Читать книгу Youth Gone Wild - Robert "Bob" Sorensen - Страница 6

The Beginning

June 25, 1961, a beautiful baby girl is born. She is named Karen. She is the firstborn child of Emil (Bud) and Joan Sorensen. She is perfect in every way—beautiful light-brown hair, dark-blue eyes, and soft white skin. The young couple, married two years prior, cannot be happier. All they’ve thought of, all they’ve talked about since taking their wedding vows was to start a family. How could you possibly ask for a better start?

Joan, the only daughter of Joseph and Adelaide Gabrick, was born and raised in a small Central Illinois town called Toluca. She has an older brother (Joseph) and a younger brother (James). They are all very close. Because she is the only girl in the family, she is constantly doted on; one might even say spoiled. She is pretty, intelligent, and extremely personable. She would go on to graduate from High School as the valedictorian of her class of sixteen. Upon graduation, she would move to the big city (Chicago) to make her mark in the world. She would become a secretary, be active in local/national politics, and frequent the jazz clubs on the weekend. Somewhere in the near future, she would meet my father, go through a relatively short courting/engagement period, and get married. From that point on, she would become known to my father as his “country girl.”

Emil, one of three sons of Emil and Sue Sorensen, was born and raised in the Chicagoland area. He has an older brother (George) and an identical twin brother (Don). George was a big burly kid who grew up defending his twin brothers. He was their protector. If anybody messed with either of them, George would kick ass and take names later. The twins were small frail boys. Starting at an early age, my grandmother would dress them up in identical outfits; many of which were quite feminine in nature. Many a times, people would comment on what cute girls they were. Thank God for Uncle George. The beautiful thing about being a twin was always having someone to be there as you go through all the stages of life—grade school, high school. They were both drafted into the Army at the same time. They both were stationed at the same army base (thank God they never saw any action). They were both discharged at the same time, going off to college (University of Illinois) on the GI Bill, earning degrees in architecture. They applied for the same job (drafter) at the same employer, working the same set hours in the same office area. The die was set at birth and would continue through the death of my Uncle Don. Emil, shortly after establishing himself in the workforce, he met my mother, fell in love, and got married. My mother found her “city boy.”

My parents set up house in a two-flat on the northwest side of the city, which they called Mackley’s Mansion. A small two-bedroom apartment across the street from St. Ladislaus School (where I would eventually attend school) and Chopin Park (the site of many of my future escapades). One of those bedrooms was painted a beautiful light-pink with a ballet dancer border.

Upon Karen’s arrival from the hospital, she would spend her first two months in a cradle next to my parents’ bed. After those two months were over, she would transition into this beautiful girl’s bedroom—pink sheets/comforter, pretty stuffed animals of all kinds, a baby duck and lamb mobile hanging above the crib. A perfect environment for this pretty little girl to begin her life. My parents were so proud of Karen—the girl of their dreams. My father went out and bought an 8 mm camera to capture every moment of Karen’s development. In addition to that, my parents would take her to a photo studio every ninety days to get professional pictures taken of her to gladly share with all their friends and family. Life was good.

Tuesday, November 6, 1962, Election Day, a four-pound, two-ounce baby boy is born at St. Anne’s Hospital in Chicago, Illinois. He is eight weeks premature and is immediately moved into an incubator in the ICU, where he will spend the next two months of his life. He is very small. He is very frail. At a point very early on, a priest is brought in to issue the last rites to this tiny boy. No one is sure if he is going to survive or not. The baby’s name is Robert, the firstborn son of Emil and Joan. What a way for me to enter this earth. A far cry from my sister’s entrance. Instead of going home to a beautiful blue nursery, I am lying in a box, under a heat lamp, with a respirator helping me to breathe. Sterile white walls. Unfamiliar faces coming and going. Which one is my mother? No time for bonding with your mother when you’re fighting for your survival. Insult to injury. The doctors tell my mother the reason I was prematurely born is a direct result of her smoking cigarettes throughout her pregnancy.

Back in the ’50s and ’60s, smoking was the thing to do. Doctors went on radio and television to tell people how good and healthy smoking was for you. Tell that to my mother as she raises my head with her finger. Tell that to me as I fight for my life—my lungs, my nerves, my eyes not fully developed. After several months of touch and go, I am now healthy enough to be released from the hospital. In anticipation of my arrival home, Karen is moved into a kid-sized bed in the corner of the room, making space in her old crib for yours truly. Everything remains the same—pink walls, pink sheets, ducks and lambs. Little did I know then that this would be a pattern followed by my mother for years to come. She was not prepared to raise a boy. She had not been exposed to this type of environment. That said, she was going to go with what she knew. She was going to raise her oldest son exactly the way she raised her oldest daughter. In a nutshell, I was screwed from the get-go—prematurely born, no time to bond with your mother early on in life, going to be raised like a little girl. God help me!

*****

Since my arrival on this planet, it became quite apparent, due to my premature birth, that I would not be the “perfect” child like my oldest sister Karen was. My nerves were not fully developed, making me a very hyperactive and sensitive child. I was crying, screaming, and active all the time. Morning, noon, and night. Sleep was nonexistent. My lungs were not fully developed, so I had a hard time breathing. In between my crying jags, I would be gasping for breath. My mother was at a loss, panicked all the time. I spent many hours in the bathroom with the hot water running (steam). The vaporizer ran in my room constantly. An industrial-sized jar of Vicks VapoRub sat next to the crib, applied generously day and night. In addition, my eye muscles were not fully developed, resulting in a lazy eye. I was a real mess of a child. This was not what my parents signed up for. Needless to say, the 8 mm camera did not come out often with me in the picture. Who wanted to take movies of a screaming, cross-eyed baby? For obvious reasons, we never did make it to the photo studio as well. You would never get me to stop crying and sit still enough to take a decent picture. No sense of wasting anyone’s time and money. Looking back, we have hours upon hours of movies of Karen and beautiful pictures of her from the photo studios. Me? An occasional picture of this wild child peeking out from under his pink blanket. What a mess. What a way to start out my life.

Shortly after my arrival, my parents decided they needed more space to raise their growing family. We had outgrown our little apartment. As fortune might have it, my father was able to find and purchase a four-bedroom bungalow five houses north of our existing location. Two months later, the four of us moved into our new home on Roscoe Street. Perfect. Still across the street from Chopin Park. Walking distance from the school. As my parents set up shop, the decision had to be made on where to locate the two children. The way the house was set up, there were two bedrooms on the main floor, one being the master bedroom (for my parents) and the other bedroom right down the hall, separated by a bathroom. The other two bedrooms were upstairs, separated by a small hallway. Common sense would tell you to put the youngest child (me) in the bedroom closest to my parents, putting Karen in one of the bedrooms upstairs. Unfortunately, common sense did not prevail in this case (as we get further into this book, you will see that it never did prevail). Once again, the pink paint and wallpaper came out, and Karen’s room was decorated to perfection. What more could a little girl ask for?

As for me, I was located in the bigger of the two bedrooms upstairs. Mind you, the bedrooms upstairs were semifinished (loft in nature)—tiled floors, bare wood ceilings (slanting down from the center, following the pitch of the roof). There was a lone window at the far end of the room. Very dark. Very cold. Very barren. Just the place for a young boy to begin the next phase of his life. Where were my blue walls? Where was my teddy bear border? For the life of me, I could never figure out what was going through my parents’ minds at the time of this decision. I missed out bonding with my mom when I was first born. Having me close to them at this point might have made up for some of this lost time. The best I could figure was, they wanted the “devil child” as far away from them as possible. Much harder to hear me screaming/crying upstairs than it would be right down the hall from their bedroom. Could sleep be more important than bonding with your son? I guess I got my answer. Again, I was too young at the time to know what was happening. Looking back, I can now see the wheels were put in motion at an early age, resulting in some of the stories I will be sharing with you later on in this book. A note to any and all parents reading this book. It’s true. Those early years with your children are so important to their future growth and development. The seeds are planted early. Make sure you continue to sow them over the years.

*****

So it goes. As my sister Karen continued to bond with my parents in her gender-appropriate room, I continued to languish in my cold, dark cell. A few more tidbits on my surroundings before I move on. Seeing my father was the sole provider (as was typical of the time, my mother did not work for many years) and having just moved into a new home, my parents did not have a lot of expendable income. What little they had was spent on things they deemed necessary—a new bed for Karen’s room, a new television set (my dad was addicted to TV), a new dining room table and chairs. Anything and everything that was needed to keep up the facade to all who entered the Sorensen home, that we were this happy, loving family, that we really had our shit together. Seeing my father was an architect, everything at the time had to be based on design rather than comfort or functionality. In his mind, he was going to be the next Frank Lloyd Wright.

With money being spent on the main floor of the house, unfortunately, my bedroom upstairs was an afterthought. It would be best described as an army barracks. In two of the four corners of the room lie twin beds left over from the previous owners. Being so young, I had no idea of the age of these beds. Based on the fact they would almost touch the ground when you lay on them, I’m guessing they were pretty damn old. As I described earlier, the ceilings were slanted based on the pitch of the roof. That said, you had approximately eighteen inches from the top of the mattress to the ceiling. Have a bad dream in the middle of the night, crack your skull. Wake up in the morning disoriented, crack your skull. Mom screams up the stairs that it’s time for breakfast, crack your skull. You get the gist of it. No curtains on the windows. No pictures or artwork of any kind on the walls. There was a dim, broken-down light on the far end of the room attached to a light switch at the entryway. The only time this switch was used was when my mother left the room in the evening, thrusting me into total darkness. Underneath the curtainless windows, my father placed a homemade table—a flat piece of plywood with four metal legs, unfinished, unpainted. Certainly fit in quite well in its surroundings. This was my room. This was where I’d spend my childhood. This was where I’d spend my teenage years.

It became quite apparent, at an early age, that my mother was not programmed to raise a baby boy. Karen was such a well-behaved child. Karen looked beautiful in her little dresses and pantsuits. Here was this hyperactive, goofy-looking Tasmanian devil of a child. I’m sure my mother was asking herself, What can I do with this child? The answer was quite simple. Raise him like you did Karen. If she came out so good, applying the same logic to me would reap the same benefits. Almost immediately, my mom started using my sister’s hand-me-down clothes to dress me in. Certainly not dresses, but anything else was fair game. There were many a childhood picture of me—red-faced, tears rolling down my cheeks, me screaming like a banshee in a flowered onesie. The balance of my clothes, bought at our local department stores (JCPenney, Sears, Goldblatt’s, etc.), were not much better—little sailor suits, goofy-looking puffy pirate shirts. I was in big trouble.

I should mention something at this point. Because my father was a twin, my Grandma Sorensen really doted on him and his brother. They were what one might call Momma’s boys. Unfortunately, his mother subjected him to the same type of “abuse” as my mother was putting me through—little Emil and Donnie in their matching sailor suits. Bottom line, I could never count on my father (or my grandmother for that matter) to step in and provide my mother with proper guidance to raise a baby boy. They considered this “normal” behavior. The only person I could count on at this time in my life was my Grandpa Sorensen. He was a big, burly, speaks-his-mind kind of guy. He saw what was happening. He tried to step in and put a stop to this madness. Unfortunately, he was married to a hot-headed Italian woman who would shut him down in a heartbeat. I will say this. The only normal clothes from my childhood came from him. A little Chicago Cubs uniform, along with a matching hat. A cowboy outfit consisting of a tinted flannel shirt and blue jeans (including a cap gun and holster). He must have figured he missed out on his sons, so he was going to try to save me. Thank you, Grandpa! I will never forget you for that.

*****

As I grew older, my parents hoped and prayed I would grow out of my “naughty” behavior. What they didn’t realize back then that is so prevalent now was the fact that I was suffering from a severe case of ADHD. Very few people, including my parents, had any idea how to deal with this type of behavior back in the ’60s. The only way they knew back then was to scream, yell, and punish. Whenever I had one of my tantrums, my mother would grab me by my shoulders, scream in my face, spank my bottom, and banish me to my room. Of course, that would incense me even more. I would scream, yell, and cry for hours (until, in most cases, I would lose my voice). When that didn’t have any impact, I would sit in the corner of my room and bang my head against the wall. Over and over. Harder and harder. My mom would rush up the stairs, yell at me to stop, and then head back down. As soon as she was gone, I would start all over again. It is amazing I didn’t damage my vocal cords or suffer any permanent brain damage (some may argue that I have!).

Along with these consistent outbursts came destruction. I would destroy anything in my wake. As I sat at my lone window, looking at the kids playing in the park, I would punch holes in my window screen. When my dad would eventually get around to fixing it, I would do the exact same thing again and again and again. Any toy left in my room was fair game. I’d pull the eyes and the arms off my teddy bears. I’d tear the pages out of my books. I’d pull off every wheel from my Matchbox cars, Tonka trucks, etc. I had so much pent-up energy this was the only way I knew how to get it out. One story in particular that stood out was almost surreal. For God knows what reason, my parents decided to buy me a dart board and hang it in my room. We are not talking about the metal kind with magnets. We are talking about a corkboard with real darts (the sharp, pointed metal kind). Again, what were they thinking? Throwing the darts at the board was fun for the first five to ten minutes. Once I realized these darts would stick in the surrounding wood walls, the game was on! Getting banished to my room on a daily basis was no longer an issue. I would spend hours upon hours randomly firing those darts into the surrounding walls. What fun! Once I bored of this activity, my overactive mind came up with another idea.

Growing up in the city (especially living across the street from a public park), we were subjected to all types of graffiti. The kind that intrigued me the most at this very young age were the messages scrawled into the park benches. “Johnny loves Mary.” “Steve’s a pothead.” They were there for everyone to see, there for eternity. I said to myself, “How cool will it be for me to leave my mark in this world just like all these other folks are doing!” That said, I took one of my darts, walked out into the hallway between the upstairs bedrooms, and as deep and as hard as I could push, I wrote, “Bob was here,” with an arrow point to the spot where I was standing. I thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world. My parents did not agree. In response, my dart board and darts were removed from my room and an eye hook was placed on the outside of my bedroom door. From this point on, when I was sent to my room for doing something wrong (almost daily), the eye hook was latched, and I was locked in, unable to leave until my mother undid the hook. Needless to say, this drove me even more insane. The screaming, yelling, and head pounding intensified. I really did feel like a prisoner in my own room.

*****

February 24, 1966, my younger sister Laura is born. She, like my older sister, is a beautiful, healthy baby girl. By this point, my mother had stopped smoking for several years, so there were no complications or birth defects. In advance of her arrival, my parents updated the bedroom across the hallway from mine to move Karen—beautiful red curtains with matching bed spread; big, fluffy, colorful pillows positioned throughout; a store-bought desk-and-chair set, perfect for a little girl to sit and play with her dollies. Karen’s downstairs bedroom was repainted and decorated in advance of Laura’s arrival. Meanwhile, I continued to languish in my “holding cell.” Nothing had changed in my room. I take partial responsibility for this situation. Anything new introduced into this environment was immediately destroyed by me. From my parent’s perspective, I could understand why you wouldn’t want to spend good money after bad. So it goes.

At this point, I want to fast-forward a year. It’s the summer of 1967. There are several distinct memories I would like to share with you from this period. In June, my sister Karen celebrated her sixth birthday. My parents threw her a beautiful friends and family party. She was so excited and so happy. After the party was over, everyone was asked to head outside for the big surprise. Sitting in the front yard was the most beautiful girl’s bike you would every want to see—metallic red with white pinstripes, a big white seat, tassels hanging from each of the handlebars. The icing on the cake? A battery-powered headlamp that you control with an on/off switch. It was probably the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my short time on this planet. Don’t ask me what compelled me to do what I did next. I could not explain my actions other than I was a four-year-old boy suffering from untreated ADHD, pissed off that my sister was the center of attention once again. I broke through the crowd and jumped on the bike. I proceeded to pedal as hard as I could. At my age, I had never been on a two-wheeled bike. That said, I immediately lost control of the bike and slammed it into the nearest tree. The front wheel and rim immediately folded up, taking the beautiful headlamp with it. The bike was destroyed. My sister was crying. My parents were screaming. All the guests were shaking their heads, trying to figure out what just happened. Me? I was so proud of myself that I was able to control a two-wheeled bike for almost ten feet. What was all the commotion about? Needless to say, I was banished to my room for the balance of the day, eye hook in place.

Later that summer, my parents decided to take a driving vacation to California. Seeing Laura was still a baby, my folks dropped her off at the house of my mother’s parents and headed west. We got as far as Nebraska that day. My father got a hotel room for the evening. Oh my god, they have an in-ground pool! I’d seen these kinds of pools on TV but never in person. The only pools we’d seen in person were the ones with the three rings that you blew up in the backyard. Maybe twelve inches of water to piddle around in. This was a real pool with deep dark-blue water (from the painted surface). I could no longer contain my excitement. As my parents were unloading Karen and the luggage from the car into the room, I’d decided it was time to go for a swim. I immediately bolted for the pool at full stride. No need to switch into my swimming suit. Who cares if I don’t know how to swim? I jumped straight into the deep end of the pool. Of course, I went straight down to the bottom like a rock. My dad, who was quite a few paces behind me at this point, eventually caught up, jumped in fully clothed, and brought me back to the surface. Tragedy averted. In my mind, it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen or done. Not once did I stop and think how dangerous this was, how I could have killed myself.

Fast-forward a week. My parents decided, for whatever reason, to take us to Hearst Castle in San Simeon, California. For those of you not familiar with the area, the castle is a historic landmark, set on the cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Each room is filled with priceless antiques from all over the world. Our visit was well before any of today’s restrictions that we are so accustomed to. No ropes. No gates. As we entered the grounds, I immediately saw the beautiful pools stretching out for yards in front of us. I made a run for it. This time, my dad was ready. He scooped me up from behind and held me under his arms as we continued to tour the grounds. Of course, I was kicking and screaming the whole time. It was now time to head inside the castle. I was like a kid in a candy store. All these bright, beautiful objects, I wanted to touch them all. I wanted to play with them. I went wild. My mom was holding my hand tight—so tight I could feel the circulation being cut off. The harder she squeezed, the harder I pulled. After fifteen to twenty minutes of this tug-of-war, my parents decided to abort the mission. Prior to heading back to the car, my parents decided to take a look at the Pacific Ocean. We headed west toward the cliffs. As we got closer, I got more excited. My parents must have seen it in my eyes. I wanted nothing more than to run off those cliffs! I had no fear. There was no hesitation. This time, each of my parents had a hold of one of my hands. Over their dead bodies were they going to let their son run off a five-hundred-foot cliff, falling to his death. I share these stories with you, the reader, to give you a clear understanding of my mind-set as a child. I’m hyperactive. I’m fearless. I’m being dressed and raised as a little girl. I’ve spent half my life in solitary confinement. Is it any wonder what comes next?

*****

September 1967, my mom could not control her excitement. It was the first day of kindergarten, meaning she would have four hours a day, five days a week away from her crazy son. A much-needed break after almost five years of nonstop crying, screaming, mayhem, and destruction. She had spent the last several weeks preparing for this day—numerous trips to the store to pick out my new go-to school clothing. Blue jeans? T-shirts? Gym shoes? Guess again. She wanted her son looking his finest when heading off to St. Ladislaus for his first day of school. As I got dressed in my checkerboard, button-down shirt, green dress pants (commonly known as floods), and black patent leather shoes, I was extremely nervous. Seeing I had not been in contact with too many children at this point in my life (excluding siblings and cousins), I had no idea what to expect. My mother called. It was time to go. She was kind enough to walk me the half block to the front entrance of the school. That would be the last time that ever happened. She handed me off to a young woman standing on the front stoop.

“You be a big boy and be good to your teacher.” No hug. No kiss. She was gone. My parents were never the touchy, feely type. Lots of talk. Very little physical contact (with the exception of spankings, which, for obvious reasons, was quite often). I was escorted into my classroom where fifteen to twenty children of all shapes, sizes, gender, and ethnicity were gathered. I was like a deer in headlights. Scared shitless. Mind you, I am only four years old at this point in my life. I will not turn five until my birthday in November. I was, by far, one of the youngest children in the class. On top of that, based on my hyperactivity, as well as healthy, well-balanced meals being served at home (junk food of any kind was prohibited by my mother), I was what you would call the runt of the litter. Add in the lazy eye, and I was a mess. Even as early as kindergarten, kids could be cruel. It did not take long for my class to break into these little cliques—the older kids, the spoiled kids, the little class clowns, the bullies. Let’s not forget about the dorks. Take a guess what clique I was in?

As the year progressed, these cliques became more and more defined. My fate was set at a very early age. I was picked on by the bullies. I was made fun of by the older kids. The class clowns had a field day with me. I was miserable. I would come home every day, crying like a little schoolgirl (how appropriate), with no support from either of my parents.

“Why can’t you be more like your sister Karen?”

“You need to start acting like a big boy!”

The trouble was, I was not a big boy. I was only four years old for Chrissake. Insult to injury. Right after the Christmas holiday, my parents decided it was time for me to have an eye operation to fix my lazy eye. Upon completion of that operation, I would have to wear an eye patch for several months. On top of that, I was fitted for a pair of glasses that I would have to wear for the rest of my life. No need to pick out a pair that might be remotely cool to a kid. We had to get the strongest, longest lasting pair they had. Back to school I go. Pirate patch covering my right eye. My Buddy Holly glasses firmly set on my nose. Again, the die had been set. I was, by far, the dorkiest kid you ever wanted to see. I was a very easy target. The balance of the year was even more miserable. Summer break could not come soon enough. A side note worth mentioning at this point: both my parents were pacifists. Instead of my mother talking to my teacher or my father telling me to stick up for myself (maybe even show me how to defend myself), they both told me I must try to reason with my tormentors.

“Nothing is ever solved through violence.”

“Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words will never hurt you.”

My ass! The more I tried to talk and the more I tried to reason, the more I got picked on and bullied. It was no use. No relief at school. No support at home.

*****

It was now the summer of 1968. By the grace of God, I survived the school year, and I had a few months off before I had to worry about first grade. I tried not to think about the horrors that await you during a full day of school. By this time, Karen had gotten her bike repaired, and she was riding like a champ. Me? I was not responsible enough to have a two-wheeled bike. I would just destroy it like everything else that was ever given to me. The solution? Let me continue to ride my sister’s old three-wheeled tricycle (again, a beautiful metallic pink, with tassels and a big wide girl’s seat). We would ride up and down the alley—Karen on her beautiful new bike, me on her old three-wheeler. What a pair. It was during these “adventures” that we met our first friends—Billy and Mary. Mary was in my class; Billy was a year behind.

At first, life was grand. We would all ride our bikes, back and forth, asking questions of one another to find out as much as we could about our new friends. Then things took a twist. Karen, being the oldest, became the unspoken leader of the pack. Mary and Billy did everything they could to get on her good side, be her favorite. Here we go again. First, Karen started picking on me (showing off). Then Mary and Billy jumped on board. It was three on one with the runt trying to “reason” with everyone. It was at this point in my life that I was assigned my nickname that would stay with me for the rest of my life. I am now known as Baby Bike Bob. A unique relationship was now forged between the four of us. One on one, everything was great. We talked. We played. We rode bikes. The moment the four of us were together, I was the odd man out. This relationship would go on like this for years. I accepted this behavior, saying “part-time friends” were better than no friends at all.

*****

Fast-forward to the fall of 1969. I’d survived first grade and was ready to begin second grade. I was still a skinny, hyperactive runt with my Mr. Magoo glasses. Thank God we were all wearing standard-issue school uniforms—white shirt, black pants, a little button-down bow tie, black shoes. My mom’s choice in clothing for me had not changed. I’d worry about that on the weekends. We were now into the first few weeks of school and settling down into our patterns. I’d accepted my fate for the time being, and I was fine with it, until I came home one evening. My sister joined the choir the year prior, and she loved it. She came home every day after practice to tell my parents how wonderful it was. The highlight of her week was when we would go to church and see her and the rest of the choir singing up in the balcony. How beautiful for a lovely young girl. My parents came up with an excellent idea. Seeing Karen was getting so much out of this, why not have Bob join? What? There were twelve children in the choir—all girls. In the long history of the St. Ladislaus School choir, not one boy has ever joined. I went crazy—screaming, yelling, banging my head on the table, just like old times. I was sent to my room, the eye hook fastened, to think about my unacceptable behavior while my parents plot out my fate. After several hours, I was released to be informed of their decision.

“You will be joining the choir. You will be practicing every day, singing side by side with your sister every Sunday. Now get dressed. We’re going down to JCPenney’s to buy you some appropriate clothing.”

My heart sank. My parents had to literally drag me to the car. I was kicking and screaming. As we arrived, my mom peeled off, leaving my father and me to pick out my choir outfits. As I mentioned earlier, my dad was an architect. Everything, including the clothes you wear, are about appearance. He decided at that moment that the best way to dress me was to buy clothes to the exact specifications to what he was wearing—a little mini me. A mini trench coat. A little mini sport coat. Little mini striped shirts with holes for little mini cuff links. Are you fucking kidding me? Like I don’t have enough troubles as it is! As I was forced to try on all these clothes, I proceeded to throw all of them on the changing room floor. I was in a rage, crying uncontrollably. I was doing everything I could to derail this nightmare to no success. My parents paid for the clothes and headed home. It was Tuesday evening.

The next day, after school, my sister hunted me down and took me to choir practice. Even the girls were laughing at me. I couldn’t cry because boys don’t cry in front of girls. I stood there like a zombie, wishing I could swan dive off the balcony. As we exited the church on day 1, several of my new school friends were goofing around on the steps. They saw me and immediately put two and two together. Of course, they started riding my ass immediately. Sunday came around, and it was time to do this for real in church. My sister and I headed upstairs as the people filed in for mass. Of course, it was a full house. I was off to the side, hoping no one would see me. Right before church was scheduled to begin, the moderator made a few announcements.

“Blah, blah, blah. And finally, please welcome Robert Sorensen to the St. Ladislaus choir. We are so happy to have him!”

Holy Shit! I turned white as a ghost. As I looked down over the crowd, I saw my parents taking pictures of me in my mini-me trench coat. It felt like every set of eyes was on me. And here I thought it couldn’t get any worse. Guess again.

*****

In the spring of 1970, I was scheduled to make my first Holy Communion. This is a very big deal in the Catholic church. I was so angry and bitter from the choir situation (which I was still forced to be a part of) I could barely function on a daily basis, let alone prepare for this. I went through the motions. Of course, this meant another trip to the store for a mini-me suit. As I accepted the Eucharist, I asked God why he was punishing me this way. Will I always be the whipping boy, the punching bag, the runt? After the ceremony, we headed back home for a family party in celebration of my communion. Now I’d been told by many of my classmates that these parties were big deals. Toys, sporting equipment, money, etc. It was like Christmas came early. My head was spinning in anticipation of what was to come. As we gathered around the table, my mother handed me a neatly wrapped rectangular box. No baseball mitt here. What could this be? I rapidly unwrapped it. It was a brown box with the word Timex on it. I opened it. It was a watch. It was a fucking watch! My dad then made a short speech, saying how he’d noticed I’d been admiring his and that now his little man could have one of his own.

“Bob, please take care of this as it is quite expensive and should not be played with like a toy.”

Are you kidding me? My mom, all smiles, took my left arm and then placed the watch on it. I was then forced to stand there, with a fake smile, holding back my tears, as my relatives snapped picture after picture of my new watch. Once pictures were completed, everyone settled back into their seats. Me? I was so pissed off I was seeing red. As others around me talked and laughed, I was seething. I looked at the watch on my arm. A symbol of my horse shit childhood to date. I began to pick and pick at the glass cover. Pop! It was off. I then began to spin the exposed arms around and around. Was I trying to turn back time or fast-forward? Who knows? When I bored of that activity, I decided to snap each of the arms off, thinking I could put them back on whenever I chose. Ping! Ping! They were gone. I looked down at my watch, and I was so proud of myself. A few minutes later, my grandpa asked me to take another look at that “fine” watch. He stared at it, then me, in horror. He, of course, brought this to the attention of my parents, who, in response, took me upstairs, spanked the living hell out of me, and locked me in my black hole. Happy First Communion!

*****

It was now the fall of 1970. I was heading into third grade. Again, because of my height, weight, behavior, and glasses, I was an easy target for my classmates. Not a day went by without me being picked on in some form or fashion. For the time being, I accepted my fate. My attempt at “reasoning” with my bullies (per my parents’ instructions) had zero impact. Later in life, I would hear a line from the movie Caddyshack that would perfectly describe my situation at this time: “If I saw myself in those clothes, I’d have to kick my own ass!” So true. My mom’s response to all this at the time? “Let’s sign you up for Cub Scouts. This will allow you to further interact with boys your own age while learning a new set of skills.” Now the last thing in the world I needed right now was more interaction with the kids from school. Wasn’t it enough I was getting my ass kicked from eight to three, five days a week? Add in Billy, my neighborhood “friend,” and you can make that seven days a week.

I begged, pleaded, and slammed my head into the wall to no avail. She signed me up anyways.

“First, we must buy you a uniform. There is a store in the neighborhood that sells officially licensed Boy Scout uniforms.”

As we headed out the door, my mom told me to behave while we were at Goldblatt’s.

“Goldblatt’s? Mom, why are we going there. We need to go to the uniform shop.”

“Don’t be silly, Bob, we can’t afford to buy you your uniform from there. Goldblatt’s sells uniforms at a much cheaper price.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. We headed out, bought a “uniform,” and headed home, preparing for this evening’s Cub Scout den meeting. I had to admit, deep down inside, I was thinking this might be a good thing. I was holding out hope that I would fit in and make new friends. My mom walked me to the house, rang the bell, handed me off to the den leader, and disappeared into the night. I was scared. I was nervous. I was ready. As we headed up the stairs and into the living room, there were ten to twelve boys sitting in a circle. I looked on in horror as I noticed they were wearing the same uniforms—dark-blue shirts, blazers, and pants with yellow sashes and scarves held in place nicely with cool-looking metal Boy Scout sleeves. These were a far cry from the drab green shirt and flood pants (no sash, no scarf) I was wearing. Let’s not forget, I was wearing my Sunday choir shoes (shiny black patent) while all the other boys had on their cool gym shoes. My face turned red. Tears streamed down my cheek as I was led to my place in the circle. As boys will be boys, even at that young age, they rode me mercilessly. The rest of the night was a blur; I could not remember much else, which was a good thing. The one thing I do remember is being assigned our first task as a Boy Scout. We would be working on our woodworking badge. We were all told to go home, come up with a project, work with our fathers to design and build it, and come prepared to present at next week’s meeting. A chance to spend time with my dad. A real bonding moment. Seeing he was an architect, this project should be a slam dunk. I couldn’t wait to show my tormentors what I had created.

I went home and told my father. He appeared indifferent; maybe he’d had a long day. No big deal. Days went by without a word from my father. It was now midweek, and we had not started our project.

“Please, Dad, we need to get started.”

“I’m up to my ears right now, Bob. We’ll get to it shortly.”

A few more days went by and nothing. It was now Friday night, less than twenty-four hours from my next meeting. I was in panic mode. How the hell were we going to get this done in time? My dad was sleeping on the couch in front of the TV. He was not going anywhere. I guess I was on my own. I headed to the basement. Reminder, I was in third grade and knew absolutely jack shit about designing or building anything. I had never even touched a tool. What the hell am I going to make? I got it, why not build an airplane? I picked up two pieces of wood (unfinished, mind you). I grabbed a nail (looking back, it was probably a five-inch commercial nail) and hammer. I proceeded to do the best I could to nail the two pieces of wood together. After more than thirty minutes of finger-breaking effort, I had the nail all the way through. I then proceeded to bang on the piece of the nail that was extruding from the bottom until it was folded back against the wood. What next? I had to make it look more like a plane than a cross. I got out my watercolors and markers. I spent the next several hours decorating my plane. I painted the entire unit yellow (several times, as the watercolors soaked into the wood) and drew in the details (windows, people, whatever) with a black marker. It was done. Who needed Dad? I was so excited by the masterpiece I had created. I couldn’t wait to show my fellow Cub Scouts.

Twenty-four hours later, and it was time to head off to my meeting. My dad was nowhere to be found. I grabbed my plane and headed out the door, smiling from ear to ear. As I headed into the den mother’s living room, my joy once again turned to excruciating pain. Spread out on the floor were beautiful bookshelves, birdhouses, rocking chairs, etc. All were finished in lacquer or brightly painted. As I assumed my position in the circle, I thought I was going to puke. It was time for each boy to describe their project, sharing all the details leading up to its completion. I had my plane hidden under my shirt. What the hell am I going to do? It was my turn. I pulled my plane out, tears running down my eyes. I could barely put a sentence together as the other boys laughed and screamed at me. Somehow, I got through it. The meeting was now over, and I wanted nothing more than to get home and hide in my room. I was never coming out again! As I headed for the door, the den mother, with tears in her eyes, handed me a brightly colored woodworking badge. She felt so bad for me she gave me one even though I failed miserably on my attempt. Kids may be brutal to other kids, but at least there are a few good adults in this world.

Next on the docket was the biggest Cub Scout event of the year. It was what they called the pinewood derby, scheduled for early December. A downhill racetrack would be set up in the church hall. Each of the Scouts had the next several months to build a car with their father in preparation for racing one another until a winner was crowned. This was open not only to my den but also to all Scouts in the parish. There would be several hundred participants. This was the big one! I took my instruction booklet home and gave it to my father. I told him how important this was to me. Working with my dad to design and build the fastest and coolest-looking car would most certainly make up for my wood badge fiasco. I’d stay on his ass until this was done. No excuses. September went by. Then October. Fast-forward to Thanksgiving. Nothing but excuses to this point. I was begging him on a daily basis. We were a week away from the event, and again, nothing. I guess I’d get started, and he could jump in.

I was back into the basement. I found a block of wood. I needed to “carve” it down into the shape of a race car. I grabbed a fifteen-inch handsaw and went at it. I had no idea what the hell I was doing. I hacked away for hours until there was a slight curve in the block. Close enough. Wheels? I broke off two sets of axles and wheels from one of my remaining (smaller) Tonka trucks. I found an industrial-type stapler in my dad’s tools and proceeded to “staple” the axles to the bottom of the woodblock. Some more watercolors and markers and I was good to go. I kept the car out of sight until the day arrived. This was a father-son event. As we neared departure time, my father told my mother that he was tired and wouldn’t be able to attend. After a few minutes of back-and-forth, my father assumed his position on the couch, and my mother and I headed over to the church hall.

Kids were flying around everywhere. There was a huge track in the center of the hall. Not one mother in sight. I awkwardly sat down in the corner of the room, awaiting my turn to race my car. As I looked around, I could see, once again, I had been severely outclassed when it came to my car. Theirs had sleek bodies, beautiful paint jobs, chrome wheels. I saw where this one was going.

“Sorensen, Johnson, please step to the track!”

I was crying even before my butt lifted from the seat. I took my block of wood to the starting gate. People, including adults this time, were laughing and talking. I was so embarrassed I wanted to melt into the floor. As Mark Johnson placed his miniature Indy-style car next to my “doorstop”, he knew it was over before it started. The gate was lifted, and his car screamed down the track. My car? It went about six feet before the staple on the front axle broke off, and my car froze in place. My evening came to a screeching halt. I took my piece of shit back to my seat. My mom told me, “You can’t win them all.” I demanded to leave immediately. I’d seen enough. I’d been through enough embarrassment for one night. I just wanted to go back to my cell.

*****

Let’s stay in the same month and year to give you some brief insight into Christmas at the Sorensen house. Like any other child, I would spend several months putting my wish list together for Santa. We were always told that if you were a good boy or girl, Santa would be good to you. By this time (third grade), I was hearing stories about Santa not being real. In actuality, your parents were the ones providing the gifts. I tried not to listen, but in reality, I didn’t care. As long as I get what I want, I’m a happy camper. I carefully made up my list. Like they said, I checked it twice. I gave it to my parents to forward to Santa well in advance of Christmas Day. Better safe than sorry.

It was now Christmas Eve. We put out cookies and milk for Santa and his reindeers and ran off to bed. I had a hard time falling asleep because my mind was working overtime (more than usual). After many hours of tossing and turning, I was back awake. It was 6:00 a.m., and I was raring to go. I woke up my oldest sister, and we headed down. The tree was all lit up, with presents surrounding the base. We looked for each of our piles and began to touch, feel, shake, etc., trying to get a hint of what was inside. We were going to bust. We tore down to my parents’ bedroom and swan dove into their bed.

“Wake Up! Santa came!”

My parents hemmed and hawed. They told us it was too early and to go back to bed.

“Are you crazy? Didn’t you hear me? Santa came, and I’m ready to tear into those presents while I go down my checklist.”

They lay motionless. We headed back to the tree and proceeded to wait another forty-five-plus minutes until they wandered into the living room. Instead of letting us go crazy, my parents had this tradition of only opening one present at a time in order from oldest to youngest. Karen, followed by me, followed by my youngest sister, Laura. It was time to begin, and I was about to pee my pants with excitement. Present 1, Christmas stocking cap and scarf. Present 2, a pair of polka dot mittens (that’s correct, mittens, not gloves). Present 3, a robe. Present 4, underwear. This went on and on throughout the morning. We were getting down to the last few presents. I was still holding out hope I’d get something, anything, off my list. Next present, a hard cover copy of the Children’s Bible. Last present, some obscure board game. It appeared another Christmas had come and gone, and Santa (or my parents) had stiffed me once again! My face went flush. I began to cry uncontrollably. My parents had just taken the happiest day in a kid’s life and made it the worst day. I was told not to cry, that Santa brought me everything that I “needed.” It was not about needed! This was the kind of shit you should be buying for your children all along, not saving it up to disguise as Christmas gift. I was devastated. Insult to injury was when you return to school after the break just to hear about all the cool things my fellow classmates received. Brutal. Unfortunately, this would be how Christmas would go every year, far into my teenage years.

*****

It was now the summer of 1971. I had managed to make a few more friends at school. Our interests had now turned to sports. Summer, baseball. Fall, football. Winter, hockey. Spring, basketball. There was no such thing as organized sports back then. You just pulled together the kids in the neighborhood, split up the sides, and played. It was baseball season, and everyone was ready to go. Seeing Santa was good to my friends over the years, they all had the required gear—gloves, bats, hats, etc. Me? I had several pairs of beautiful mittens, forty pairs of underwear, etc. No sports gear of any kind. Seeing I had zero dollars to my name (all birthday and Christmas money I may have gotten is in the bank, there was no such thing as an allowance), I had to ask my mom to please buy me what I needed.

“That’s a boy thing. Go ask your dad.”

“Not Dad! Please, not Dad!”

Let me remind you of two things. My father was a momma’s boy who never played a sport in his life. My father spent zero time with me because he was always too “busy” with work and other activities (from early childhood on, my dad’s favorite pastime was lying on the couch). I asked anyways, and for the next several weeks, I got the standard runaround. My mother picked up on this and decided to take matters into her own hands. Back to Goldblatt’s we go. I didn’t know jack shit about sporting gear. My mom knew even less. As a result, we let price determine our decision.

“What’s the difference? They all do the same thing.”

We picked out a shiny plastic baseball glove, barely larger than my Christmas mittens, and a Cubs hat, most certainly not the official MLB gear. The brim came to a point like a bird’s beak. The C was grossly oversized and the wrong color (purple). We headed home. I put on a pair of flannel pants, a button-down mini-me polo shirt, and my play shoes (Buster Brown loafers). I grabbed my mitt and hat and bolted out the front door to the park. I was so excited I could bust. Upon my arrival, I could see I was most definitely over dressed for the occasion. Of course, everyone was in T-shirts, blue jeans, and gym shoes. After getting my ass handed to me for the next fifteen to twenty minutes (verbally), we finally got around to picking teams. Mind you, I’ve never played a second of baseball in my life. The only exposure I’ve had was watching the Cubs play on WGN-TV. I was told to play third base. I assumed my position. Play ball. The first kid up hit a soft line drive my way. I put my glove up in front of my face in an attempt to catch the ball. The good news was, I was able to catch the ball in my mitt. The bad news was, the ball proceeded to rip through my plastic glove and nail me straight in the eye. The first play of my baseball career and I was not only injured but also my mitt was destroyed. Of course, I was crying like a little schoolgirl. The other kids were laughing their asses off while I sprinted back to my house.

My mother greeted me at the door. “What’s wrong?” I relayed my story as she put ice on my eye. She told me to be a big boy and stop crying. I just got hit straight in my eye with a baseball because of the piece of shit glove she bought me and she wanted me to be a big boy? So much for sympathy from your mother. As I held the ice pack on my eye, my mother went in the other room to track down a shoelace. She took my mangled glove, put it back together with the lace, handed it back to me, and said, “See, good as new. Now get back out there and have some fun.”

Man, I just couldn’t win. I did as I was told. I headed back over. I took my lumps. Midway through the summer, one of my friends gave me a spare glove that he had. I don’t remember who that was. Whoever you were, I love you, man! Fall came, and it was the same story. Back to Goldblatt’s for a Kansas City Chiefs helmet with no padding. Of course, it was on sale. I wore it once, got my ass kicked, and threw it into my closet, never to be seen again. From this point on, I would play full-contact football with no helmet or pads.

Winter brought hockey season, along with a pair of figure skates and an off-brand hockey stick. I refused to ever wear the skates. I chose to play ice hockey in my boots. The stick broke within thirty minutes of use (of course), and I had to rely on the generosity of others once again. I chose to skip basketball entirely because my parents bought me an undersized rubber ball, and I had yet to get a pair of gym shoes. My sports career was off and running.

*****

This is a perfect time to talk about music. Music was a very important thing in the Sorensen house, as long as you were listening to the “appropriate” type of music. My mom was absolutely nuts about jazz—any and all types of jazz. My father was into the big band sound. There was not a day that would go by without either playing on the family turntable. Karen was starting to branch out into the pop music of the day—Helen Reddy, the Carpenters, Herb Alpert. All the above were deemed appropriate and acceptable. Not knowing any better, I accepted this as the norm. At the time, we did not have a radio, so there was no exposure to other types of music that was out there. My parents loved jazz and big band music. My sister liked pop music. I, by default, loved it all. As you can imagine, when this subject came up amongst my friends, I once again fell victim to more physical and verbal abuse. To summarize, I was heading into fourth grade, and I was this skinny, dorky, effeminate, brainwashed little boy. No true father figure. Raised by a mother who knew nothing about raising a boy, choosing to raise (and dress) me like another daughter. To be blunt, I was fucked at this point. I was trapped, and there was no way out. God help me.

*****

The fall of 1971 saw me entering into the fourth grade. A new year meant a new pair of Buddy Holly glasses. At this point, I refused to wear them in school. God knows I’m getting my ass ripped for other issues. I don’t want to give my tormentors anything else to zero in on. The problem was, I couldn’t see the board without them. I didn’t care. I was more worried about survival than I was about my performance in school. Of course, my grades began to suffer. Sister Alodia, my teacher at the time, was sending progress reports home with me for my parents. My parents were supposed to read her comments, sign off, and return with me to school. I knew once my parents saw these reports, I was a dead man. What can I do to circumvent? Now I have to give myself credit for creativity on this one. Hear me out. As I mentioned earlier, my father was an architect. He had velum (tracing) paper in his basement office. I grabbed a piece of that paper, along with a canceled check from the bank (not sure how I tracked that down), and headed up to my room. I laid the paper over my mother’s signature on the check and traced it onto velum. Once that was complete, I took the tracing paper and laid it over the signature area on the progress report. With a ballpoint pen, I pushed down hard on the signature until I was complete. This made a perfect indention on the progress report. I would then remove the tracing paper and fill in the indented area with my pen. Perfect match! I brought it back the next day, and not a word was said. This went on every week until mid-November, during parent-teacher conference time.

We headed on over to the school, my parents totally oblivious of what had been happening over the last several months. We sat down, and Sister Alodia dropped the bomb. “Robert is doing terrible in all his classes. You must take a more active role in his studies. In addition, we think his eyes should be tested. He may need glasses. He appears to be having trouble seeing the board, even from the front row.” (I wonder how I ended up there.)

My parents were shocked and quite pissed off. “Why is this the first we are hearing about this?”

Surprised, Sister Alodia pulled out the stack of signed-off progress reports and handed them to my parents. Busted! My parents told my teacher they had never seen these and that all had been forged. They also informed her that I’d worn glasses since I was a child. A few more pleasantries were exchanged, along with many an apology. We headed home in silence. After a ten-minute spanking session and thirty-minute verbal abuse session, I was sent to my room, the eye hook attached. Other than school and meals, that was where I would stay for the next two weeks. No crying jag, no head banging was going to get you out of this one.

*****

At this point, I need to digress a bit. Over the past summer, I met a new friend in the neighborhood. His name was Stevie. He was a year younger than me, lived five houses to the west of mine, and attended the local public school. He was so different from my other friends. He was nonjudgmental of my appearance, behavior, or tendencies. He, for whatever reason, accepted me for who I was. He was the coolest kid I had ever met in my short life. Little did I know at this point just how much of an impact Stevie would have on my life!