The Mindset

by Ace Bowers

  We moved in with my grandmother on my mom’s side—my Nanny. During that time, I remember walking to the mailbox every day after school with my mom, to see if my dad’s unemployment check had arrived. We needed his check to buy groceries, school supplies, and to get our car running again. It was the start of a new school year for me, and I can recall the other kids sporting new clothes, lunchboxes, fancy backpacks, and plenty of school supplies. Meanwhile, I had an old, beat up hand-me-down backpack with a broken zipper from my brother.

  Other students would ask me why I didn't have school supplies or any new clothes, and I remember telling them that my parents were just too busy to go to the store. Of course, I knew the real reason: we couldn't afford anything. We didn't even have a car to go to the store. During this one-to-two month period, I would pray at night that my dad's unemployment check would come. When I was at school, I would convince myself that today would be the day it’d be in the mailbox when I came home. Raising my hopes, walking to the mailbox, and not seeing his check let me down in ways I can’t explain. The unending disappointments of my situation deeply affected my outlook in life, and engraved in me a glass half-empty viewpoint that lingered throughout my childhood and a few years into my adulthood.

  After a few months, when the check finally did arrive, my mom and I rushed to the bank so she could cash it. But we didn't have enough money in our bank account, and the bank would not cash his check. They would only deposit it with a 48-hour hold, with no exceptions because my parents had overdrawn too many times. I could see my mom's desperation as she quietly asked for the manager, not wanting to cause a scene. As the manager approached the counter, I could feel all eyes on us and the other bank patrons staring. He had a very matter-of-fact attitude and abruptly said, “Sorry ma'am, it’s our policy. Have a nice day.” This proved too much for my mom, who immediately started crying and sank to her knees right there on the bank floor.

  Now, looking back, I realize how much she was relying on that check to pay bills that were already past due, but all I could do as a ten-year old boy was watch the scene unfold in front of me. This event served as a glimpse into my life, a preview of things to come, and it would affect me in ways I wasn’t prepared for. I’ll never forget the sinking feeling of dread and embarrassment that I felt, as the other patrons stared at us like we were beneath them—like we were garbage. It was in this very moment, I learned that people treat you differently based on how much money you had or did not have. Even to this day, no matter how wealthy I am, I don’t like to go inside banks. In my mind, people who work at banks will always be “those people” who made me feel all of that shame as a young boy.

  Shortly before starting 7th grade, we moved to Cupertino because my parents had found a house to rent. My dad had made an agreement—a barter—with the landlord: instead of calling the landlord for any repairs, my dad would take care of everything himself. Here I was in a new town, a new school, and I didn't know anyone. To give you some perspective, Cupertino is one of the wealthiest cities in America and serves as Apple’s headquarters. The average income in this suburb is well above six figures, and the average education level for the parents of my “soon-to-be friends” was a graduate degree. My dad, on the other hand, had a blue-collar machinist job and learned his trade in the Navy. My mom had been a housewife ever since my brother was born on the Navy base when she was just seventeen. Unfortunately, kids in junior high are savvy enough to notice if another student is poor or not.

  No matter where I lived or went to school, I was the poorest kid. It was protocol to always have an excuse ready any time a friend asked a personal question, and my friends regularly tried to break down or peek behind the protective wall I had built around myself to hide my personal life. There were always questions about my parents, how much my dad earned, and why our car was a twenty-year-old piece of crap minivan. Their parents drove new, high-end cars like BMWs or Mercedes-Benz.

  I remember constantly begging my mom to drop me off a few blocks away from school because I was too ashamed of our family car, and didn't want to explain it to my friends. One day, it was pouring rain and my mom insisted on dropping me off right in front of school. I was a nervous wreck. What if my friends saw me? What if the girl I had a crush on saw me? I felt so anxious but she insisted, so I slouched down in the seat as far as I could when she approached the front of the school. As she pulled over to let me out, the car made a funny noise. I looked at my mom with dread in my eyes because I knew exactly what had just happened: the car was dead. It wouldn't start. I couldn't believe this was happening right in front of my school. I jumped out and could only hope that no one had recognized our car or my mother waiting for my dad to pick her up as I sprinted to class. I had an excuse at the ready and remained suspended, with baited breath, just in case any questions arose.

  There were a lot of things in my life that I was constantly trying to hide from everyone else. At this age, kids are supposed to be carefree and learn how to live a happy life. Meanwhile, my top priority was to protect myself from possible ridicule, and to prevent anyone from coming close enough to see my real life. I couldn’t let anyone know we rented a house, or that my parents never went to college, or that my own brother was in jail. I didn’t want anyone to see that our family was barely scraping by. I surely didn’t want anyone to know about my parents’ drinking, and I never wanted anyone to see or hear them fight.

  Let me shed some light on the tumultuous environment I’m talking about: both of my parents abused alcohol. This created an atmosphere of dysfunction where they fought constantly. These were not arguments, they were full-blown fights, and they happened every single night. It wasn’t so bad when I had my sister there with me, but once she left for college, I was alone to weather their fights.

  I was the chubby kid who used humor to deflect, and a smile to hide my real pain. Back then, no one would think to correlate childhood trauma with depression, but it’s clear that I began battling depression at this age. The instability, turbulent environment, state of constant worry, and fear created an everlasting feeling of uncertainty that made me into an emotional mess. This damaging environment began to sow the seeds of resentment towards my parents. I think there came a point when they dealt with so much financially and emotionally, that they stopped attempting to shelter me from these things altogether.

  I felt cheated, robbed, and betrayed. I believed I was inferior, like I was lacking something, and I was always ashamed. Was this my problem? Was I being too hard on my family? Looking back, I had a roof over my head and food to eat, but I lived in despair. Maybe if my parents hadn’t fought so much and hadn’t drunk so much, I wouldn’t feel this way today. Yet whenever I dwell on positive recollections of my childhood, I quickly realize that all the memories that should’ve been positive were always overshadowed by negative ones.

  When I was around nine years old, we took a road trip to Los Angeles for a family reunion, and my dad knew that one of my childhood dreams was to visit Disneyland and stay in the Disneyland Hotel. Hotel guests could see all the rides from their room window. They had special access to the park and didn’t have to waste time parking and walking. Just like Ralphie’s desire to have a Red Ryder BB gun in A Christmas Story, the Disneyland Hotel offered a first-class experience that, for once in my life as a kid, I wanted a taste of. Of course, my dad told me that we probably couldn’t afford to stay at the Disneyland Hotel; we would stay at the Motel 6 instead. Really, I was just grateful that I would go to the Happiest Place on Earth.

  We arrived in Los Angeles for what should have been a weekend full of fun and happy memories for our family. On our first night, everyone was in the lobby of the hotel my aunt Cindi had booked a room at. It was higher-end lodging and certainly better than our motel. My parents had been drinking at the hotel bar and were fighting (as usual). My mom started yelling and crying, right there in that fancy hotel lobby, and I knew things had escalated to a breaking point when hotel security arrived. My aunt rushed my sister
and me, along with her own kids, up to her room. After that, it’s difficult to remember what happened, because all I could see was my mom sitting on the floor, her shoes in her hands.

  I caught a glimpse of her from inside the elevator as the doors slid shut, and I thought to myself, this is my life. I didn’t see my parents again until the following morning when we drove back home. They had ended the trip early. Needless to say, there would be no Disneyland for me this time. Fighting, disappointment, and embarrassment seemed to be a recurring theme all throughout my childhood. Every single time I would get my hopes up for something—for just a glimpse of a normal life—my parents would let me down once again. At that time, Disneyland was absolutely not the happiest place on earth.

  In addition to my aunt, Nanny helped us out a lot. I never told my parents this, but the way I found out about Santa Claus was because one night, I overheard my dad asking Nanny if he could borrow some money from her to buy Christmas presents for me and my sister. In fact, on several occasions, I overheard him call and ask her or my aunt for rent money. As an adult and a father, I can only imagine how hard that was for him to do, having to swallow his pride and call his mother-in-law or his little sister to ask for rent money.

  My parents never knew how to budget money (so it comes as no surprise that I couldn’t figure it out for some time either). They always lived paycheck to paycheck. I would go with my dad on payday to cash his check at the liquor store, but instead of saving money he would waste it on chewing tobacco, cigarettes, and beer. Every week, without fail, he purchased these items, and I thought it was normal. I thought these were staples in everyone’s household.

  One of the most difficult questions for me to deflect, especially in high school, was why I never invited anyone over to my house. In high school, I always had friends and would often go over to their homes, but I never wanted to invite anyone over to mine. Their families would have me over for dinner, take me with them to the movies, and invite me to experience the typical things teenagers did. I could never reciprocate that.

  One day in high school, I knew my parents weren't going to be home so I convinced myself that today, I could invite my three closest friends over after school. I went home early from school to make sure the house was clean and nothing embarrassing was sitting out—there could be no overdue bills visible on the counter and no ashtrays full of cigarette butts on the table. I was convinced that everything would be okay. I was wrong.

  After about an hour into us three playing video games in the living room, our power was shut off because my parents hadn’t been able to afford the bill. I knew immediately what had happened because this was in no way a rare occurrence. I knew my friends (having come from a more pampered lifestyle) probably didn't know what was going on right away, but I was already coming up with excuses just in case anyone asked questions: we had just switched cable companies. The neighbors were remodeling and must have cut the power line. Anything to hide the truth.

  Growing up, my life consisted of three elements: my brother moving in and out of jail; my parents constantly fighting; and myself, living in fear that my friends would find out the truth about my life. All of this left me depressed and anxiety-ridden. Like a carousel, it was a cycle that went around and around, over and over every day without end. I operated in a constant state of fear as to what would happen next.

  When I was about ten years old, my parents’ fighting grew much worse and would remain so the entire time I lived with them. Keep in mind that my parents were high school sweethearts, married before my dad was drafted into the Navy. My mom had been only seventeen when she gave birth to my brother. Considering that she didn’t work, and that they lived off my dad’s meager earnings, I can appreciate that times were difficult for them. Now skip ahead to the years when my brother began going to jail. He started with petty crimes like drug possession and stealing, but as he got older, he graduated to selling drugs, becoming involved in gangs, possessing weapons, and drunk driving. Whatever money my parents had went directly to helping him, but it was never enough. I know this added pressure to an already fraught situation. Tensions mounted and mounted for years, and when I was ten, it hit a boiling point. I wouldn’t move out of my parents’ house until I was twenty years old, so the next ten years would be hell.

  The fights were a nightly occurrence, like clockwork. During the day, my dad was usually at work and my mom stayed home cooking and cleaning. My mom is a very soft and gentle woman, very much the typical loving housewife and mother. But there existed a dark side, an unrecognizable side to her that came out when she drank. She was angry, vengeful and a totally different woman and unfortunately, she drank every night. Maybe it was her way of dealing with the daily stress of being broke, or maybe she let her buried resentment spill out when she was in a loose state of mind, but as soon as the sun went down and she began to drink, her alter ego came out and it never held back. Now, when my dad drinks, he is more even-keeled. Alcohol doesn’t turn him into an angry drunk; he is the same person with the same temperament as when he is sober. He remains calm, relaxed, and pretty easygoing. This is probably why he allowed my mom to get away with abusing him.

  As a kid, I learned to watch for certain patterns and behaviors that my parents would display to identify the signs that a fight was about to begin. My mom was always the instigator: as soon as she started drinking, she became increasingly passive aggressive and would do things very loudly, like clanking the dishes or stomping her feet as she walked by, persisting in doing these little things to irritate my dad. She would burn vanilla-scented candles or incense in the house, because she knew my dad hated the smell (to this day, I cannot stand the smell of vanilla because it brings back those memories). She’d make snide comments to my dad and do her best to try and agitate him. If he took the bait, she would explode, but if he didn't, she would keep at it until he was pushed to the limits. It was like watching someone pick at a scab so hard, it bled. It was cruel, and unrelenting.

  Mom always tried to hide her drinking from me and my sister. She’d drink from a tumbler, one of those coffee mugs with a closed lid, so we couldn't see its contents. But we knew, just like how we knew that the sunglasses she wore indoors were to hide her bloodshot eyes, or how she would smoke cigarettes in the house when she was intoxicated. When she was sober, she always smoked outside or in the garage.

  Every night as I fell asleep, I would listen to my parents fighting through the air vent in my bedroom—to this day, at home or at work, if I hear muffled voices through an air vent, I am transported back to that terrible place. These fights were unbearably disturbing for me to observe throughout my childhood. I saw my mother slap my father, hit him and throw things at him; thankfully I never once saw him hit her back. He mostly just tried to restrain her. She would often lock herself in the bathroom with a knife and threaten to kill herself. I developed an unfortunate habit, courtesy of my mom’s multiple threats to harm herself, where I learned to instinctively check the cutlery block for missing knives when I came home from school. One night, she tried to kill herself by overdosing on my sister’s medication. My dad called 911 and the police came and took her away. They put her on suicide watch. I will always remember standing in the driveway, watching the police car drive away with her in the back seat. The kind of impact this had on me as a young boy was detrimental. I’m an adult now, and even as I relive the things I went through, it doesn’t get easier.

  I was always very careful not to allow any friends over to my house at night—and for good reason. I still remember the worst fight. One of my best friends in 6th grade was named Jordan. Jordan was the only child of wealthy parents. I was always at his house and slept over most Friday or Saturday nights. I loved the feeling at his house—it was so peaceful and happy. I had nothing to worry about in this carefree environment, unlike my own home. Eventually, he asked me why I never invited him to spend the night at my house. I knew the reason but I couldn't tell him why. I made up excuses instead: My sister gets up very ea
rly and she might wake us up. My sister always has friends over and they hog the TV. But I knew it hurt his feelings that I never had him sleep over at my house.

  So, I finally decided I needed to have him spend the night, at least once. I settled on a Saturday in the summertime, and I watched my parents closely all day looking for warning signs. As the afternoon progressed and the sun went down, I felt like tonight may be one of those rare nights when all would be alright. Convinced the coast was clear for a smooth evening, I picked up the phone at around 5 p.m. and called Jordan to invite him for a sleepover. I hung up the phone and thought, “Well, there's no turning back now!”

  It turns out that I had misread the signs all wrong that day: it was the calm before the storm. That night would wind up being the worst night of my childhood. About an hour after the call, Jordan’s mother dropped him off in front of my house. I hung out with Jordan while simultaneously keeping one eye and ear on my parents and the general mood of the house. Night had fallen and I was a nervous wreck, anxiously waiting on pins and needles to see how the evening would unfold.

  Let me set the scene for you. My brother had been out of jail for a few weeks and was living on our couch. He was in the family room, playing video games and drinking. My sister, a high school senior at the time, was also home and in her room. My dad had been unemployed for a few months after being laid off from his last job due to budget cuts, and was drinking heavily to cope. My mom was acting… well, like my mom. They were both in their bedroom drinking and watching TV. Jordan and I were in my bedroom being kids. Then, out of nowhere, a loud crash resounded through the house and I jumped out of my skin. I panicked and tried to rationalize the bang. It was anything other than fighting—it had to be. Soon after, muffled voices resonated through the air vent in my bedroom. I knew trouble was coming, but what could I do?