Youth Gone Wild. Robert "Bob" Sorensen
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