— What is it with her?
— She’s such a pickywitch.
— Snobbery, plain and simple, that’s the way with these people.
I’ve been to The Sausage Folk. They make hot dogs there. I went there with my mom one time to visit Gunna and Salla. It smelled very strange and everyone was wearing white aprons, white shoes, and hats.
On the way home, I tried to give Mom the slip and go down to the beach. I was too little to go on my own. Mom noticed what I was up to and held onto the hood of my coat so I couldn’t run off.
Every time before we would go into town, Mom would talk to me and tell me that I had to act calmly. Every time, I promised. But then I would forget myself. There were so many things I just had to see. Sometimes I saw weird people I wanted to go and talk to.
It was fun to go into town and run. Mom would run after me. It was like being in a chase. And it was incredibly exciting to run away and hide and make Mom look for me.
Once, I hid myself under a car. Mom was right next to me and called for me. It was incredibly exciting. She saw me, though, when the car drove off. I was so scared I started crying and my mom saw where I was lying, weeping on the road. She became very angry. She was angry because she was scared and I had nearly been seriously hurt.
She was often angry…but weren’t we just playing?
She also often took me on the bus. I had to sit next to her by the window. Mom wanted me to spend more time watching what was going on outside, but I was thinking about things that were going on inside the bus. I imagined I was an Indian who was headed to prison. And when my mom wasn’t looking, I’d climb over the seat and make for the back of the bus. Sometimes, I’d run off the bus when it was at a stop, somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. I’d hide myself, and wait for Mom to find me. And sometimes I was in the same place for a long, long time. Indians are good at waiting and hiding. Sometimes, though, Mom didn’t come and I didn’t hear her calling for me. I’d realize I didn’t know where I was, and I would get scared and start crying and call for my mom. Usually some people I didn’t know would come and try to help me. Then Mom would come. She was pretty much always upset.
I wasn’t allowed to talk on the bus. Not to my mother, and not to strangers. And I had to promise not to before we got on the bus.
— You’ll sit still and be quiet, understand?
— Yes.
But then I just had to talk.
— Mom? What sort of house is that? Look, look, Mom, an ambulance! Perhaps Grandma is dead! Should we go and check?
Mom didn’t answer; she shushed me. I’d try talking to other people. I wanted to know people’s names, where they lived, what their favorite food was. Mom called it chatter.
— You shouldn’t chatter at people like this.
Sometimes I’d tell people about myself, what my name is, where I live and how old I am. I’m not rude to anyone. Except to people who looked annoying or who were rude. I was sometimes rude in response.
— Do you screw a lot?
That gets people worked up. It’s hilarious.
But my mom would get mad at me. I thought that was really unfair. I felt she should be mad at the people who were being rude to a little boy. Rude people shouldn’t be allowed to go into town or on the bus. They should stay at home, in pajamas, until they promise to stop being rude.
The doctor said I couldn’t suggest this kind of thing to Mom.
— Do you realize that it makes your mother sick and tired if you keep suddenly running away from her?
— We’re just playing.
— Don’t you have friends to play with?
— I’m an Indian. I’m in a tribe of Indians.
The doctor told Mom to punish me for being naughty by making me go to bed. And the next time we went to town, she reminded me about that.
— Don’t run away from me and don’t chatter at people you see. Promise?
— Yes.
— And you have to sit next to me on the bus and be well-behaved and calm.
— Yes.
— If you start being naughty, we’ll go home and you’ll go straight to bed and you won’t get to watch TV.
The main challenge is that boy has been difficult for a long time, and has been growing more and more so, since he was about 2½ years old. He has become vehement in all respects, unbridled in both his delight and his misery, inconsiderate and demanding, out of control and confused; this is true both when he is outside his home, for example on the bus or in a shop, and also at times when guests come to his home. He is alienated from other children and can be really coarse in his language.
(National Hospital, Psychiatric Ward,
Children’s Hospital Trust, 02/04/1972)
I watch a lot of TV. I watch Bonanza and The Latest. I also watch Our Hour.
Dad watches the news. From time to time, he watches talk shows. I’m not allowed to bother him then. But often I have to ask him about something before I forget.
Sometimes, Dad comes home from work and starts watching the news right away. It’s possible I haven’t seen him for days. And perhaps I have something especially interesting that I simply must tell him. So I sneak up to him and try to whisper it. He doesn’t even look at me, just stares at the news. If I speak more loudly, he raises the volume on the TV, and then I have to shout so he can hear me.
- “THE SUPREME COURT IN STUTTGART YESTERDAY SENTENCED THE TERRORISTS ANDREAS BAADER AND GUDRUN ENSSLIN FOR THEIR PURSUIT OF TERRORIST ACTIVITIES…”
— Dad!
- “THE RED BRIGADES ARE…”
— DAD!
He doesn’t look at me. Sometimes I try to turn his face from the TV so it faces me. Then he gets irritated and pushes me away.
— Mom! Take the kid.
Then Mom comes to fetch me and take me away.
— You mustn’t bother your dad when he’s watching TV.
— But I was just telling him…
— You mustn’t bother him.
— Can’t I ask him just one thing?
— No.
I never really see my dad. He works so much. He leaves early in the morning and comes home late at night. Then he flops down and watches the news on TV or listens to it on the radio in the kitchen.
I’m not allowed to disturb him then. I’m not allowed to disturb him, either, when he’s working on something around the home. I get in his way and he becomes exasperated.
— Don’t touch that. Leave it be! It’s dangerous!
— What is it?
— Leave it be.
~ ~ ~
The father is dark haired, broad-shouldered, of medium height. He appears fairly warm, a man of conviction; like his wife, however, he has considerable difficulty expressing himself. He downplays the boy’s problems; what’s more, he says that he isn’t as aware of them as his wife is, and he was able to maintain that this visit was less a concern to him than to his wife.
(National Hospital, Psychiatric Ward,
Children’s Hospital Trust, 08/02/1972)
That summer, Dad goes out to the country and I’m not allowed to go with him. When he comes back he has pictures of himself and all these people I don’t know. It’s good weather, sunny and really nice. Everyone is always happy. Sometimes, the people in the pictures are messing around with each other and laughing, their mouths open. In some of the pictures my dad is holding some small boys. The boys are friendly towards him and call him Grandpa. Dad evidently feels very fond of these boys.