Evil Begins with Candy Land

At what point in a life does one develop the capacity for evil? Or maybe not evil so much, but at least the capacity for doing something that you know to be wrong, but you really don't care. We are all born selfish, simply on an evolutionary level, because we had to be to survive. Of course, we are all born with the capacity for love, sympathy and cooperation, again purely for survival. But at what point do we consciously learn to channel those attributes to gain an edge over the competition? For me anyway, it was around the age of 4.

This is when I figured out, of my own volition, that I could subtly mark cards and stack the deck in order to win at Candy Land. No one suspected me, I was unstoppable and mad with power. Eventually my mom caught onto me and told me I was cheating. So, it was that day that I learned what I was doing had a title, but other than that, I failed to see how it was a problem.

I further honed my cheating skills by mercilessly beating my elderly neighbor at UNO. Little did she know I could see the reflection of her cards in her giant trifocals. I was on a power trip of Kim Jong Il proportions. I was a good kid with good grades, the rules of the world didn’t actually apply to me. Rules were created to keep the “others” in line. I felt a kinship with the rulemakers, the teachers, the grownups. I imagined we had kind of a secret society relationship. A nod-in-hallway type camaraderie.

I don’t think that cheating at Candy Land or UNO actually made me any different than any other kid, but it was the way I went about it and how good I was at it that makes me a little worried about my capacity for sociopathic tendencies. That and this little stunt that I pulled in first grade: the neighbor girls were a year older and a year younger than me. They had some doll toys that I felt were very important for me to have. Namely a small baby bottle that had pretend milk in it that disappeared when you turned it up (amazing!) and a pink and white rattle. Rather than steal them, demand they give them to me or beg my parents to buy them like most first graders, I decided to hold a birthday party for my stuffed cat instead.

It’s not that my stuffed cat was that important to me, but this particular stuffed cat was a baby cat. No, not a kitten. A cat-baby with a diaper, a pacifier and a bib. What this cat lacked was a bottle with magical disappearing liquid and a sweet-ass pink rattle.

How could I market this so it was a win-win situation? A birthday bash for said cat was the perfect solution. Everyone wins, especially me! I created birthday invitations with a hand drawn picture of the cat in question. Inside I wrote the time and location of the party (tomorrow afternoon, my bedroom) and just a general list of what the cat might like for a present, just something little, maybe a bottle or a rattle or something, nothing major.

My mom helped me make Kool-Aid and we had some Little Debbie snacks for treats. The girls came over at the proper time clutching small presents. We adjourned to the party suite. The stuffed cat was very excited to receive such thoughtful presents, namely one magic bottle and one rattle. The cat displayed the proper amount of enthusiasm and gratitude and a wonderful time was had by all. My diabolical scheme had been successful.

Subsequently I bent the rules on many occasions and never once got called on it. I plagiarized reports, made up books and authors for a bibliography, even going so far as to make up fake Library of Congress numbers. That scored me another A in 5th grade.

I am the worst kind of person. A terrible person wearing the face of a completely normal one. If you fully acknowledge the awful facets of your personality, does that make them ok? I’m inclined to think it does not. It’s like those heinous bumper stickers that fill me with rage, you know the ones “100% Bitch” or “I’m not a bitch, I’m THE bitch” etc. If you are fully accepting that you are a difficult person, that doesn’t necessarily make that behavior fully acceptable. I fully acknowledge that I’m a snarky, pretentious and judgmental know it all, but I don’t expect other people to think it’s ok and I sure as hell don’t welcome those traits in others (which is awful, I know) It’s ok for me of course, but not for anyone else.

Can you ever really know another person? I don’t think so.

Differences Between Elvis and Me

Elvis once said, "I never thought I'd be anybody important." I, on the other hand, had no doubt that I would grow up to be a big deal. I had no reasons for these delusions of grandeur. I was not an attractive child, had no talent for music or sports, lacked basic social skills and wasn't a genius by any stretch of the imagination. What I did have going for me was an encyclopedic knowledge of television, movies and books, year-round allergies, scoliosis and bifocal glasses in the classic style of Sally Jessy Raphael, all by the age of 10. Houston, we have a nerd.

I always felt an unnecessary superiority to others, even in pre-school. The silly games and songs were always beneath me, as were the dummies that I was forced to sit with and nap next to. I was offended by Red Rover and children's menus.

I was told I'd be taller

When I was in Kindergarten I was the "tallest girl." Labels and categories are very, very important to a kindergartner. When you don't really understand life yet, everything is black and white, good guy and bad guy, Ken and Barbie, right and wrong. Anyone who has ever been around a kindergarten-age child will tell you there is no such thing as subtlety, sarcasm or gray areas for this age group.
In the hierarchy of Kindergarten there was the oldest, the youngest, the tallest, the shortest, the loudest, the quietest, etc. Being the tallest girl was a BIG DEAL, pretty much VIP-level stuff.
It became even a bigger deal at our Kindergarten graduation in the spring of 1987. My hair was freshly crimped, my gray and neon green sweater dress was clean and my cable-knit tights were not yet bunching around my knees. I had my pink, construction paper graduation cap with the "Class of 2000" tassel (this is also when it first occurred to me that I would graduate in 2000, another REALLY BIG DEAL since obviously I'd attend high school on the moon and drive there in my flying car--natch!). As our class stood up to sing "Down By the Bay," I scanned the crowd for my parents and grandparents. I found my grandpa videotaping me with his giant (and super modern) camcorder. As soon as the pomp and circumstance had died down my grandparents rushed over with flowers to congratulate my stellar achievements. "You're the tallest girl!" my grandma gushed. I humbly acknowledged this fact. "She'll grow up to be a basketball player," my grandpa exclaimed, "lots of colleges will want her!" "Or a model!" my grandma predicted. Yes, yes, the world was my oyster, I'd be a basketball playing model, accepting positions at top colleges on the moon. But soon the glory faded and by the time the leaves began to change and I became a card-carrying first grader--to my horror I discovered I no longer wore the coveted "tallest girl" crown. How could this be? I was somewhere in the middle. I was mediocre. No longer special. This was bullshit! Not only was this bullshit, this was only the first of many times I was told I'd be something that I didn't turn out to be.
Looking back now, with all the fluff my head was filled with by family members, I should be a 6 foot blonde model, who went to college on an athletic scholarship and eventually cure cancer. They failed to tell me that blonde hair turns mousy, skinny bodies turn curvy, school gets harder and just because you get good grades, doesn't mean you're smart.
I didn't go to high school on the moon, I was a completely inept at basketball and never again did I don the crown of tallest girl. If 6 year old me saw adult me's statistics on paper, she would have dubbed me a complete failure. But then again 6 year olds don't appreciate gray areas and life is pretty much a total gray area.