My Childhood Rebellion

My Childhood Rebellion

By: John Kazerooni 

In my childhood, I was no stranger to punishment. Whether just or unjust, they came frequently, shaping my young mind and seeding it with questions I struggled to answer. I was punished for not studying and for playing outside—school was never my forte, and I studied only enough to scrape by. I was punished when tensions brewed between my parents, their arguments spilling over onto me. I was punished when my sisters failed to meet my father’s standards or societal norms, as if their behavior was my responsibility to bear. Punishing me was his way of asserting authority over my sisters and mother.

Sometimes, the punishments—let me call them what they were, violence—became so persistent and consistent that a child had no time to understand or reflect on their own actions or their consequences.

My father’s anger, fueled by many factors that influenced his daily life, often found its outlet in me. Frustrations from work, strained friendships, or simply the weight of life pressed down on him until they erupted. At the time, my innocence and childlike naivety couldn’t comprehend the complexity of his emotions, but I instinctively knew when his actions were unjustified. A child knows, deep within, whether a punishment is fair or unwarranted. A child’s conscience whispers when their behavior is wrong, making punishment feel deserved. But when it is unjust, the sting lingers far longer, cutting deeper than the discipline itself.

One particular occasion stands out vividly in my memory—a moment that forever changed the dynamic between my father and me. On that day, his punishment crossed the line, leaving me burning with pain, anger, and a profound sense of injustice. I couldn’t find any justification for his actions, and I couldn’t let it go. The agony he inflicted pushed me to the brink, and I resolved to take matters into my own hands. Fueled by a mix of rage and determination, I sought retribution—not out of malice, but as a desperate attempt to reclaim the dignity I felt had been stolen from me, along with my innocence.

The plan formed in the quiet hours of the night—a child’s response to an unbearable weight. With eight nails in my small, trembling hands, I decided to target his prized possession: his Volkswagen Beetle. I carefully placed two nails in front of and behind each tire to ensure that, whether he drove forward or backward, the nails would pierce the tires simultaneously. In my mind, flattening his tires was the perfect act of silent defiance—a way to strike back without words. I felt a thrill of power and control, something I had never experienced under his oppressive authority.

The next day was tense. When he drove to work, my mind raced with questions. Did my plan work? What if it didn’t? What if it did? What would the consequences be? Could the car explode? Could it swerve off the road?

At school, I was completely distracted. My thoughts swirled with endless “what if” scenarios. By the time I returned home, anxiety began to creep in. Normally, my father returned by 5 p.m., but by 8 p.m., he was still not back. My eyes were glued to the clock on the wall, and my heartbeat felt unbearably heavy. Finally, when he arrived, I was overcome with relief that he was safe, mixed with dread about what would come next.

When he entered the room, I could see exhaustion etched across his face. I braced myself for his reaction, my heart pounding with a mixture of fear and defiance. He was furious about the flattened tires; his eyes burned with the familiar fury I had come to expect. But this time, I didn’t cower. I stood my ground, the weight of my rebellion making me bolder than I’d ever been.

He confronted me directly, his voice calm but firm as he asked if I was responsible. I didn’t falter. “Yes,” I admitted, meeting his gaze without fear. “But know this—I will not tolerate such injustice again.”

What followed was not the outburst I had anticipated. His hands, always ready to punish, hung motionless at his sides. For the first time, I saw something different in his eyes—perhaps recognition, perhaps shame. The punishment I expected never came. In that moment, I felt a shift, as though my act of defiance had drawn a boundary he could no longer cross. After that, he never raised his hand against me again.

And yet, even in victory, a shadow lingered. My retaliation, though successful, left me with a sense of unease. I was not proud of what I had done. The act of vengeance carried its own weight, tainting the fragile peace that followed.

Although I was freed from his physical punishments, I remained caught in the crossfire of their unresolved tensions, a pawn in a conflict far greater than myself. Forgiveness, while granted, couldn’t erase the scars left behind.

Looking back, I now understand the complexity of those moments. My father’s actions were shaped by his own struggles, and my retaliation, though it felt justified, was a child’s attempt to navigate a world far too complicated for young shoulders to bear.

The questions that linger in my mind: Do we truly understand the impact our anger has on our child’s sense of security, trust, and worth? When we discipline our child, are we addressing their behavior or merely venting our frustrations? Are we punishing our child for our own failures, fears, or frustrations that they cannot possibly comprehend? Do we recognize when our punishments stop being corrective and become a cycle of harm? Have we considered how our actions might shape their ability to trust, to forgive, or to feel worthy of love? When we act out of anger, what unspoken lessons are we teaching our child about power, control, and conflict resolution? Can we look at our child not as an outlet for our pain but as someone who needs our guidance, patience, and love to grow? …

The crossfire of my childhood left marks that time cannot erase, but it also taught me the importance of breaking cycles. As I reflect on my father’s flaws, I see now that beneath the anger was a man grappling with his own demons. And as for me, I learned that defiance and resistance, when rooted in justice, can be transformative—but only if it leads to understanding, not further division.

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