Los Angeles – 1970

Both my father and mother worked very hard, and very long hours. My father as a machinist in a company that made packing materials and my mother as a clerk for a clothing manufacturer. I was too young to be left alone all day so for many years I was sent to several different caretakers during the day – babysitters.

I went through many babysitters. Many I no longer clearly remember, and many lasted no more than a day. Maybe there was something i did that would turn them off to me or maybe they just did not like me. Heavy thoughts for a six-year-old.

One, in particular, I remember clearly. She was very devoutly Christian and would insist I pray with their family every day as I arrived from school. My every move and apparent thoughts were scrutinized to make sure there were no bad intentions. Their two daughters would make sure I was questioned if they saw me do anything ‘suspicious’, like potentially ‘bad’ doodles in my notebook, or, goodness no, i was unable to tie my shoes for some reason; something I remember happening many times. One day I expressed out loud what I wanted to be when I grew up: A Vampire Hunter. I was reported immediately and questioned until it was time for my parents to pick me up, then I remember them – my mother – being questioned. My mother and I would watch horror movies all the time. Frankenstein in every black and white incarnation that existed. Dracula, mummies, werewolves. We enjoyed pretending to be scared and trying not to laugh and what appeared on the small television. So why couldn’t I be a vampire hunter? It certainly seemed like they were in demand. My babysitter did not think it was a good use of my potential talents. I did not even know I had any. I never heard from them again.

One babysitter experience in particular sticks with me in a very real way. This was a couple and they seemed a bit older than my parents at the time. They had one child about a year older than me, and taller than me at the time. I remember when the father would come home, he would turn on the television, grab a cup of coffee and a cigarette, sit in his recliner and call his son and myself to the living room. He had boxing gloves set on the floor in front of the TV. “We are going to have a boxing match today folks”, he said in what appeared to be his ‘announcer’ voice. I was a bit excited, that is, until he pointed to the gloves on the floor and said: “put them on”. His son had apparently done this before, as he had no problem putting them on and smiling. I struggled with the laces, the size, just the gloves in general. Then I heard “Ok, Round One!”, and I felt the first punch to my head. I had no time to react, I was being pummeled by this kid who kept laughing. I took it as long as I could until I fell to the ground and the father stopped the fight by saying “and the winner, and still Champion…”. It wasn’t me I can tell you that.

The next day I found myself at the babysitter again, and once again we were called to the living where the man sat in his recliner, smoking a cigarette, drinking coffee and smiling as he pointed to the gloves. “We are having a rematch today”, he said boastfully. I did not wait for the gloves. I did not wait for the ‘announcer’. I simply let go a series of punches onto the boys head that I had been saving all night long, clenching my fists as I slept. He started to bleed. I kept punching. He started to cry. That’s when I felt the hands pull me away, shake me and tell me to stop. “What the hell is wrong with you?” What the hell was wrong with me?

I was apparently being unfair because I started to fight before I was told before anyone had the gloves on before it was right. What they told my parents was that I started beating the kid out of nothing and that they no longer could look after me, ever. Maybe there was something wrong with me. Heavy thoughts for a six-year-old.

Conflict, I know now, is a part of everyday life. We face it whether we like or not, whether we know it or not. I have also since learned that not all conflict involves punching, or breaking the ‘rules’ to get your punches in for first, or even anger.

The parade of babysitters continued. some for a couple of weeks, some for a couple of days. Maybe there was something wrong with me.

One day my mother dropped me off in front of the babysitter’s house. She turned and walked away after she believed i had knocked on the door and was ready to go in. I did not knock on the door, I was not going in. I had another plan that morning. I followed her. I stayed far enough behind that she could not see or hear me. I was going to follow her all the way to work, and hide among the office furniture until it was time to come home again. I had a lunch after all, and I was used to entertaining myself for long periods of time alone.

She stopped at a corner. My plan had not accounted for a bus ride, and as the bus approached and opened the door, I ran towards my mother, and just before she reached the top of the bus stairs I grabbed her coat. By this time I was afraid of losing her. I did not know where I was or how to get back. I did not care about my plan anymore, I simply did not want to be left alone. She felt the tug on her coat and turned to look. She could not believe it was me. “Why are you not at the babysitter’s?” “How did you follow me?” “What is wrong?” I was, as my mother recounts, crying.

We got off the bus and walked home. My mother called her work and explained she would not be coming into the office today. I found a book to read. I would never be left with a babysitter again.

Mission accomplished.