First I began to hoard things that I was given. I had an impressive candy collection that I refused to eat; I found greater comfort in having the sweet pile where I knew it was safe and available if I needed to look at it. I didn’t think my stash was a problem until my aunt called and told my mom that an army of ants had happily found their treasure trove. For some reason , I didn’t feel upset at having lost something I had saved so carefully. I must have learned by then that people always lost what was dear to them.

I was in the first grade when I started stealing. I wasn’t a delinquent - in fact I was at the top of my class. One day I discovered that my mother’s cash registers held cash (she owned a business), so I took a buck or two to buy candy. I started taking more money from the register and I couldn’t stop stealing to buy possessions that could become a comfort to me.

I felt a satisfaction of pseudo-independence, when I could buy whatever I wanted. Candy, paper dolls, a shot at the video arcade games, color pencils. The funny thing was I gave these possessions away freely. I let classmates borrow the shiny new pack of colored pencils I had bought with my mother’s stolen money. For me, because these pencils never really *did* belong to me (since it wasn’t “my money”), I never feared losing them. When I gave them out, I didn’t care if the students might not return them.

One day my mom came to my school. She suspected I had been stealing, and came to speak with my teacher after class. Seeing a parent’s face peer into the window of my classroom gripped my throat with panic. After the class was dismissed I was called to the front of the room where my mother began talking with my teacher.

They began firing questions at me, asking me where I got the things I had, how I got the money to buy them, whom I took the money from etc… the inquisition seemed to go on forever and I felt sick to my stomach. Finally after they were finished, my mother took me home in a cab. My mother said nothing on the way home. When we got home, a lady who worked for my mom’s business greeted us, “hey! you’re back! where have you been?” and my mother answered “we were grilling her” and looked at me. I felt ashamed. I was a criminal and everyone knew it. My mother also told me that if she ever caught me stealing again, she’d use severe punishment. She told me even when she was very poor, she never stole and acted like the thief I was. I was a shame to her and to the family.

Of course I stole again. I craved for comfort and power of buying things I wanted and keeping it “mine” and secret. And of course, I got caught (I was a very stupid thief or I wanted to get caught). My mother went ballistic. My mother made good on her promise and brought out pliers as I stood there horrified and waiting, never attempting to run away or struggle. I had always been obedient that way - I’d stand there and wait for what I deserved.

My mom opened the pliers up and cramped down on my thumb. She proceeded to the next finger. I was sobbing but remained standing for my punishment to end. My aunt pleaded with my mother, telling her “she’s just a little kid!” but my mother insisted that I needed to be taught a lesson.

When my mom went into my room and began to pack my clothes into a bag, I lost it. She said she was throwing me out. She grabbed me by the hand and led me down the stairs as I wailed in terror. Then she threw the bag out the door and shut the gate in my face. I stood there weeping, not sure which I felt more - the fear that now I would die or the embarrassment that curious walkers-by stared.

Eventually, I stopped crying, and went to my piano lesson as if nothing happened. I learned to continue or “keep up” as normally as I could no matter what had just happened. That night I did sleep in my own bed so I was allowed in the house again.