What I learned from being a 3 year-old jerk

Out of all my childhood memories, there is one that haunts me to this day. It isn’t a remnant of a tragic incident or a frightening encounter. Nor is it an imprint of neglect or abuse. As a toddler in Tanzania, and then as an immigrant child in Canada, I was surrounded by the affection of a doting, extended family of aunts and uncles.

This memory haunts me because it gives me the sense that, at one time, I was not the caring person I like to think I am now. In the memory, the words spoken are vague, but the emotions and actions still play in my mind like a silent movie. I was 3 years old and we lived on the second floor of a 2-story apartment complex on Upanga Road in Dar es Salaam. The complex was a horseshoe shape with an open dirt courtyard in the centre where children played.

There was a child who lived directly below us. I don’t remember his name. But I do remember that he used to get on my nerves because he always wanted to play with me, at the expense of me getting a chance to play with other kids. I have no negative feelings towards him now, nor have I for the past 47 years but, at that time, I didn’t like him. Why? Because he wanted to spend time with me? What a jerk I must have been. I remember thinking he was bossy and demanding, but that does not make me feel any better.

One day, when I was particularly fed up, I recall him shouting up the stairs, calling me to play and asking me to bring my tricycle. And this is the part that hurts: after trying to ignore him for what feels like a long time, I snapped, grabbed my tricycle and threw it down the long flight of stairs at him. I yelled at him in Swahili and went back into my apartment.

I went back to visit that apartment with my children about 7 years ago and what I remembered as that long flight of stairs was actually two steps. But I was under 3 feet tall when this childhood experience happened so I guess the staircase seemed a lot bigger.

I almost immediately felt terrible for the way I treated him. I decided that the next time I saw him I would be really nice. But I didn’t see him around for a few days. I went to my mom to ask about him and she told me that his family had moved away.

I didn’t tell anyone about the incident, but I was sure it was my fault that the family moved away. The whole family packed up and moved away because I was mean to their child? No. I found out later that the boy’s dad had taken a job out of town. But still, that little boy left thinking I hated him. I didn’t know that would be the last time I saw him. I have carried this for a long time.

Why I am sharing this story with you? What was its lesson for me? In June of this year, I attended a coaching program in the woods of British Columbia. In one of our discussion circles, I came to the realization that sometimes I hold back on sharing my true feelings and desires because of my fear of making the people in my life feel rejected. I also realized that I was holding off on one particularly important decision partly because of that concern (more on that another time).

Now I don’t know for sure if this childhood incident I have shared with you is connected to this tendency in my adult years. But it is possible. And it is also possible that the significant effort I put into carefully managing how I deliver constructive feedback and bad news stems from the incident.

That incident is double edged for me. On the one hand, it made me reserved in saying what I need to say sometimes. On the other hand, it gave me the sensitivity to have difficult conversations with tact. The latter is something I am told is a signature strength.

I think this may be true for many of us: our strengths can also be our weaknesses and vice versa. So while I honour the events that led to the strength, I now commit to working on the related behaviours that hold me back.

Do you have a story to share about an incident in your childhood that you regret? I would love to hear from you. Comment below or reach me at shakeelbharmal@icloud.com.

Subscribe here.