Youth Gone Wild. Robert "Bob" Sorensen
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