In the womb, or just in my room?

Posted: March 20, 2013 in Crime
Tags: , , , , , , ,


I remember seeing the movie “Boy’s Town” when I was a child, with Spencer Tracy as Father Flanagan, and Mickey Rooney as the “super bad boy” he was dealing with (obviously Father Flanagan hadn’t met Jeffrey Dahmer).  What sticks in my mind, to this day, is Father Flanagan’s (Spencer Tracy) belief that there is no such thing as a bad boy.  I would like to believe that, and I think it’s mostly true but, like everything else, I think some people are damaged beyond saving – what I’m not sure about is whether or not there is a moment in time, specific years perhaps, when they could be re-directed to a less turbulent and risky lifestyle.

I don’t believe my brother was damaged beyond saving, not as a child.  He certainly wasn’t evil nor even mean; although, like all older sisters, I did think he was a horrible pest and a spoiled brat who had usurped my position as the youngest in the family and, therefore, should never have been born.  But he was born, and all my thumb sucking couldn’t get rid of him.

There were three of us, my older brother Marty, myself (the middle child…sigh :-), and Frankie was the baby, born four years after me.  We loved each other and fought like many siblings.  I don’t remember any early behavior that pointed toward a future life of crime, at least not until grade school.  He did have an early career as a snitch, but in his adult years, he had no use for that sort of behavior.  He was a bedwetter until high school, though I found this to be criminal only when my mother put me in charge of washing his bedding, at the laundromat no less.  It may have been a sign, however, that something was not quite right.

My first true glimpse of Frankie’s future career choice occurred in my room.  Repeatedly.  Things began to disappear, usually things that had pictures of presidents on them.  I had a piggy bank that I would add to whenever I could, and count maybe once a week, no doubt hoping it had magically doubled.  One day, I realized that the piggy bank now held only pennies.  The more valuable change had disappeared.  I went straight to my mother.

“Frankie is stealing the change from my piggy bank!” I told her.

“Well, how do you know it was Frankie?  Maybe you just mis-counted.”  she replied.  This was typical for my mother.  It wasn’t because she thought the best of everyone, it was really that she preferred to avoid having to deal with a problem.  If Frankie took it, that would mean she would have to do something about it.

“Mom.  Who else would take it?  Marty?”

“Of course not!  Marty would never do anything like that.”  True.  He wouldn’t.  But Frankie?  Well, Frankie had been getting in trouble at school, hanging around with some poor choices for friends, and had even been suspected of involvement with a fire at the school.  He’d been sent to counseling, but because my mother didn’t like anyone to think our family was less than perfect, she didn’t pursue the counseling any further than the school required.

“I suppose it just magically disappeared?  Only the quarters, dimes and nickels are gone.”  I continued.

“Still, you don’t know he took it.”  That was it, discussion over.  She walked away.

If she wouldn’t help me catch him, then I knew I had to do it myself.  Next chance I got, I added more quarters, dimes and nickels.

Once again, they disappeared.  Once again, I told my mother.  Once again, she did nothing.

I began to sleep with my wallet under my pillow.  And Frank now had a theft under his belt that held no consequences.

Is that how it begins?  If my mother had done something about it, or about later incidents that grew in magnitude – would Frank have led a different life?


For a more educational/theoretical look at this topic, take a peek at this blog post by a psychology student

To learn more about Boy’s Town

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