VENTING - THE BAND AIDE EFFECT

     I recognize that anger simmers inside of children because they have no way to vent.  Don't get me wrong, VENTING won't solve the problem.  It didn't in my situation but VENTING got my problem out in the open. It was no longer a guarded secret and once exposed, it was marked for destruction.  It was like lifting the top off a boiling pot.  Once the steam escaped, the water was no longer in danger of spilling over.  

     I was band parent on a school bus headed to a game fifty miles away.  The band director wanted this teenager to sit with me.  I could tell that the director thought this kid was hard to handle.  Without fail, the band parent always got one of these kids.  This young man and I sat at the front of the bus and he began to talk.  The noise level on the bus was so high there wasn't any concern about being over heard.

     He first started cussing and he looked at me to see if I was shocked.  I was looking at him.  I wasn't shocked because I sensed that he was about to explode.  He was testing me.  I could have told him that I was shocked proof.  He continued when he saw that I didn't voice disapproval.  He went on to say how he hated his stepfather for beating on him and his brother.  He spit and foamed and declared that if the beatings continued, he was going to kill his stepfather.  At this point, I interjected a bit of sanity into the conversation.  I told him that what ever he did that there would be severe consequences for his actions.  He promptly told me that he knew there would consequences.  I wanted him to realize that talk about injury to others had to be reported.  We talked all the way to the the game.  I focused all my attention on him.  I sensed that he wanted to vent.  So, I listened.  I found that a lot of  problems could be solved simply by listening.  

      On the return trip he boarded the bus ahead of me and yelled that he had saved a seat for me.  Again he talked but this time I notice that the intensity and tone of his conversation was no longer laced with talk of violence.  He started talking about what he wanted to do with his life because he wasn't going to remain in that environment. Weeks later, when I walked into the band hall, the director asked me to step into her office.  There she asked me what had I said to the young man.  She noticed a difference in his personality.  Previously he had been a menace to everyone.  She was shocked when I told her that all I did was let him talk and I listened.  I let him tell me what was bottled up inside.  It was ugly and I realized that there was no pretty way to say what was ripping him apart and he couldn't  express his pain in pretty little phrases because I was an adult.  He wasn't feeling pretty and he sure wasn't feeling respectable.  He was feeling screwed and that aptly describesd how I felt about my situation when I was going through my difficulties as a child. It's true, it really takes one to know one. 

    I was in the grocery store a couple of years later when this young man ran up to me and hugged me.  He was the teenager that had talked to me on that bus.  I acknowledged him and he introduced me to his wife.  He had a beautiful smile on his face.  He informed me that he was headed back to Afghanistan for a second tour of duty.  I can't say, and,  I'm not so conceited  to state that I cured this young man.  But, I will say that I, perhaps, had a band  aide effect in his life and it all started with venting.  You see, the band AIDE doesn't solve the problem but it makes you aware that there is a problem and with care the problem can be cured with time.  It may take a village sometimes, but equally so,  sometimes it takes one person who will take the time to show love and concern, a person who will take the time to actively listen.  Actively listening is expressed in your body language.  It goes beyond paying attention.  I was so proud of this young man.

     Parents love to quote from the Bible 'honor your mother and your father', to their children.  Yet, they fail to note the passage that tell parents not to provoke their children.  When a child is mistreated and is aware of this abuse, (children are not stupid)  and there is no avenue to escape or correct  the abuse,  what you create is a poster child for the dysfunctional, abused and mentally destroyed child.  There has to be a better reason why precious, innocent little babies grow up and join gangs other than for violence mahan and destruction.  My theory, here I'm speaking through my own tunnel vision, is that within  these groups, the safety, the cohesiveness the loyalty loyal and the camaraderie that exist among gang members are because they feel respected, accepted and loved, admittedly, in all the wrong places

     If these emotional triggers  are not targeted in infants and young children the children will act out their frustration.  They become destructive, bullies, they ignore sound advice because they don't trust anyone in authority.  They learn that from infancy.  They join gangs and throw tantrums of violence that has society shaking in it's underpants.  Society responds by building gated communities, buildimg more detention centers and prisons and still the problems escalates. After a while the entire society will be locked away behind gates and bars and the only question left to answer is 'who the hell got the key'.  The problem may be as simple as 'eating an elephant one bite at a time', targeting one  child at a time.  No, again let me state, I don't know how to solve all the problems, but if I can cause life to change for the better then I'll smile.

     A mayor told this at a going away dinner, (the children started school and the teacher asked each child their name.  This little.boy told the teacher that his name was damnit.   The other children assured the teacher that the student was indeed named damnit.  All that year the teacher yelled damnit stop, damnit come here, damnit sit down.  One day they had a spelling bee and the children were lined up around the wall.  The superintendent was a guess for spelling bee.  All was well until the teacher calles a particular big word and the smartest student couldn't spell the word.  Damnit started waving his hand screaming that he knew the word.  The teacher ignored damnit but damnit wouldn't stop.  Finally the teacher yelled, "Damnit, you can't spell that word".  The superintendent yelled to the teacher "Hell, let him try".)   We should let all the little damnit of the world have a voice.

SEEKING PROFESSIONAL HELP

    The angry child will grow up to be an angry, dysfunctional adult.  I married at the age of seventeen and seven years later, I had my first child. Still I was held hostage by my grandmother.  She would not leave me alone.  She was dead, yet she still lived inside of me.  I could hear her in my head and feel the pain in my heart.  I knew in my heart that I needed professional help when I felt as though I couldn't breathe, each breath was labored.  I felt like acid flowed through my veins.  However, during my pregnancy, I attended college and I took a health class as an elective and in this class, the instructor had talked about mental

health.  That became my anchor. I looked up the telephone number of the local mental health society.  I was told that I could get an appointment in three weeks.  I yelled in the telephone that I had to see see someone immediately.  I knew that I was walking a new path on the wild side and that path would take me to the very depth of hell and the most frightening things was that I was anticipating going there.  The only hold on my sanity was the love I had for my child.  

     I saw a therapist and I was allowed to talk.  As a child I locked all the pain and anguish inside.  I talked for a while but I really thought I would be given a quick fix, a pill or something to do me up, make me feel better. But, the solution to my problem proved to be so simple.  I needed to talk, really say it the way I felt without retaliation.  I realized  for the first time in my life that some one wanted to listen to me, to hear my side, to hear how I felt.  There was no ridicule, no shock expressions, nothing, just someone who listen like every word was of the utmost importance, and man, I sure had lot to say.

     For the first time, I told someone of the fears I had as a child.  I had a fear of being accused of looking the wrong way.  I had a fear of my very words used against me

  I feared going to bed and waking up with hands running under the sheets to see if I wet the bed and if I had, the sheets would be tossed over my head and that extension cord would cut into my legs.  I never knew if I was good or bad.  I was whipped for about everything.  Then I told of my helplessness.  I had no recourse.  I already knew I wasn't wanted so running away was not an option.  Besides, I knew that if I ran away from home it would make my grandmother happy and her happiness was the lease of my concern.  Besides, I knew that nobody wanted a black bastard.

     I  realized that I really hated my grandmother.  I always thought bout hating her in my subconscious mind.  I figured if I didn't actually say the word out loud, God wouldn't hear me therefore I wouldn't be in danger of hell fire.  So I gave a name to my demon and his name was 'hate'.  I ranted and raged over and over about how I hatd her.  At some point, I even screamed out 'I hate her!  I hate her!'.  Damn  I felt better, not whole but better than I felt at the beginning of the session.  For one thing, the crawling sensation over my flesh ceased and the urge to scratch my arms was not as urgent.

     I felt loose and I dared anyone to sensor me.  It was a wonderful experience to speak openingly about hate. I alternated between talking and crying.  I was encouraged to keep talking to get it all out in the open.  No one was going to whip me with the extension cord.  Finally, that little girl inside of me had a voice.  That's why, years later with my kids, I encouraged them to say what's on their minds I didn't tolerate them using obscene language, but I encouraged them to say what was on their minds for talking about a situation is a pathway to discovering the solution to the problem.

     I was scheduled for therapy once a week.  I had years of stuff to unload.  And, I talked and I talked.  Going to the mental health society was the greatest thing that I've ever done for myself because it enabled me to go full circle and finally take charge of my life.  I no longer was a victim, that helpless child at the mercy of her grandmother.  I was at the helm of my life.  I was in control, not my grandmother, she was dead to the world and she was dead to me, finally.

     I was scheduled to see a psychiatrist.  I guess the therapist recommended that I see one.  That was a defining moment.  I sat at his desk while he acquainted himself with my file.  Then he started talking to me.  He had such a heavy accent that I couldn't understand him and it was evident that he couldn't understand me.  We yelled 'huh' at each other a couple of times and all the while I'm thinking, 'This son of a bitch is crazier than I am'.  He finally gave up the attempt to communicate with me and wrote out a prescription and pushed the slip across the desk to me.  Something snapped in my mind as I walked away from that building on my way to my car.  I started laughing about my session with the psychiatric and as I laughed, a little piece of me began to mend.  I never went back.  I tore up the prescription.

  

     You can say that I got a new attitude.  I stopped looking at my feet when I talked to people.  I released my bottom lip.  I had held it bondage between my teeth, for over twenty years, to make my lip look thinner so my grandmother wouldn't call me liver lip.  The first time I released my bottom lip, I tentatively walked around expecting someone to yell, 'hey liver lip'.  One day I looked myself eyeball to eyeball in the mirror and declared that I liked my big lips, I liked my black skin and I liked my nappy hair.  I liked the total package.  I even began to love myself.  I no longer felt as though I were two personalities.  I WAS READY TO BE WHO  I WAS DESTINED TO BE BEFORE I WAS DERAILED.

  

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.

     

INTRODUCTION

  INTRODUCTION:   We are a very mobile society unlike the world of seventy years ago when almost every one I knew, stayed close to home.   Unlike yesterday, young people graduate from high school and college and to get a job, often time, they must leave home. Some times they get married far, far away from family members and they start a family.  And, in our complex society, to make ends meet both partners work in order to achieve the standard of living they desire. Some times, unexpectedly, a pregnancy occur and weather planned or unplanned, the child is now part of the family

     

   Then, because there is no family to keep the child,  the child is shuffled from nursery then to pre-K to highschool to college and then turned out into society.  I know for a fact that this type of arrangement with child rearing works very well indeed and my hat is off to the families with this arrangement. I honor the mother's who leave their children in the care of others.  This blog is not to beat up on working mothers for if the truth is told, and I confess, many, many days I wished I was part of the work force.  But we each must live with the choices we make.

     When I was growing up, I told all my friends that I was going to have twenty children. However, I was blesses with only four.  My husband had a job that enabled me to be home with the children.  I really wanted to work.  I actually worked at two or three jobs but combined they didn't last a year because my husband did not want me to work.  So I resigned myself to being a house wife and the mother of four children.  In the process. I found out that child rearing is a job and I gained a lot of respect for the Woman who can make the bacon and fry it up in the pan.

     I'm not stupid enough to indicate that I know every thing about rearing children.  Let me be the first to declare that I don't.  And yes, I made a lot of mistakes but that comes with territory.  In the final analysis, you do your best to get it right and sometimes to get it right, you have to seek help, but that's  alright because you 're on a mission, one that's been commissioned by Almighty God, for He has put the lives of His precious angles in your hand and that's a great commission.

     I'm older, much older, in fact, too old to have little children.  I would love to have five  or six precious grandchildren, but that's another story.  Any way, things happened in my childhood that set me on a journey to find a better way to rear children or better yet, a way in which I could have been raised.  Sadly, I must confess that I was horribly mistreated as a child.  The most overwhelming sadness that to this day I still carry around in the recesses of my mind is the feeling of helplessness that was a part of my daily life.

     I was cooking at the age of nine for my brother and sisters in a home where there were two refrigerators.  One of the refrigerators was in the dining room and that refrigerator held the food that my mother brought to the house for the five of us.  My mother wasn't allowed to live at the house.  I guess my grandmother couldn't stand having all of us under the same roof.  Any way, the other refrigerator was in the kitchen and it held the food for the other family members.  I could only cook after the other members had fixed their meals.

     That was bad enough but not as bad as the physical beatings with an extension cord.

Countless times I suffered abuse after abuse from that extension cord.  One incident, still fresh in my mind, is the day I heard my grandmother bragging about how she beat my brother and how he screamed.  I swore then that the next time she whipped me, I was not going to scream.  In fact, I decided that I would not make a sound, even if she killed me.  And sure enough, the next time came. She twisted my dress about my bottom and started wailing on me with that extension cord.  I stood flat footed and I didn't move.  Blood began to stream down my legs, yet, my hatred of her was so strong, so potent, I did not feel the bite of that extension cord.  I wanted to see her fall lifeless at my feet and in my child mind, I cussed her.  I used every vile word and phrase I had heard her use.  I know for a fact that

Physical abuse is horrible.

     Yes, physical abuse is devastating but it's twin, emotional abuse, is equally destructive.

I was called a lot of nasty names and was discriminated by my own grandmother for many years of my young life.  Even, years later after I reached adulthood, I still heard the evil that dripped from her mouth.  'You black mink, You liver lipped helfer collectively she called all of us Black Bastards.  Now, the word, confused me.  I knew it was an ugly word because it came out of her mouth.  I ran that word around and around in mind.  It took a few years but I did learn the meaning of that word.

     I have since heard many, many horror stories from adults who suffered as children.  So Much abuse breaks my heart. My personal pain forced me to seek professional counseling and I'm convinced that counseling changed my way of thinking and seriously, it saved my life.  I was a walking, talking, breathing dead woman until I was taken back counter clockwise to the root of my destruction and the child that existed in me was finally defended by the adult that I had became.  Then I began to move clock wise, a MUCH saner and happy person, ready to face the world.  I finally learned to talk about my grandmother without crying.

     I decided to write all the pain out in a journal.  Every beating, every painful word.  I emptied my mind of every thing that was festering over and over inside of me.  Once I competed the manuscript, I put it on a shelf with the understanding that I could only think of my past experiences if I read the book.  All my pain was in the book and the pain was no longer a part of me.  I was twenty-six years old when I finally forgave my grandmother.  She had been dead two years.

     When I look at TV shows and I hear parents talk about hating their children and the children talk about hating their parents do you wonder why our society is so screwed.  No,

as I stated earlier, I do not claim to have a quick fix for there is no one cause for there are as many causes of dysfunctions in rearing children as there are people.  All I want to do is just use myself and my situation as an example in the event some one is  in need of an example.  Life as a child passes to adulthood so quickly.  This is not a rehearsal.  It's the real deal.

     Like I said before, this is not a HOW TO collection of information.  I want to some how in a tiny little scheme of things help one parent, if it helps one child, I believe every    

thing that I have endured had a definite purpose.

     

THIS HAS BEEN MY INTRODUCTION.  MORE LATER!