7th grade (age 12) was one of the most disastrous and negatively impactful years of my life. For many years after, I looked at it with so much regret…because of poor decisions I made that absolutely changed the trajectory of my life. I didn’t forgive myself until over a decade later, carrying the guilt for years until I knew where to place it. You just cannot understand things until the time is right.
Declining studies.
I didn’t like to study.
I wasn’t inspired by academic work. It wasn’t personally rewarding, and it also wasn’t externally rewarding either. I loved playing sports and video games. Pretty much, I was a typical boy and motivated by other things.
My math and science grades were already, but my grades in history were atrocious. I absolutely hated history. It was so hard to remember names and dates and details of things that were so uninterested in me. I hated it and couldn’t motivate myself to care.
First time bringing home bad grades (a C in history).
I remember the first time I brought home a C in an important class (history). I remember hearing my grade at class and thinking nothing of it. A couple weeks later, my dad saw it on my report card in the mail and waited until it was time to cut my hair. While cutting my hair, he verbally abused me in the best way possible.
- You’re a horrible student.
- So lazy.
- Such a bad son.
- We do all this for you and you bring home a C?!
- Our friends kids are all getting straight A’s. Even a GIRL is getting better grades than you!
He kept pushing and poking from every angle that he could until I began to cry under the verbal abuse. It made him only more pleased with his work. As tears ran down my face, he just kept continuing…and seemingly prolonging this haircut for as long as he wanted this torture session to last.
Maybe he thought punishing me like this would spark a newfound joy for education, or at least create a fear-based motivation to study harder. But he didn’t. My psychological makeup was already built to become more desensitized to abuse. This was how I survived all those years in our house of horrors without going crazy from witnessing all that happened. I was unknowingly blocking out all the bad and reducing it in my mind.
I was losing my ability to feel. I was losing my humanity with every terrifying outburst that my parents here.
Bringing home even worse grades (a D in history).
My grades continued to plummet as I cared less and less about school. Deep down, I probably felt no need to study as hard (or harder) than the other kids when I wasn’t being rewarded like them. Getting an A wasn’t special, it only meant I was doing my job. It didn’t make my parents smile or jump for joy. Getting a C just meant I would be screamed at and punished. No problem…I can just block that out like I block out all the other horrible things going on at home.
It wasn’t long before I brought home my first D. I can’t remember the specifics (as I probably blocked it out, ha) but my dad went crazy. I think he acted like I killed his parents. Yelling and screaming. And there wasn’t much he could do to punish me. Take away my cool video games (that he never bought me)? Hahahah.
First F and running away from home.
It wasn’t long after that my first F would come. I remembered being so shocked when I heard that grade in class (history once again). I didn’t realize my schoolwork had deteriorated to that point. I was terrified of what my father would do to me.
In the midst of my desperation, I came up with a brilliant plan.
- I hatched a plan to guess which day the report card would arrive in the mailbox and to steal it before my parents could see it. The problem was that our mailbox was a locked one and my parents had the key for it.
- I asked my mom one day, “Hey mom. Can I do chores for money like my friends?”
- She asked, “What kind of chores and how much money do you want?”
- I said, “You know…like you give me a dollar for everything that I do. Like washing dishes, taking out the trash, bringing in the mail.”
- She said “Ok, I’ll think about it.” as she started walking out to get the mail. I followed along with her to see if my report card was there.
- She opens the mailbox and a bunch of grocery store coupons were on top so she grabbed those first to look at “oooooh….nice deals on avocados!”
- I guessed correctly. In this moment, I saw the familiar shape of the small white rectangle envelope of my student report card. My heart started pumping so fast and I went over to the mailbox to act like I was helping to get the rest for her…but what I did was take the report card and hide it under my shirt.
- I wasn’t smooth at all, she saw what I did. And she came over and said hey “Why is your shirt so dirty?” And as she pretended to dust off the back of my shirt while I tried to turn away from her…she quickly reached around to the front and felt the report card hidden behind the front of my shirt.
- She reached under my shirt and pulled out the report card. And said, “Aha! I knew you were up to something with your chore idea!”
And as she started to open the envelope, I decided to run away from home. I was so terrified. I just it wasn’t safe for me to be home. With only the clothes on me (a t-shirt and shorts), I ran down the front steps of my house and off into the neighborhood. I didn’t dare wait to see the reaction. And I didn’t dare wait to see what my father would say when he came home.
Lucky for me, this happened during school break or the weekend. I can’t remember which. But at least I didn’t have to go to school or it would have been very hard to figure out what to do.
I ran to my favorite safe space…it was my friend Zuriel’s house. He lived in an apartment across the alley from us and from the outdoor stairs of his apartment building, I could see the back side of my house and our backyard. I could see when my dad’s car was home, when the lights were on in the kitchen and children’s bedroom. My friend Zuriel would call over to my house or come over to my house to pass messages from my brothers. When he told me the coast was clear, I would come over to meet my brothers at the back door so they could sneak me food.
It was terrifying for a 12 year old to be roaming this neighborhood homeless. Although I knew it well, I was also so afraid to be out of the house at night. But I honestly felt like I had nowhere to run. I decided the danger inside my house was worse than the danger outside it. I Late at night…I would sneak through the front entrance of my house and into the upstairs area where our tenants lived. There was a shared bathroom that I would use for toilet or shower (and my brothers would sneak up there to give me clean clothes)…and I even slept in the tub at night. But by early morning, I had to leave the house before it my dad would wake up.
After several days of totally avoiding…my parents realized my brothers or a friend was probably sustaining me. Since how else does a 12 year old survive for days with no money? They didn’t want me roaming the neighborhood anymore. They just wanted me home. They told my brothers to pass me a message that it was safe for me to come home. My brothers called Zuriel and Zuriel told me when he was sneaking me an apple to eat. I came home that night and nobody spoke anymore of my bad grades.
In a way…I had won once again. Just like I won those rollerblades by being suicidal. I could win any parental dispute by running away. I was getting more comfortable with the idea as well.
My mom enjoyed seeing my father punish me.
I think this is because I was growing up and becoming too strong for her to beat. There was a time when she kept hitting me at night and getting angrier and angrier because I didn’t cry. I tried to act like I was in pain, but in reality her hits where nothing.
So I guess she took joy in knowing that my dad could still put fear in me. I also wonder if perhaps she enjoyed seeing someone else take the abuse that she took from him all the time.
My developing music skills.
I was getting better and better at playing the violin. I was easily one of the best players in the orchestra. Deserving of being a first row player (called “first strings” which are the violinists in the front row), except only my teacher didn’t like that I was such a troublemaker and she didn’t feel confident in giving a troublemaker such a respected role. So she put me in the second row (called “second strings”) but made me the leader of them. I still get to sit at the end so the audience has a direct view of me. And my bow would look aesthetically nice along with the first string players.
Our school performances were like mini concerts with tons of parents attending and even people from the neighborhood. Because we had so much talent. From our big name drummer teacher to all the child talents, singing talents, and award-winning orchestra and band. I remembered we sounded very very good for kids. We were very good and also had many players…so we were able to play very complex pieces of music with many layers of instruments working together in harmony. I remember our teacher bragging that our middle school orchestra (kids 11-13 years old) was easily better than even high school orchestras (kids 14-18 years old).
Left behind at music tournament
Not an important story contextually. I’ll add it later. You can skip for now.
Starting my criminal empire
My inspiration for stealing came from my father.
I couldn’t draw the obvious connection at the time because I was young, but years later I realized I got it exactly from him! (And his terrible parenting as a role model.)
When I was as young as 6 or 7. We KNEW stealing was bad. Because my parents said so. And so we were told not to steal from stores, or from people. But as the saying goes….”Do as I say, not as I do.”
But my dad was a thief. He always stole things for as long as I can remember.
- We’d be at a store trying to buy small household items, and he’d say “Hey put this in your pocket and act normal. They won’t suspect you. And if they do, you’re just a kid.”
- Or when he bought things from stores…for example Halloween costumes or toys. He’d try to shove extra things into the box of another. So that we were only charged for one item.
- The worst were the larger items. One time at the checkout counter, the line was so long and the cashiers were so busy. My dad had an idea. He told me to just walk out of the store with the big badminton racket in my hand. And I obeyed since he was an adult and it worked. I walked out and nobody stopped me or thought of anything. Probably because I was so casual about it and I came from the cashier area…so it probably looked like I already paid for it. I was amazed by the psychology of it all.
We were all learning subconsciously the 3 rules of stealing:
- Stealing is ok if you don’t get caught.
- Stealing is ok if you don’t want to pay.
- Stealing from a store doesn’t hurt anybody.
Theft is often a gateway crime into worser crimes.
If you study or read up on criminal psychology, many of the worst criminals (serial killers, murderers, rapists, human trafficking, gangs) all start with theft.
- Theft is the easiest crime because it hurts no one.
- Then next…you start to damage property. Arson, fire, just the joy of breaking things.
- Eventually…you start to hurt living things like animals or “unimportant people” (like homeless, prostitutes, rival gangs, or people you just don’t like…but only “bad people” or “people who deserved it” and never a “good person”).
- But it soon very quickly spirals into hurting innocent good people.
- It isn’t long after that you’ll even justify killing innocent people. But you rationalize it as “yeah, it’s bad…but not so bad if you don’t do it everyday…like occasional smoking”.
Thankfully…my crimes never got into the violent range. But I did develop a bold mentality.
- That if I had the power to do something, I had the right to do it.
There was also one more element to being a kleptomanic/thief…the adrenaline rush. Being a criminal is so psychologically exciting because you know it’s wrong. Probably the same rush you might get cheating on your partner, or other extreme activity.
I wouldn’t make this psychological link until decades later. I was a highly desensitized person, because of my animal instinct already being so habitually trained to shut down my feelings, to prevent self-harm. And so I was addicted to extreme activities because they made me feel alive!
(What a revelation to finally understand myself on this level decades later!)
So I became a thief.
I stole from every kind of store and every kind of item you can imagine. I was getting more and more clever each time, making a game out of it. To see what degree of things (how big or how valuable) I could steal. By age 15, I think I stole at least $10,000 worth of stuff already.
Watching movies only inspired me more. Some of my theft jobs were like a movie heist, where the thief plots and plans…taking note of cameras and requiring lots of preparation. Other jobs were very casual everyday ones that nobody sees. I’m happy to give you examples.
Small heists:
- Everyday after school I would go to the convenience store next to my bus stop on my way home from school. I would casually walk in and to the back as if to see if they had what I wanted and then walk out. But in that time…I had tucked a juice bottle under my armpit which was hidden by my jacket hanging over my arm. I walked out so casually in front of everyone that they don’t suspect a juice bottle hiding right there under my jacket.
- Another time…I would go up to the counter to pay for a juice bottle…and right as the cashier bent down to pull out the plastic bag, I would quickly grab a candy bar off the short wall in front of him (out of his view) and stick it in my pocket.
- Another time…after paying for my one item…I took the WHOLE BOX of candy bars and walked right out the door. I was holding the box in plain sight but with the box at a perfect angle so my body would block it from his vision.
- Walking into neighbor’s backyards at night and just taking away their basketball or small toy items that I liked. I was quick and smooth and nobody saw.
Big heists:
- Stealing huge toys and boxes from big stores. I just walked out with them and nobody stopped us.
- Sometimes we go to the checkout with a shopping cart…but only pay for the items on top. There were many items at the bottom that we didn’t pay for. We just left them down there while the cashier only saw and only scanned our top items.
- Or doing what my dad did…stuffing many items into the box of another one. The hard part wasn’t the walking out…it was finding space around the store to shove things into the box without getting caught by the employees or cameras. The best tactic I found was to shove the box into the back of a rack with many items. This when we were stuffing it, it looks like we’re just digging for something in the back. Another way was to walk while we were stuffing the box. For some reason this looks very casual and as if we were just putting items back into their box as we were going to pay for it. Nobody usually accuses a person paying of theft.
- Stealing small items from big packages. We needed to bring a knife or something sharp to split open the plastic cases in order to put the objects into our pockets. And to do it all without getting caught.
When I say “we”…I mean that it was me and my brothers or me and my friends. But I was the mastermind. Later on, our theft operations became even more elaborate as stole bigger (or more valuable) things and from unlikely places.
My porno magazine operation.
I got this brilliant idea one from a history class assignment. Our weekly assignment was to buy a newspaper and write an article on a current event. And so I went to the liquor store every week to buy the newspaper. I soon noticed 2 things:
- The Sunday newspapers were bigger and more fun to read. Since they had more interesting advertisements and also since they had comics (which I loved reading).
- Right in the newspaper section was also the adult section…with X-rated magazines.
Well, I hatched a brilliant idea. (Inspired by what my dad did with me.)
- I told Harry to buy the Sunday newspaper for 50 cents. Pay for it with money I gave him and walk out.
- But the trick was to sneak put some X-rated magazines inside the newspaper.
- I would then take those magazines to school and sell them to other boys for $20 each. They were worth gold.
- I also gave Harry a cut. Being quite the self-initiated entrepreneur himself…he got greedy as well. Instead of trying to steal only 1 or 2 magazines into each newspaper, he would put up to 5 magazines. How he ever got away without the cashier noticing the extra bulk in the newspaper, I’ll never know. It’s probably because he looks so young and innocent. No one ever suspects him. But he’s every bit the troublemaker I was if not more.
I never got caught by the school. It was my dad who discovered our entire operation and foiled it. It all started when we ended up with so many magazines that we would just hide them under the bed alongside our toys and other messy trash. One night, my dad was looking at our room and noticed the trash under our bed and demanded we cleaned it right there on the spot.
We complained that it was too late (midnight) and we wanted to sleep. But he was a rigid asshole like this. He demanded we cleaned it before he would let us go to sleep. And since we were moving slowly, he took it upon himself to help. He started sweeping out everything from under the bed and that’s where he discovered the magazines. I think Harry ratted me out completely.
My parents were so disappointed with me. They had a private conversation with me the next day, very angry.
- “It’s enough for you to be bad all by yourself. You had to go and poison your innocent brother, too?!”
- “You are the devil in this house!”
- “Don’t think we won’t find out what other things you’ve been doing!”
Looking back, I see that my entrepreneurial talents were developing at an early age already. I just didn’t have the right outlet to channel that energy.
Getting kicked out of the MAGNET program
This remains one of my most regretful situations in my life. I felt so horrible and remorseful about it. I didn’t forgive myself until long after. And I believed I paid the price for it long after it happened.
Our orchestra and band was practicing for a big performance coming up. And during the lunch break…I decided to steal a big woman’s wallet out of a big purse that I saw lying around. I took it out with me to lunch and then opened it up in the yard and saw that it was my music teacher’s purse. The ID cards said Lonnie Bissell. I felt so horrible. I had stolen from somebody so kind and beloved. I freaked out and tried to figure out how to return it. I waited until our practice session break the next day (Friday), that I found a moment to put her wallet back inside her purse.
Then I went home that weekend, and I got sick. So I didn’t come to school for Monday and Tuesday. But something happened. My best friend Steve called me on the days that I was home and said over the phone, “Uh ohhhhh! You’re in big trouble!”
When I came to school on Wednesday, everybody looked at me different all day long. I knew instinctively that I was in trouble but I didn’t know how. I remember one kid even saying…“Hey Johnny, you look evil to me now.”
- And as I was walking through the hallways, a woman from the school staff recognized me.
- She stopped and asked, “Are you Johnny Nguyen?” and I replied yes.
- She asked me to follow her and she took me into an office. Where she asked me bluntly, “Did you steal Ms. Bissell’s purse?”
- I could tell she already knew the answer and I had nowhere to run. I replied yes.
What happened after was a huge ordeal. My parents were called in and I had a big chat with the school principal, and dean, and my parents. I never came face to face with Ms. Bissell again. I think she never wanted to see me again.
What really hurt the most was that I could tell everyone was so hurt for me. They didn’t care about Ms. Bissell’s purse at all. The were more worried what was going to happen to me. These events happened next:
- The school officials told me and my father, “Ok good news. Ms Bissell doesn’t want to press charges. She thanks you for returning her wallet but the damage was already done. She completely panicked and had to call all her banks and cancel all her cards and order new ones.”
- “You will no longer be in the music program. From now on for 6th period (my last of the day), you don’t go to music class anymore…you will go to the dean’s office.”
- Yeah…that’s gotta be really bad…my 6th period was literally the dean’s office. I don’t think I’ve heard of anything so bad. And it later turns out, many of the school’s worst students (the kind that cause major crimes and go to juvenile detention center, aka “kids jail”, end up here as well). We just sat there and did nothing at our desks. Or we could read or do homework from classes…or joke with the other troublemakers.
- They didn’t just cite my theft of Ms. Bissell’s purse. They also pointed to my school records of having created problems in other ways. I’ve gotten written up for doing other bad things like causing trouble in classes or to other kids. They added all this together for a final verdict.
- The worst news is when they said, “You are getting expelled from not only our school. But also the MAGNET program forever. When this school ends, your parents will have to enroll you in your neighborhood school.”
- My dad tried to plead a case for me. He even brought in my records from the child psychologist office. He said, “Please…my son has psychological problems. He’s been treated for them and he’s still young.” but their word was final.
This one really hit hard. No more MAGNET program with the nice gifted kids. I’d have to go to the school in my neighborhood (which are obligated to accept kids from the local neighborhood no matter what). I’d have to go to school with the stupid ghetto kids, and be back among gangsters and street kids again.
My parents were so disappointed in me. I could feel all my teachers were as well. They all knew I didn’t belong with the ghetto kids. That I was actually a smart kid who needed guidance, not to be thrown back to the streets where my life would just turn worse. But there was nothing they could do for me. I had to be punished and I had to be kicked out for committing such a heavy crime. I was so sad for myself, too.
In case you’re wondering how everybody found out I did it…my best friend Steve told me:
- So Ms. Bissell realizes on Thursday that she lost her purse and freaks out. When everybody got back to music practice, she told everyone that she was so worried about it and asked anybody to let her know if they saw anything.
- On Friday, she files a police report and cancels all her cards. And also had to order new ones.
- On Monday…she played the rehearsal video for everyone to watch. So we had a video camera (sitting on a tripod) that was recording the entire music rehearsals and the entire band and orchestra watched it together. This is about 300+ kids and staff all watching.
- But there was a mistake with the recording. After the rehearsal was done, whoever was running the camera forgot to turn it off. And so the camera kept running. And everyone kept watching the footage wondering if anything was going to happen next.
- And in comes little Johnny acting very suspicious, looking around, putting hands inside the purse and leaving with her wallet.
The footage left the entire room in shock. Everyone’s jaws were opened. I never saw the video myself, Steve described everything for me. Everybody was thinking OMG!!!! INNOCENT JOHNNY STOLE MS. BISSELL’S PURSE!!!!
And just like that, I was caught. Red-handed. On camera.
My orange folder.
All my teachers knew what was happening to me. The whole school knew. Most kids turned away from me not wanting to be associated with me. Even the kids who still liked me and didn’t see me as a bad person were cautious about being seen or associated with me. It was as if I had stolen everybody’s wallet, not only Ms. Bissell’s. I went from the lovable funny Johnny…to blacklisted criminal Johnny.
On my final days of that school year at Madison…my history teacher (the one who gave me a C, a D, and an F) came to me.
- She said, “Listen to me and listen carefully. When you get to your new school. Tell them you have an orange folder. That’s all you have to say. ORANGE FOLDER! Ok? Can you remember that? Make sure you tell them you have an orange folder. Make sure they look for it.”
I promised her that I would remember but in reality, I would forget.
New dogs in our lives
Duke, Jack, and Suzie.
We added each dog to the family one by one. Duke (a little terrier), I found on the streets. He was a tiny puppy running through the fences of the neighbors’ houses. He was just running freely in between the bars of the fences because he was so small. He looked so cute I brought him home. My mom fell in love with him at first sight and my dad loved that he was a small house dog.
Jack (a Jack Russell terrier, looks like the same dog from the movie “The Mask”) was also a dog we found off the streets. He had six toes on one of his back feet. And he played pretty well with Duke most of the time. They did sometimes fight on some mornings but would break it up if we yelled at them.
Susie was a huge street dog that Brian found. So lovable and kind. Very gentle and never barks, she was not only bigger (but also older) looked after the smaller dogs. I remember one time seeing her help young Duke up the stairs. Because he was too small to reach the next step, she would hold out her paw for him to step on and then she would kind of lift his paw up to pull him up to the next step. It was the sweetest thing I’d ever seen. My brothers and I loved her very much.
My parents loved Duke the most. Jack, sometimes they let him in the house with Duke since he was small. Susie, sometimes they let her inside if the weather was really bad outside…but usually they kept her as an outside dog and you could tell they didn’t love her like the other 2.
Duke was bisexual, Jack was gay. Suzie was too big for the boy dogs.
It was funny how we found out our 2 boy dogs were gay. We often woke up in the morning to them humping…all the while Susie was standing around. They had their lipsticks out and were going at it. Sometimes Duke in back, sometimes Jack was in back.
But we knew Duke likes girls too because my dad brought home a small girl dog one and Duke would not leave her alone. Finally my dad got rid of the small girl dog because he didn’t like her for whatever reason (I think he felt her personality was not a good fit for us and the other dogs…she was too feisty).
INSIDE dog vs OUTSIDE dog
One things I learned from these dogs was how my parents’ love for them was unequal. They certainly did not love them all the same. Duke, was our beloved house dog, or as I like to say…an “INSIDE dog”. And Susie wasn’t loved the same…she was an “OUTSIDE dog”.
And I could feel my parents love for me and my brothers being the same. I felt they loved my brothers like the INSIDE dogs, but they only loved me like an OUTSIDE dog. I could just feel it in daily interactions. How they spoke to my brothers and how they spoke to me. It was like Cinderella and her stepsisters (and stepmother). Like I was only an adopted foster child….and not of same blood as the family.
Making this realization only turned me colder, more rebellious (for the sake of self-preservation). If they weren’t going to love me the same, then I was going to stop trying to win over their love. In fact…I don’t want love anymore. I’ll happily play the villain card. Bad kid, black sheep, crazy, evil…whatever you wanna call me. That’s what I am.
‘Cause I am…whatever you say I am.
If I wasn’t, then why would you say I am.
Every minute, every hour…every day I am.
I don’t know, it’s just the way I am.
[Eminem song lyrics “The Way I Am” – with my slight twist ]