Column: It wasn't a fairy tale, but my childhood was fortunate

One of the topics of concern in education today is the effect trauma has on children’s ability to learn and succeed. The acronym “ACEs” stands for “adverse childhood experiences,” which can be measured to see if a young person is at risk. These include parental divorce, neglect and physical abuse. The more boxes a children can tick off, the more precarious their situation.

During the school year, I was sent a link to an ACEs assessment. Nothing applied to me.

I am one of the lucky ones.

I’d never say that my childhood was like some golden dream. But I do know how fortunate I was.

For starters, I was raised by two parents who loved me. Though I might get upset with their rules at times, I never doubted that they cared about me. Sometimes too much. They were overprotective. I’ll never forget my father telling me, a teenager, that I was not, under any circumstances, to water ski while visiting a friend’s camp.

Dad had some kind of fear of water skiing, is all I can say.

Our ranch-style home, which my parents built, wasn’t fancy. There was only one bathroom, and my sister and I shared a bedroom. But I’m not complaining. It sat on an acre of land in southeastern Massachusetts, in a pleasant suburban town with good schools.

My father’s sister and her family lived on the other side of town and we visited frequently. My mother was one of nine, and kept in close contact with siblings. Her next oldest sister had two daughters around my age, and we grew up with them as well. There were many caring adults in my world.

My father owned an Arnold Bread franchise and was on the road early in the morning, so he was home by the time my sister and I arrived from school. My mother worked part-time in retail. For a number of years, my parents owned a day-old bread and variety store, and we worked  there together as a family. Even when I was in college, I’d sometimes go out with my dad on his route.

We’d never lacked for food in general, but had the added bonus of being able to run out to the truck parked in the driveway if we ran out of dinner rolls.

My elementary school was staffed with kind, mostly veteran teachers. Other than puncturing my ankle on a barb of a fence, I have no real negative memories.

I was a Girl Scout, and took organ and swimming lessons. After my grandparents moved to Maryland, we made frequent visits to D.C. My father, especially, loved to travel and we took many weekend trips around New England and New York. As my father’s business grew, we went to Florida every year. My parents rented vacation houses on Cape Cod for a couple of weeks in the summers.

I have happy memories of days spent at the beach, and picnics on the rocky coast of nearby Newport, R.I. We’d catch at least one Red Sox game at Fenway every year. At Christmas, we’d go to Boston to see displays on the Common, and the windows of department stores like Jordan Marsh.

My father died when I was 23, far too early. I had gone to the public library with him every week since I could remember; right through high school and when I was home from college.

I’ve never gotten over the pain of having severe acne as a teenager. Though not ACEs-worthy, it does help me understand how youthful experiences can have long-lasting effects. If a skin condition can make a person feel self-conscious, insecure and unlovable for years, imagine what significant trauma can do.

My childhood did not include fancy summer camps or European travel. Aside from kindergarten, I attended public schools. There were times I wished for more—an in-ground swimming pool, horseback riding lessons, a bigger house. Some dreams came true. Eventually, we got a second phone. We went to Disney World and traveled cross-country in a rented camper. My parents didn’t want me to live away while at college, but I talked them into it. 

I don’t know exactly what went on in my friends’ houses. They might have been spanked; that was still common back then. Maybe their parents bickered. Maybe they were made to feel small.  But they all had two parents, decent houses, food on the table every day. No one was taken away by child protective services. It seems amazing to me now, that this could be true.

It was a long time ago and, again, I’d never say it was perfect. But I do wish every child could grow up as I did—feeling loved and safe. Having a chance to travel a little. Enjoying time with extended family. Never going to bed on an empty stomach.

Adulthood is difficult enough without having to carry the tragic baggage of a traumatic childhood.