chapter seven - on my own
My parents were emotionally abusive. My step-mother called me “the scum of the earth”, and in a household where the budget was perpetually tight I was the only child to have his own room. It was a tiny room carved out of one end of the family room specifically for me, so that I could be separated from and wouldn’t “contaminate the others”. She told me that I should consider myself lucky that she and my father housed me and fed me. They would both make subtle digs at us and openly make fun of us, but this was a specialty of my father. They were two of the most judgemental people you would ever want to meet, and constantly criticized our relatives and other assorted people.
By the age of ten I was doing chores, as were all of my siblings. We had our regular assignments as well as our “Saturday work”, and there were always additional, periodic tasks like mowing the lawn and cleaning out the garage. There is nothing wrong with any of that, in my opinion. The point is that we each earned a small allowance as a result of our contribution to the upkeep of the household and the smooth functioning of the family. As an aside, I might add that my father did nothing around the house, and my step-mother did the laundry, shopping and cooking while incessantly complaining about all of the work she had to do. Funny thing, though: she wouldn’t let anyone else do it. The shopping probably would have had to remain on her duty list, but she claimed that she was afraid if she let us wash the clothes we might break the washer. I’m not sure how we could have worked the dishwasher, lawn mower, stove and other devices, but couldn’t be trusted with the washer. I started cooking every now and then as soon as I got to an age where she would let me. I used the excuse that I wanted to experiment with foods that she didn’t know how to cook, and my lasagna was a big hit within the family. That was partly true, because she was not a very creative or interesting cook, but it was also in hopes of shutting her up a bit. But I digress here.
My older brother Jack and I had our allowances taken away at the age of twelve and eleven, respectively. This was done not because we were deficient in the performance of our chores. That would have been impossible, as my step-mother carefully inspected all of our work and we couldn’t do anything else until we completed them to her satisfaction; and she was a demanding task-master. To this day I am appreciative of that, because even though I do not like to do domestic chores, I know how to do them and can perform them in such a manner that it would pass the toughest review. Rather, we were deemed unworthy based on our personalities – for lack of a better way to say it. They never again gave either of us another penny – literally – except when they were giving all of us kids hot lunch money for school.
My step-mother would manage the church rummage sale every year, partly so that we could get first pick of the best clothes, and Jack and I would get to see what clothes we might like, just like the rest of my siblings. We got a few new school clothes and some school supplies at the beginning of the academic year, just like the rest of my siblings, but we would get only what my step-mother deemed absolutely necessary. I imagine that we got a present on our birthdays, just like the rest of my siblings, although there would not have been money for much for such extravagances for any of us and it would have been something that we felt we needed anyway. We would get presents at Christmas, too, just like the rest of my siblings, but ours would be fewer and again it was something they decided that they had to buy for us regardless. Beyond these occasions and these items, they never again offered either one of us any financial support.
Shortly thereafter, Jack secured a paper route. It was a small-town weekly newspaper and was distributed door-to-door on a “pay what you wish” basis. I was too young to get a paper route, so he got two and gave me one. I paid for all of my clothes, except the few mandatory items I got at the start of school, my birthday and Christmas. I bought myself my first watch, my first camera, my first adult bicycle – and the second ones and third ones, as the case may be. I paid for my own school pictures, and have them to this day. I would give my parents a few copies to pass along to relatives, and I kept the rest. I would have destroyed them rather than hand them over to them, after paying for them with my hard-earned money, and I still have them to this day. I paid for my high school ring, my own prom. You name it, I paid for it. To a great degree, I became financially independent at the age of eleven.
