If there’s a defining theme of my childhood, it’s probably head trauma.
I don’t mean this to sound dramatic, as I certainly had a pretty good childhood. I wasn’t knocked around by my parents or beaten up by street gangs or anything (though I was robbed several times, just to indicate how far Jersey City has come over the decades). No, these head traumas were mostly the result of living life the way a sugar-amped kid in a hardscape urban environment might live it.
The first occurred in the summer when I was, I dunno, nine or ten or something. I can’t say precisely. Back in the day, every summer the superintendent in the apartment building across the street from my house would get the adapter from the fire department and open up the hydrant next to my house for all the kids to cool off. It would be an instant block party, with everyone racing outside in our swimming suits and running around; I can still remember the feel of wet pavement, still warm from the baking sun, and the shock of cold water.
I can also still remember the sight of some big, fat red-haired kid I’d never seen before barreling down on me. He just ran straight into me and sent me sailing, and I cracked my head against the curb. Next thing I knew, I was being promised unlimited ice cream while being driven to the emergency room. That’s my main take-away: I was promised endless ice cream once we got to the ER, where I was diagnosed with a mild concussion and—spoiler alert—there was no ice cream to be had.
The second was some time afterwards, I think. My brother, Yan, and I, who had a typical murdery sibling relationship, were wrestling in the living room when Yan used a portion of his Hulk strength to send me flying across the room, and I cracked my delicate head against a chair. Another trip to the ER, another mild concussion. And again, no ice cream.
Yan also inflicted another head trauma to me, although this one was more stabby than concussion-y; we were raking leaves in the backyard and I was unleashing a steady stream of verbal abuse on my poor older brother, who finally snapped and hit me in the head with a landscaping tool, drawing blood.
Yes, it’s amazing I’m still alive. I got my revenge a while later by tricking Yan into sitting on a pencil. While the outcome of this is likely not as awful as you’re imagining, it was … fairly awful.
Violent Delights Have Violent Ends
Now, the consequences of my multiple head traumas may be nothing, or it might be everything. You see, when I was smol, I have distinct memories of being somewhat athletic and hyperactive. In fact, there was a time when I was the undisputed racing champion of my neighborhood—I took on all comers in footraces and beat them all.
Then, in adolescence, I was suddenly pudgy and bespectacled and playing a lot of Dungeons & Dragons. In-between those two points in time were my head traumas.
Of course, plenty of people change as they get older, without concussions to explain the natural process of evolving as a person. The fact that I started writing after the head traumas is likely coincidence, of course. Or it isn’t. The main difference between the two scenarios is chiefly how well they will play when someone wants to make a biopic about my life someday. I suspect the whole ‘knocked on the head and became a writer’ will play better. And explain much more.