When I was fourteen years old, my family made the decision to move out of the city because of the violence in the city schools. We moved to Woodbury. Most people were welcoming, but I did encounter some who weren’t so happy to have diversity in their suburb.

I was a problem student in grade school and junior high for many reasons, but mainly because I only wanted to read and write. That’s all I wanted to do. I wrote stories and read books every single day, in school and out. I skipped classes sometimes. There were fights. I was opinionated, but that’s not the point.

In the suburbs, 9th grade was still junior high school, so thankfully, I had my brother in 7th grade with me. Irish twins, you know. The other two were in grade school with their own issues. But my brother, who has much darker skin than myself, would meet up after every class. Kind of in solidarity, kind of because my mother told me to take care of him.

People were afraid of us. We were dark, Jewish, our hair was all kinds of colors and we dressed like hippies. We weren’t used to normal school, we were used to having bottles being broken over our heads, so we may have been a little defensive. I made friends right away with the “alternative crowd” and some “nerds” because I’m a nerd myself. If anyone was up to talk philosophy or science, I was interested. I’m also made friends with outcasts, misfits, people of color and later on, the jocks and cheerleaders- who were actually really nice. It was a shame that I believed in stereotypes back then.

Anyways, there was this one kid, Adam. He was tall, scrawny and pale as a ghost. He always wore black and I didn’t pay much attention to him at all until one day…he stopped me in the hallway between classes and SPAT on me! Called me a “dirty Jew”!

I could not have been more shocked. I had never interacted with this guy. How did he even know I was Jewish?? I was with a friend and we went straight to the bathroom and I scrubbed my skin like it was infected. That’s how I felt. Infected. Intruded upon. Assaulted. And I was angry.

A few weeks later, I was in an “in school detention group” with him. He was sitting right across the table from me. Like 3 feet away. All 6 foot plus of him. I was simmering angry and objected to being placed in a room with this beast but they wouldn’t let me out. So…I jumped across the table and beat the shit out of him. They had to pull me off of him kicking and screaming all the way to the principals office. Where I was suspended for my behavior.

A year or so later, I had discovered marijuana. And I was in a group of people including this guy. The other people there were like “um, do you remember who this is?” I said “yes” and they said “we can ask him to leave”. I said “no, people make mistakes, whatever. Pass him the bowl I packed with weed”. There was this weird hush. But truly, I did not care anymore what he did to me. I beat him up, it was over. I had no further issues with him.

20 years later, my best friend in junior high (who is a black man) said to me “hey guess who I saw mopping the halls of some school the other day?! ADAM!! HAHAHA! Isn’t that great?!” I said “why should that be great that he’s a janitor? Why should I hold a grudge for 20 years? Why would you even bring it up like that? That’s sad or if that’s what he wants to be doing, good for him”.

I couldn’t and still don’t understand why my friend was so taken aback by my response. Why is forgiveness so difficult?

A few months after I gave birth to my daughter, I met another murderer. Not on purpose, of course. It was summer, and I was standing outside my car smoking a cigarette outside the corner store. You see, I have been on and off smoking for years now. I go for as long as I can to stop and then eventually give in. Sometimes it takes a few days, sometimes a few months, but I’ve yet to quit for good. Anyways, the point of that is that I couldn’t wait to have a cigarette in a better place than a shady parking lot in the questionable part of town.  

As I was smoking and scrolling through my phone, I saw a tall male approaching from all the way across the street from the parking lot. He must have been a couple hundred yards away, but he was looking right at me and I said to myself, “Here comes trouble”. And I was right, he was headed straight towards me. I watched him with curiosity as he made his trek sauntering across the street towards me. He walked right up to me and asked if I had a lighter. Rather than tell him to go away, which would have been the sensible response, I offered him my lighter and waited to hear his pitch.  

And let me tell you, it was worth the wait. The first thing he told me was that he just got out of prison after having served some 12 years and didn’t know how to meet women “these days”. Now, I really should have ended the conversation immediately, but I was intrigued, starved for attention and in the middle of a custody battle that was fucking with my head. So, I pounced on his very questionable pickup line. I immediately started asking questions. The first thing I said, as I am no stranger to the legal system, was, “12 years! That’s a hell of a long time. What did you do, kill someone?!” His face darkened for a moment and I could tell that he didn’t really expect the conversation to start this way. He replied that he had killed someone but “it was an accident”. In my previous murderer experience, I had heard basically the same thing- it was an accident. But I decided to listen to his story.  

He lit his cigarette and told me how he came to be a convicted murderer. He said that it occurred during the 1990’s and peak gang activity in the Cities. This much was true, I knew from experience, having gone to an inner-city school and seen the violence first hand. He said that his case was sensationalized and an example was made of him because his murder was the first drive-by shooting in the area at the time and also because he shot a white, blonde woman. He was clearly not white, but I could not tell what his ethnicity was by sight alone. However, he also clarified that the blonde woman had not been his intended target. His intended target had been the driver in another vehicle- a threatening black man who had been waving his gun at him while the two were driving parallel to each other in separate vehicles. According to the murder, the man in the other car had apparently been tailgating him and making threatening gestures with his firearm. So, my new acquaintance, who just so happened to have a gun with a laser target pointer on him, had aimed his weapon at the driver in the other vehicle and pulled the trigger. Saul, my new acquaintance, said that he didn’t know that the gun would discharge. He said that he only meant to scare the other driver off by illuminating his laser at him in order to show that he was able to defend himself, if necessary. He never meant to actually shoot anyone. Anyways, he said that the bullet accidentally hit the blonde woman and because Saul is a person of color, an Arab to be specific, he was punished more harshly due to racism in convictions. He also blamed his court appointed attorney for failing to represent him properly.  

I listened to his story with skepticism. I could tell he was lying about something. He seemed like a sociopath and I had recently done quite a bit of research on sociopaths as I was embroiled in a custody battle with my ex, whom I suspected of being a sociopath. And by research, I mean I bought dozens of books on the subject, both recently published and classics, such as Without Conscience, written by a doctor who had 25 years of clinical research under his belt. I decided that as I was currently battling a sociopath in court, the ideas and perspective of a sociopath might be useful. I was absolutely not going to date him, but I did give him my phone number. As I said before, this was a particularly bad time in my life and I wasn’t thinking clearly. On the other hand, I had learned from my research that there are many murderers walking among us that we (non-sociopaths) are unaware of because they are not broadcasting this information or using it as a pickup line (!). So, I knew then and know now that I probably have interacted with all kinds of violent people in my daily life without knowing it. Of course, this doesn’t justify anything, but I did decide that the guy, although clearly a maniac, had paid his debt to society and there was nothing wrong with picking his brain.  

He called me that very night. It was late, he sounded drunk and I assume he was looking for a hot date. Obviously, that was off the table. However, from prior experience, I knew before I spoke to him further, I would need to know the full story of his crime. I demanded a photo of his driver’s license, which infuriated him. He started arguing with me about it and since I have no common sense, again I fell back to experiences that I had with individuals who got angry when asked to divulge personal information. Point being, if he had nothing to hide, why would he be asking to come to my home without giving me any legitimate background information? Some may argue, well identity theft and all that…BUT he already told me he was a murderer, I had just met him, AND he wanted to be alone with me in my home? So, no I did not think it asking too much at all.  

I WAS shocked however, when he provided it. First, he yelled at me for being paranoid and unreasonable. Then he hung up on me. Then a minute or two later, he sent me a photo of his driver’s license. I could immediately see why he was reluctant. First of all, he had lied about his name. It was completely different than the name he gave me. I don’t remember what it was now, but it wasn’t even a disambiguation of the name he gave me. Rather than inviting him over, which I would have NEVER done, even if I had been drunk or for any other reason, I decided to google him and his criminal record.  

As I suspected, his story and his criminal record and related newspaper articles (where do I find these nutbags!) were significantly different. I ended up gathering a pretty significant amount of information about him through various online sources, all credible. According to the internet, Saul had changed his story with the police enough times to make him look really bad to the police. First, he claimed that another passenger in the vehicle he was driving pulled the trigger. Then, he claimed he was holding the gun and it went off accidentally. Then, he gave what I believe is probably the true story, that he was looking to intimidate the other driver by flashing the laser and possibly didn’t expect the gun to actually go off. I do believe his target was the man, not the woman. However, turns out that was a thick slice of baloney though, too. Witnesses reported that it was, in fact, Saul who was driving aggressively and intimidating the other driver. Furthermore, and this was the most fucked up part, the other guy didn’t even HAVE a weapon, gun or otherwise. It was basically a hate crime. Saul hated black people.  

I had many questions for Saul that I would have never asked, partly because it didn’t matter, but also because they’re really more like criticisms than questions. For example, Saul committed the crime as a teenager. What is a law-abiding, upstanding member of society doing with a gun that has a fucking laser pointer?? I can’t imagine that was legal in any way, shape or form. Further, he had admitted fault to me, saying he felt terrible for what had happened to that woman and that he felt better after having “paid for” taking her life by serving in prison for 16 years. BUT…that’s not what court documents revealed. He poorly appealed his case repeatedly, like a total maniac and clearly did not feel responsible at all. Somehow, I was even able to read prison records of his “inside” behavior. Which was apparently vulgar and he got into a lot of minor trouble just being a jerk, mainly to women. He told me himself that he faked mental health symptoms because he thought the prison therapist was attractive. Classic sociopathic behavior, from what I’ve read.  

So, really this psycho was totally off his game.  Giving me a copy of his driver’s license, telling me about the murder, he even told me about the abuser’s handbook to relationship domination called The Art of Seduction. If you aren’t familiar with it, check it out. It is literally a step by step handbook on how to manipulate, isolate, victimize, gaslight and torture women who believe that they are in a loving relationship. I remember how he mentioned the book in passing, then seemed frustrated when I clarified the name of the book and then wrote it down. He didn’t tell me it was the abuser’s handbook. He described as “relationship advice for men”.  

So, I was hoping to get something out of this “friendship”, as I mentioned. I was looking for advice from the perspective of a sociopath on how to handle my sociopathic ex during the custody battle and I guess, in general. However, what I ended up getting was Saul repeatedly attempting to seduce me and being accused more than once of being an undercover cop. I saw him twice after our first meeting. The first time, I asked him for advice on my custody case. This was useless, as he gave me the advice that as he seemed to be under the impression that as the non-sociopath parent, I had some kind of edge. He also thought that as the primary parent and mother, my case would be open and shut, in my favor. He was wrong. The second time I saw him, he resumed his seduction attempt, then begged me to sell him some of my psychiatric medications for next to nothing. I refused on both counts.  

After that, we went our separate ways. I assume he’s still out there, probably online, looking for a woman to sponge off of until he commits his next major crime. My guess is that he probably found a woman who bought his story without looking into it, because a sucker is born every minute. I probably taught him not to go for women with any prior sociopath experience, as he was pretty textbook evil. He likely also learned that academic women, like myself, would view more as a curiosity than as a potential mate. Most sociopaths do not end up in jail. Most of them are walking around free, prowling for their next victim. I am glad my ex taught me well, but I must say, I’m ruined for dating- possibly for the rest of my life, never knowing if the next guy will be a better liar than Saul or have better hidden his online footprint.  

When I was a kid, maybe eight or nine years old, I was enrolled in the “Big Brother, Big Sister” program. Coming from a family in which I was the only sister to my three younger brothers, I really appreciated my “big sister”. Lisa was in college at St. Thomas and we did things like drink Diet Coke and play truth or dare. Lisa also liked to buy me little keepsakes, mostly journals and books. I liked the journals and books; I loved to read and write.  

A few months into our budding sisterhood, for some reason that I cannot fathom now, my sister Lisa started buying me these dolls.  I don’t recall having a particular fondness for dolls and these were no ordinary Barbie or Raggedy Ann dolls. They were these elaborately painted ceramic clowns with ornate satin costumes. In retrospect, I would call the dolls “noir”, in a way. They were not happy clowns. Their faces were lifelike, but weary, as if they had already seen too much of the world. They were certainly not meant to be played with. At my age, I had never really experienced the idea of a toy to not play with.

The dolls also came with individual display stands inside their large and partially transparent boxes. The clowns ranged in size from about 8 inches to more than a foot and a half. This was the 1980’s, I don’t remember if there was a sad clown doll fad or not, but I think I remember being with Lisa in the mall one day and seeing such a clown in an upscale gift shop and Lisa asking me if I liked it and I must have said yes or had some sort of positive reaction. To be agreeable, of course. As it turns out, I should have been honest and said “they’re a bit creepy”, but how was I to know what would follow?  To be honest, I may have manufactured that memory in order to make sense of how these clown dolls ended up becoming such a bane to my existence.

It was not very long until I found myself the reluctant recipient of one such decorative clown. After receipt of the first clown, I brushed it off as a curious but isolated incident. However, I must have too enthusiastically accepted and given her the impression that I was a serious collector because the clowns became a regular gift, almost as regular as the diaries. I recall liking one clown. It was very feminine with bubblegum pink paint and white and pastel pink ruffles. Even as a child, I could appreciate couture to some level. Perhaps that was the first clown, because they progressively became larger and more frightening from then on.

I could not tell Lisa that the clowns scared me. After accepting a half dozen of them with false enthusiasm, I was too deep into it. I didn’t consciously make the connection between these garish porcelain clowns and the evil child-eating clown portrayed by Tim Curry in the Stephen King movie “It”, which I had recently seen with my elderly Persian grandmother. However, I did notice that I had begun to develop anxiety around these clown dolls. The clowns were stored out of sight in a closet, buried underneath things I would never have a use for. I hoped that the clowns would go away on their own, but that hope remained unfulfilled as apparently, the mother of all decorative clowns was soon to be bestowed upon me. A reckoning was coming.

The final clown I got from Lisa was the largest yet. I don’t know where she found these dolls, but this one must have been nearly half my height. The most imposing stationary clown I had ever seen in person. Real people dressed as clowns had never frightened me that I can recall. It was the glassy eyes and the ivory, motionless skin of the dolls that awoke a sense of fear. The possibility of demonic possession seemed very real in some of the more sinister looking clowns.

The night that Lisa had gotten me the clown doll to trump all others, I was sleeping in her dorm room (as I often did), in the living room on a couch-alone. The clown was stationed directly across the room from me; I was right in its line of sight. The clown appeared to be watching me out of the corner of one painted eye across the room. I tried not to make eye contact and a couple times looked away, and then glanced back to find that it seemed to have crept a millimeter closer to me. I was almost in a state of panic. I felt imminently in danger and could not turn my back to this clown. I didn’t even want to breathe too heavily for fear that it would notice me, come to life, and attack. I was not sure exactly what the clown would do to me in terms of physical harm, but it was obviously menacing. Who knows what these clowns are capable of? And did I really want to find out?

I lay rigid and sleepless most of the night on the couch, uncomfortably aware of my potential assailant in the corner resting (waiting?) against its display stand. At some point, Lisa came out of her room, noticed that I was wide awake and managed to pry the truth out of me. The charade was over. Somehow, Lisa made the connection between me having seen “IT” at the age of 8 and my fear of clowns.

You see, my grandmother had shown my three younger brothers and I the IT entire mini-series on tape. Bless her heart, she sincerely believed that because there was a clown in the movie, it was funny and appropriate for small children. She truly thought that we would love it. I am not sure about my brothers, but for me, not a single night passed for the next several years that I was not plagued by dreams of murderous clowns of every variety. Almost thirty years later, I remember the details of some of these nightmares.

When I confessed my embarrassing secret to Lisa that not only was I afraid of clowns at the time, but I had also been afraid of them for awhile, Lisa realized that pretty much all of the clown dolls she had given me were resulting in anxiety and nightmares, and thankfully, she was very understanding about my white lies. I was ashamed that not only had I been lying to her by pretending to like the clowns for months, but I was also old enough to know that porcelain dolls really don’t come to life and kill people- in theory. I was embarrassed about it for quite awhile, so much so that I avoided her for some weeks afterwards. Despite the fact that she had also seen the movie and insisted that I was definitely not ridiculous at all for being terrorized by a collectible clown, I remained a bit ashamed for years. In retrospect, it must have been pretty comical for her to realize that with her limited college student finances, she had spent a moderate amount of money on accidentally scaring the hell out of me. How could she have possibly known that my clueless, foreign grandmother would show a Stephen King movie to little kids?   Even at the time, I recall my grandmother being confounded that we children were frightened by the evil clown that lured children into the sewer, severed limbs, ate them and could emerge from any water pipe it desired, not to mention a career defining performance by Tim Curry that helped bring the movie to life. When I revealed to my mother that my grandmother had subjected all four of us children to this four part bloodbath, my mother was furious. Many expletives in Farsi ensued.  

I received no further clowns following the revelation that what I felt for them was the opposite of gratefulness. If there was a lesson to be learned from this, perhaps it would be that one should not pretend to like a gift, for that gift may become a curse. Or maybe the lesson is that it’s better not to let a person who thinks Stephen King is appropriate for children babysit your kids carte blanche for extended lengths of time? I suppose I learned both.