Tuesday, July 16, 2013

THE MAKING OF AN ANGRY CHILD

     

    Why am I concerned about the angry child?  I'm concerned because I was an angry child. I was told repeatedly that I was A black bastard not by another race but by my grandmother.  By the time  I was five years old, I was marked for self destruction.  I had no healthy self concept.  I existed simply because I could not close my eyes and die.

     I could never understand why my grand mother taunted me.  But I hated that she did.  I hated when she called me liver lip.  I had thick lips and she would make me stand still while she ran her fingers up and down my lips and dared me to move or to act like I was upset with her.

     People don't know, they don't have a clue about the hate that abides inside a child's heart. That hate can be covered up with a smile.  It makes no sound, yet it speaks venom into the heart.  My avenue of escape from the overwhelming pain was through my mind.  In other words, that way I could retaliate and not be physically abused more.  I was able to speak words of revenge directly into my hard drive, my mind.  I talked to myself a lot.  And, to be quite honest, if I had the thought to kill,  I would be  killer today.  Thank God that the thought never entered my young mind.  By the time I was twelve years old, I had built a fortress about myself.  I talked and interacted with others, but, I never let them inside, no way, my fort was there to protect me.  I learned not to put my trust in people.  Fool me once and that's your one and only chance.

     I cried inside and no tear ever fell from my eyes.  I learned to hate myself.  Something had to be wrong with me, didn't my grandmother hate me.  I got mad with God.
He was in control but since my life got worse and worse, I concluded that He did mot care what happened to me and after a while I realized that I was a nobody.  I refused to look in a mirror.  I hated the black, thick lip, nappy head girl who stared back at me.

     Then I went through a period of desiring to hurt myself.  Make no mistake about it, I craved death.  One day I got my hands on a thirty-eight and put it to my head.  I wanted death to enfold me within its arms.  I embraced the very thought of my demise.  I welcomed it as a child patiently waits for toys on Christmas morning.  It became a potent taste on my tongue and when I failed to pull the trigger, I cried and called myself a coward and that was as bad if not worse than being called a bastard which I wasn't.  My mother was married to my father, before, I WAS BORN.

     Then I truly became a menace to society.  I scared myself at times.  Something seemed to take control of the spirit that within me, that part of me that I thought was safe within my fortress.  I could no longer control what I thought.  When I talked or laugh with people, friend or foe, I saw them as victims.  However, the soft whisper of Christ spoke to me and I was able to bring myself from the brink of insanity.   I'm talking about an angry child.

      I acquired the demeanor of a quiet, shy, unassuming child.  I wanted to be invisible yet inside I wanted to be just like the other kids but I felt weighted down.  I had no power even to be myself.  Someone else had the powers of life and death over me and had the right to squeeze all the life from my body and I could do nothing about it at all.   I was nothing.

    Once, as an adult, I talked to a group of kids ages 6-11 years of age and as I always do
I asked them what did they want to be when they grow up.  Some of the boys wanted to be basketball and football players and some of the girls wanted to do nails and become politicians and such.  But the six year old said that she was going to be nothing.  My heart ached for this little girl because I knew that someone was in the process of stealing her life.  I saw myself in this little girl.  I knew that I had to put a little hope in that child's life.  So in a small way I tried to redirect the loser's mentality that was starting to sprout inside her mind.  I took her aside and I told her that she was going to be a baby doctor.  I knew that she would not remember the word pediatrician but baby doctor she would remember.  I planted a seed in this little child's mind.  And, when the children prepared to go home, I once again asked them what they wanted to be and before any of them could speak, this little girl screamed out that she wanted to be a baby doctor.  It didn't take  much to get into this little child's mind to program her for success.  Just a little time to show that you care can make the difference between a happy well adjusted child and the angry child who is dying inside and is out to get even with the world.












     

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