Bruised Fruit Hiding the Truth 7

Bruised Fruit: Hiding the Truth #7

I want to take this opportunity to reflect on my childhood. By all accounts, it was a good one. I never wanted for anything. My parents took good care of me and my sister, and I was fortunate to experience the world in a unique way, thanks to my father's work as a U.S. Diplomat. His 20+ year career introduced me to new cultures and environments from a young age. I gained a world perspective that I cherish to this day.

I was born in Vicenza, Italy. We lived there for two years before moving back to the States, where we settled in Vienna, Virginia, for five years. My sister was born in Germany 14 months prior, in 1973. My father was stationed in Washington, DC, for about five years after that. Then, when I was eight, my father was posted to Ceylon, Sri Lanka, a mysterious, teardrop-shaped island off India's southern coast. The city, now known as Colombo, is located on the southwest Coast of Sri Lanka. Suddenly, we were in an entirely new world. We lived in a sprawling house surrounded by a tall wall, with several emplloyees who took care of the cooking, cleaning, and property maintenance – we even had a guard at our gate. Looking back, I realize I wasn't kind to these people, mostly Tamils, the ethnic minority in Sri Lanka. I didn't understand their culture or struggles at the time, though I would soon see glimpses of it. I would drop these vicious red ants on the gate guard from a balcony above where he sat. I would shoot plastic darts at them. I was a boy and playing, but I didn't realize how mean I was being.

Tamils, who practice Hinduism, have a rich history in Sri Lanka and Southern India. They make up a minority of the population, while the Sinhalese, who primarily practice Buddhism, form the majority. I didn't know any of this when we arrived and certainly didn't foresee how complex and volatile the situation was. That lesson suddenly occurred on July 24, 1983, when I was ten.

I was playing at a friend's house when anti-Tamil riots broke out across Colombo. The city erupted with violence, looting, arson, rape, and even murder. I remember vividly my mother arriving to pick me up from a friend's house, our driver gripping the wheel with a loaded pistol tucked under his seat. We drove through a city gone mad. Shops were being looted and set aflame, and people screamed and ran in all directions. Despite my mother's efforts to keep my head down, I couldn't help but see the chaos. A Sinhalese policeman threw a metal garbage can through a shop window. Smoke filled the air. The fear around us was overwhelming. This day, and the days following, would become known as Black July. It was my first experience with mob violence, and although I likely repressed some of the fear, that day left an impression I likely still carry today.

The Tamil Tigers (formerly known as the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam) had attacked the Sri Lankan Army the day before, killing 13 soldiers and sparking riots the following day. Tens of thousands of Tamils were left homeless, and the death toll ranged from 500 to 3,000. According to the Tamil Centre for Human Rights, the number of Tamils killed that July exceeded 5,000. Black July marked the start of a brutal 26-year civil war between the Sinhalese majority and Tamil minority, a conflict that would claim tens of thousands of lives. We sheltered many family members of those who worked for us in our home during this tumultuous and devastating time. 

India and Sri Lankans live within a system of castes, which is basically social stratification, a hierarchical system that society uses to rank and categorize people. 

In the months that followed, Colombo became a city of roadblocks. Armed soldiers with flashlights searched our car, demanding us to get out at times, while my father, working at the American Embassy, often chose to sleep there rather than risk the drive home. For a ten-year-old, it was a strange and frightening world.

This dichotomy – growing up American yet living in a third-world country – shaped my formative years. My childhood was like a fairytale at times. We vacationed at tea plantations, visited elephant sanctuaries, and stayed at seaside resorts. I encountered animals I had only read about, like monkeys, mongooses, pythons, and cobras. It was in the mid-80s (degrees) for most of the years, with annual monsoons pummeling the lush landscape. The comforts around me certainly spoiled me, and I think that sense of entitlement crept into my character in ways I didn't understand then.

Perhaps it left me feeling a bit spoiled – or bruised.

After four years in Sri Lanka, we moved to West Berlin, where we lived for a little over a year. The Berlin Wall stood then, dividing the city and its people. I vividly remember visiting Checkpoint Charlie and climbing stairs to a platform to peer over the Berlin Wall into East Berlin. There was razor wire along a stretch of ground, and armed guards. When the wall was erected, families were torn apart, lives shattered. 

I struggled to make friends, partly because I didn't speak German. Even at the movies, where I watched American films dubbed into German, I felt out of place. A little over a year later, my father retired, and we moved to Hunter, where we had family and often stayed with my great-aunt on Scribner Hollow Road during what was known as R&R (Rest and Relaxation), a period of time to visit family from wherever diplomats and their families are stationed. It was 1987. I'll always remember that first fall in Hunter, marked by the October '87 blizzard. Small-town living was a shock for a kid used to city life abroad in two different geographical locations. I was held back a grade to match kids my age, and seventh grade was a nightmare. I felt like I didn't fit in and was pushed around a lot. I finally found my place in eighth grade , which eventually brought some friends and more confidence.

That was also the year I smoked my first joint and drank one too many wine coolers at a party. Soon, I'd be hanging out in the woods, drinking beer, and eventually sneaking pills from my parents. Looking back, I'm not even sure why I started to engage in this behavior. Maybe it was peer pressure, or I was trying to fit in. Or perhaps I was just that "rotten kid" who didn't know where he was headed. As I heal, it is crucial not to play the victim - this type of negative thinking, I have learned over the years, serves no purpose. There is a difference between recalling, theorizing, and processing our past and victimizing ourselves.

Over time, that sense of entitlement grew without my realizing it. It was like I only lived for the day, never considering the future. Hindsight is 20/20, they say, and looking back, I can see how clearly that pattern emerged. I started spending time with the wrong crowd, which led me into trouble with the law and through a dark path that put my parents through hell. I experimented with cocaine and heroin and smoked a lot of weed. It would be years before my drug use became a serious problem, but the seeds were planted.

My life seemed to calm down for a while, but addiction is unpredictable. In Narcotics Anonymous, they say your addiction waits for you, doing pushups, biding its time. I didn't realize until my mid-to-late twenties how true that was. My drug use resurfaced, and this time, it didn't let go so quickly.

More on my younger years next time.