The Angry Kid

I was an angry kid. I admit it.

I grew up as an only child in a household where the parents had a long history as a couple before they acquired me. They had been through a war. Dad was in the RAF during the War, and Mom was bombed out twice before she decided to return to the States to work in a war factory and be Rosie the Riveter, or Dorrie the Dogsbody, or whatever, for the Duration.

By 1949, I guess they were bored, and, having discovered that they were unable to have children of their own, decided to adopt. I was the result.

They had a Plan. An Agreement. They would be always honest and true, and set a good example, and they would never, EVER, show anything but solidarity on issues of discipline. They would put up with no guff from The Child.

Children at that time were raised, for good or ill, very differently than children are today. And, as Mom and Dad were old enough to be my grandparents, their ideas were even more old-fashioned than the times would indicate. While I was not quite required to be "seen and not heard," it was close. Almost any explanation or defense of my actions was considered "talking back," or "contradicting," either one of which could get me banished to my room. I was supposed to maintain a sunny disposition, do as I was told with speed and dispatch, be polite, respectful and cooperative with adults, and generally not cause any trouble.

This got to be a bit of a strain, particularly when you add in the requirement for straight A's, and the fact that I was a year younger than my classmates in school.

We moved from a middle class existence in England to poverty in Canada, and, yes, that really made me angry. I was just snob enough to resent buying my clothes at the thrift shop, especially when Mom got to pick them out. There was never any extra money for fun, and, eventually, I quit asking for things, because I already knew the answer.

There was no such thing as privacy, independent thought, or personal space. Every aspect of my life was controlled. If I stood up to leave the room, I was asked where I was going, how long I expected to be gone, and what I would be doing while I was away. That was just leaving the room, never mind leaving the house!

My mother was angry all the time, and exhausted from the incredible amount of work she did to try and keep the wolf from the door. I am sure she resented our descent into poverty as much as I did. The difference was that she was allowed to express her anger, and I was not. And, express it she did. As soon as I was old enough to get my own breakfast, Dad and I got up by ourselves in the morning, and, if we were lucky, we could get out of the house and off to work and school before she woke. She was AWFUL when she first got up!

So, when she told me not to let my friend Ragnhild put the clothes she had hand made for one doll onto a larger doll, I knew to take her seriously. Eleven years old was not too old to get whaled on with a fly swatter! Of course, the possibility of my getting a "damn good whacking" didn't deter Ragnhild one bit from doing exactly what Mom had told me not to let her do. Mom was out gardening, and had let me know in no uncertain terms that I was to handle the situation without bothering her with it. Read: no tattling.

Caught between a rock and a hard place, as they say, I snapped. I wrapped Ragnhild's braids around her neck and pulled until her face turned purple. When that happened, I realized what I was doing, and what might happen if I continued, and I let go.

Ragnhild never told her mother and I never told mine.

I am telling you, Dearly Beloved, because a few months ago I broke a 45-year silence and told some online friends on an "invitation only" blog. Oddly enough, my murderous tale has been repeated elsewhere.

So, here's my question. Was it unusual? How common is it for children in the "pre-teen" years to lose their tempers in ways that could harm others? Bear in mind that it happened in 1961.

I've never tried to kill anyone since. Just so you know.