lash out at someone. Secretly, I am glad this person was me. If only because I was able to take it. I like to pretend she picked me for this very reason. I like to think she ripped me apart not because she hated me, but because she knew I was strong enough to put myself back together again. God knows she always raised me to be tough. And if I am anything, I am tough. Tough as nails.

And I have her to thank for it.

When I was a little kid, my parents pushed me out the front door every day.

“Come back when the streetlights come on,” they said.

Oftentimes, my 3 year old brother was sent out with me to tagalong. Of course, I considered this a great imposition. After all, at 5 I was way too old to hang out with babies. Still, I had to take care of him because that’s what older sisters are supposed to do.

Back then, we never dialed phones and set up 2 hour play dates. Instead, we’d simply knock on our friend’s doors and say, “Is so&so allowed to come out and play?”

Of course they were.

When we got a good group together, we’d play baseball or kickball in the street.

Yes, in the street.

When the cars rounded the corner, we’d scurry away as fast as we could. We’d use a whiffle ball instead of a real ball in order to prevent hurting anyone’s car. After that, we’d have a squirt gun war. No one checked the temperature on the Internet to make sure it was warm enough to get wet.

Fortunately, no one got sick or died.

Some days, we’d go exploring in the woods. Our minds full of fantastical stories of bad guys chasing us, we decided we must build a tree house. So we gathered up scrap pieces of old wood, rusty nails pulled out of rotting pieces of equipment, and a hammer someone nicked from their Father’s toolbox. Then we’d nail this crap to a tree. Once the rickety house was complete, we’d climb up in it, careful to hold on to the branches in case the floor gave out beneath us. Then, we’d muse to ourselves that we had not built it high enough.

We built ramps in parking lots and jumped them with every toy we had that sported wheels. Skateboards, bikes, roller skates. We didn’t have helmets or kneepads or elbow pads. It didn’t matter. Sometimes we’d fall and rub the skin completely off of our bodies. Nobody cared.

We’d eat berries and apples from strange trees. We’d ride our bikes 6 miles to the park, alone. And not just any park, either. We went to parks with monkey bars higher than our Dad’s heads and dangled our legs over cement. We sat in puddles full of oil and water and swam in water so dirty it might as well be called sewage. In the summertime, we’d go 6, 7, 8 hours at a time without laying eyes on our parents.

And we survived.

Hell, we didn’t just survive. We flourished.

Not a single one of us was overweight; we all had little muscles popping out here and there. We were brave, too. Little badasses. There was no way a perv was going to kidnap us. In fact, we kept little sticks we had sharpened on the sidewalk in our pockets, just in case. Homemade shanks. Sometimes we got lost or hurt, sure. But we knew the difference between a creepy adult you should steer clear of and a responsible adult you could ask for help.

And not one of us died. Not one.

Unfortunately, things have changed and I’m inclined to believe it’s not for the better. I cannot stand how cowardly, weak, and coddled children have become. Children twice the age I was back when I was running the streets with a 3 year old brother in tow have 1/8th the confidence and capability.

Last week, I went to target with a 10 year old and an 8 year old. We stopped in the toy section for a moment because I remember what it was like to walk the isles and dream. (As opposed to today where children walk the isles and demand shit until they get their every heart’s desire)

I said to the children, “I’m going to go look the bath towels. If you want to stay here and look at the toys, I’ll be back to get you in 10 minutes.”

As a child, I wouldn’t have even acknowledged this was a big deal. It was commonplace for me to split from my parents in department stores. They always looked at boring shit and I had a Christmas list to write.

“No, we’ll just stay with you,” the children nervously tittered.

“You want to look at bath towels?” I asked, “Are you sure? Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay and look at the toys…or maybe cross the isles and look at the electronics?”

“No, we’ll just stay with you.”

I can’t stand it anymore. Kids aren’t normal! They have no childhood anymore. They just have one never ending, confidence crushing, adventure less, schedule. They have self esteem, (whatever that means) but no actual accomplishments.

So I came up with a plan.

I gave the children $20. “This is for cleaning up the yard,” I said.

Then, we went to the mall. As we stood by the pizza place in the food court, I approached them with a little proposition.

“You guys are free to go spend your money, but I’m not coming with you.”

They blinked their eyes, confused. “Where will you be?”

“I’ll be in the boring stores and I don’t plan to step foot in a single toy store. So if you want to spend that $20, you’re going to have to go it alone.”

The children were torn between the desire to spend the money that was burning a hole in their pocket and their preference to remain in the company of adults at all times. Finally, they hesitated and I knew I had them.

“We got to lay down some ground rules, though, before we split up. The first one is that you stay together no matter what. The second one is you do not leave this mall under any circumstance without me…not even with another adult. The last one is we meet back here at this pizza shop at exactly 3:30pm.”

I paused briefly when I realized that neither one of them was wearing a watch. Then I thought to myself, fuck it.

“If you need to know what time it is, you can ask any clerk working behind the counter of any one of these stores. If you need directions back to this pizza place or to a restroom, you can ask them that, too. I want you to mind your manners, don’t break or steal anything, no fighting, no screaming, no running, and no idiocy. You got that?”

They nodded their heads carefully.

“Alright then, go. Have fun.”

I watched them walk away until they got lost in the crowd. For a moment, I felt completely satisfied. They’re finally learning independence, I told myself.

But that lasted only a moment. Not more than 5 minutes after they walked out of my sight, I found myself choking on my fear.

What if they get lost? Fall down? Get into trouble at one of the stores? What if someone sees them walking alone and calls the police? Ten and seven is plenty old enough to walk around a mall, but people are nuts now. Nuts. And what if they’re right? This is a safe neighborhood. Not a single child has been kidnapped here in my lifetime. Crime is low. No gang violence. This is a safe neighborhood! But still…but still…but still.

I resisted the urge to track them down and tell them I changed my mind. If I had I would have invalidated every bit of courage they had displayed in walking away. So, I let them be.

And at exactly 3:15, I was at the pizza shop waiting for them. If they are even 5 minutes late, I will go looking for them. Get on the intercom or something, I nervously told myself.”

But they weren’t late. At 3:30 on the nose, they showed up, cheeks red with excitement, with a bag of spoils wrapped around their arms. They had an adventure. They had a great time. They walked with a bit of a swagger now. Children of the world; little bad asses.

I knew the answer the second I saw them strutting, but I asked anyway, “Did you have a good time?”

Their answer was enthusiastic.

Of course they had.

Of course they had.

No one died. Instead, they experienced a bit of pure, undiluted, childhood.