Thursday, July 13, 2006

Childhood trauma

I was talking yesterday with a friend who just had a baby and he told me about his belief that there isn't a "right" way to raise a child. Every child seems to had his or her share of traumas, missteps, and accidents and in most cases, they turn out okay, if not just a little dysfunctional. That got me to thinking about my own formative humiliations and how they continue to haunt me today, yet here I am, still somewhat normal.

The first thing to come to mind when I thought of my past traumas was an incident that happened back in 1980. I was in the third grade and was the new kid at school, as my family had just returned to Idaho from Wyoming. Ah, those halcyon days of third grade, when the main worry was what was for lunch and how soon to recess. And recess was a big deal, particularly the playground equipment. The swings were quite coveted, and I remember rushing out at the recess bell, clawing my way past the others in a mad dash to get one of the three seats on the swing set. Given that I wasn't particularly fast, I didn't often make it, and so had to lurk waiting for one of the faster kids to get tired of or nauseous from swinging. Well, one day, rushing out, I saw that there were only two seats occupied on the swing set and I ran over, only to discover that the third swing was hanging from one chain. The black rubber seat had somehow gotten detached on one side and was just hanging there, listlessly mocking me. Well, I got a great idea in my third-grade mind: just sit on the seat and hold the detached side up with my hands. Of course! I sat down on the swing, clutching the seat to my side and trying to sit as close to the chained side as possible, because it wasn't exactly easy to hold that seat up, but I was DESPERATE to swing. After getting in position, I called for a push and someone gave me a push and I soon realized my folly. With only one chain for stabilization, instead of swinging back and forth, I started swinging AND spinning around. I toughed it out a swing or two, but soon, my little hands began to sweat and strain from trying to hold up the seat against the centrifugal force as strong as those NASA spinning machines used to train astronauts and I lost my grip. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn't have been a big deal--I would have just fallen to the ground and that would have been that. Unfortunately, the Fates had other plans for me. In a highly unlikely coincidence, as I rolled off the unsupported seat, the S-hook that attached it to the chain caught one of my belt loops. Instead of falling to the ground, I swung upside down and continued to fall, only now with my pants staying up with the swing! My pants were down around my knees and compliments of the merciful gift of post-traumatic stress disorder, I can't remember if my underwear were with the pants around my knees or not. I could barely touch the ground--my fingers just barely skimming the worn patch beneath the swing--so I couldn't get myself free. I don't know how long I hung there--it felt like an eternity what with trying to get free with one hand and cover myself with the other. Finally a fifth grader came over and helped me out of my predicament, an act of kindness unrivaled by even Mother Theresa in my mind. When the movie based on my life comes out, that scene will have the fifth grader played by someone who looks like Jesus and is brightly backlit like they're coming out of heaven--THAT'S how grateful I was! After that, I was always pretty leery of the swings, and I would prefer to forget to whole ordeal, but the current fashion of boys walking around with their pants low and underwear sticking out is a constant reminder of the burning shame of that incident on the school playground.

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