A Dark Christmas Story and how we deceive ourselves

I remember a few things from when I was a kid.  Sometimes I remember the absurd.  I even remember the address in England where I lived for about two years: Two Pontifract Court, Ruslip, Middlesex, England.  We would hold huge bonfires in the field out back on Guy Fawkes Day.  I had the championship conker (game where you tie a chestnut to a string and smash someone else's to see which one survives) from a tree in a lane that was down past a building across the way.  I remember an anonymous man in a large house that backed up to the field where we played gave us apples off his tree, I suspect, mostly so we would not climb his fence and steal them. This was the same field where the grass grew so tall that when they cut it once a year, we could actually build forts and walls from the cuttings, so we could play and hide in them.

Our neighbor, a man by the name of Arthur, was a garbage collector, and then he became a driver for a soft drink company. I remember this because he used to bring me some cool toys from the garbage route that others had thrown away.  Later, "Uncle" Arthur took me on his route,ewhere I got to help deliver soft drinks. I was about 7 years old.  He also taught me some  Judo and how to fall and pull a full-grown man over my head and flip him using my feet.  I remember Arthur mostly due to the fact that he had a huge chameleon, and we would catch large blue-bottle flies so it could feed.

There are many other things I remember from this time; like the time a Coke bottle exploded in my hands, the time a goldfish bowl set the coffee table on fire, the two kids who had the exact same first and last names as my one brother and I, and the first time I ever pulled a Houdini and had to escape being tied up by a bully to a drainage piple, and resorting to using my toes to reach for a piece of glass. But these stories will have to wait for another time. This story is not about any of this; this story is about a darker time.

This picture is from my school across the street from our apartment. I don't think this was a happy time for me. I remember trying to get an adrenaline rush (I did not know anything about adrenaline at the time) by running across the street to beat the cars and seeing how close I could come to being hit, until one day I had my pants torn by the bumper of a car that came so close it almost killed me. I think back now to the horror I probably created in the minds of the drivers..  but I digress. My story is not about that; it is much darker than that.  

I remember this picture because I remember how upset I was at the time. I remember how stupid I thought that picture was. This was at a time when I would sing, "While Shepherds wash their socks by night all hanging on the line,.." while all the other kids sang, "While Shepherds watch their flocks by night all seated on the ground..."  When you think about it, to recall how angry you were because you felt taking a picture of yourself holding a Christmas bulb was a stupid pose, these many years later, there had to be something else going on in my psyche.  I don't know what was going on in my head. Things were building up over time. 

I remember the fights between my mother and stepfather. I remember fake crying on the stairs so they would stay together, as one or the other would threaten to leave (maybe my intention was not fake,  the feelings sure were not, but the tears were... I remember). What was very clear to me then and is to me now is that a very dark moment had entered my life.

The thing that I remember the most is the following. And sorry Mom, if you read this, but it is the truth, and I had to live with it for many years, and I had to learn to deal with it. 

This thing happened right before I went to South Africa. This was the year we witnessed Neil Armstrong walking on the moon, my soccer team, Leeds United, were the first Division Champions, and the Woodstock festival ("an Aquarium Exposition")  had been held in New York State, USA,  in the town of Bethel on Max Yasgur's farm in front of five hundred thousand concert goers.   

The weather for the month of December in London reached a high of 52.88 ºF and a low of  23.36 ºF. The first snowfall was on the 17th with a high of  35.6 ºF.  I suspect the date in question for my story was on Monday the 15th, the only day that was unusually sunny with 7 hours of sun. I remember there being sun, and I remember being outside a lot. It may not have been the 15th, it may well have been the 4th, the day they would switch the light on for the tree in Trafalgar.  I suspect it was not the 4th since we headed out early during the day, but it may have been. If it was, it was even colder; either way, my life was about to get cold in a different way, really cold, colder than the 1 degree Celsius that was to hit London that New Year's Eve.  The year was 1968.

This Christmas time, my mom told my stepfather that she was taking us to London to visit the Christmas tree and see the decorations in Trafalgar Square.  Both my brother and I were very excited as most children are when given the opportunity to hear carolers, see the celebrations and lights... a lot of lights.  The problem began the moment we got off the bus. My mom proceeded to tell us that this year, London had decided not to put up the Christmas tree, and unfortunately, there were no decorations, but we were not to worry, she had "a friend we could visit and would have a great time."  At one point on our journey, we passed a side street near downtown, and  I happened to notice some decorations further down the road.  I proceeded to point it out to my mother.  She told me I was mistaken, I had not seen what I knew I had seen. Something was wrong, very, very wrong.  Even at this age, I knew something was wrong.  I began to argue, but she insisted. Now, keep in mind I did not know the Trafalgar Christmas Tree tradition.

For those who do not know, the tree in Trafalgar Square is a tradition that has been going on since 1947. It was and still is a yearly gift of appreciation from Norway for the British support of Norway during the 2nd world War. This Norway spruce is huge, at a height of between 50 and 60 feet, and was cut down in November at a large ceremony that is attended by the mayor of Oslo and the British Ambassador to Norway.  Up until 2007, it was shipped free of charge to England by the Fred Oslo line. From 2007 on, it has been shipped by the DFDS Tor Line.  In other words, since 1947, there has never been a year that the tree has not been shipped and never a year that the 500 white lights of the tree were not lit in Trafalgar on the first Thursday in December by the Lord Mayor of Westminster.  

Mom began to get uneasy and even angry at my protestations that there were indeed decorations. Angry to the point I decided not to push it anymore. The only reason I was pushing it was because my brother David wanted to see the Christmas tree so bad. Barry, my other brother, was oblivious to all of this; he was still a baby and in the pram, sleeping.

Finally, we arrived at our destination.  It was a small apartment. We were quickly introduced to a man and then ushered out to the backyard to play. I remember being handed a yellow aeroplane and told to keep my brother David busy.  We played for about an hour, but it was cold outside. When I came back to the sliding glass door to get in, it was locked.  I knocked, no answer. I kept my brother busy for about another hour.  Finally, Mom showed up to let us in. As quickly as we came, we left.

At the bus stop, I proceeded again to tell my mom that I had seen decorations, hoping that she would at least take a look in case she was mistaken or misinformed, so we could still go and see if the Christmas tree was there.  She insisted I was wrong.  At that point, I told her I was going to "tell Dad" that I had seen decorations, and that she told me I was lying about it.  It was at that moment that things became very dark for me. It was at that moment that my life was to be affected in a serious way.  Mom grabbed me by my shoulders, looked into my eyes, and said, "If you tell your Dad that you did not see decorations, if you tell him that we went to that house, I WILL KILL YOU! You tell him you saw the tree, or he will be disappointed."  I remember it clearly as if it happened yesterday. I started to cry.  

It was not until years later, after my mom had abandoned us in the beautiful city of Port Elizabeth, South Africa, where the World Cup is being played as I type this, that I had the courage to tell my stepfather about the episode.  He suspected the man she was visiting was their best man at their wedding.  I will never know. In fact, I do not know if he was the reason she left us in South Africa to disappear and go back to England, as she had done when I was less than a year old.  In fact, it does not matter really.  None of it really does, as I have moved on. I give my mom no real blame. I do not know what was going on in her life to make her threaten me in the way she did. I have no idea what her childhood was like or what her relationship with my stepfather was like. Was she scared? Was she self-centered? Was she immature?  None of these I know.  All I remember is those words, "I WILL KILL YOU!"  Now, as an adult, I am sure she did not mean literally, but as a child, I was not so sure. My interpretation was probably very different than her intent. But again, none of that matters for this story.  My interpretation at the time as a young child is what counts.  

As said, I never held any animosity towards her due to this incident, but as I got older, I tried to understand it, not because I needed to, but because I was fascinated by what would make a mother say such a thing to her child. It is believed by many that there are two types of reasons when it comes to what many would see as poor moral judgment in a person:

Psychological egoism is the claim that people always act selfishly, 

to foster their own self-interest or happiness.

Psychological hedonism is the claim that people always act

 to attain their own pleasure and avoid pain. 

Was my mother simply selfish and wanting to foster her own self-interest, or was she avoiding her own pain? I do not think I will ever know. I lost touch with my mom from the time I was about nine or ten until I was about 22. The few times I have had interaction with her, she has never been forthcoming about her personal family history.  

My mother is usually too busy trying to cover her obvious guilty conscience by lying to share incidents about her own life. Silly lies, really, as she likes to say everyone around her is lying, but we know the truth. When I say silly lies, I mean things like telling us things in South Africa never happened, but how would she know? She was not there. My brothers and I knew since we experienced them together. One day, the silliest lie came out. She said we did not go to South Africa when we did. Finally, I pulled out my old passport that she did not know I had, and it proved the point. She even told my wife I had never ridden an Ostrich (something my wife has since done at the same Highgate Ostrich Ranch in  Oudtshoorn, where I rode one), I never saw tortoises on the way to school that were so big one could almost ride them, and I never caught chameleons on the way to school. How would she know? She was not there; silly lies that had no meaning other than to discredit me.  My brothers were there; they knew the life we lived.  My mom tried to divide my brothers and me by telling me the "lies that they told" and telling them the "lies that I told.". Frustratingly for her, she has never succeeded, as I have no blame for her; I had pity as these scenarios developed. I saw through the veil that subconsciously or maybe even consciously, she was trying to discredit us because if she could, then the fact she abandoned us in South Africa could be discredited too.  

The sad thing is that if she could discredit us by showing we were wrong about one fact, it would make no difference because what we experienced, even if we had misread it, was still what we experienced as young children and felt at that time. The exact same thing that happened when she used those words that haunted me for so many years. 


I have given my mother ample opportunity to move on, but her own pain, her own guilt, seems to keep holding her back despite the fact that her continued actions seem to indicate a bent towards psychological hedonism, and in the end, she is the one who continually pays the price. I still love my mom, although she was never really a mother in the true sense; she certainly is my mother by blood.  I love her for the fact that she gave birth to me.

"Self-deception is a shadowy phenomenon by which we pull the wool over some part of our own psyche. We put a move on ourselves. We deny, suppress, or minimize what we know to be true. We assert, adorn, and elevate what we know to be false. We prettify ugly realities and sell ourselves the prettified versions. We become our own dupes, playing the role of both perpetrator and victim. We know the truth, and yet we do not know it, because we persuade ourselves of its opposite." 

                                                                (Cornelius Plantinga, Jr., Not the Way It's Supposed to Be).

Most of you have heard one of the two following statements about lies:

"If you repeat a lie often enough, it becomes the truth, or "If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it!"

These are actually misinterpretations of Hitler's 'Big Lie' from Mein Kampf. Hitler actually proposed that if you tell a big enough lie, others will have to believe it because it is so outrageous they will not be able to wrap their heads around the fact that someone could lie so big and it not be true, since they themselves lie small all the time.  The fact that these misinterpretations of the fact derived from Hitler do not make them any less true.  


Research has shown how to implant false memories in people.  First, you tell a story, next you ask a question about the story that did not happen. In further meetings, ask the same question in a different way.  Over time, the question becomes familiar to the point that the familiarity experience seems to be a familiarity with the story, and as a result, the person starts to believe the false item really was part of the story. For example, Elizabeth F. Loftus tried to create false memories in students by showing them a film of a simulated car accident that happened at a stop sign.  Half of the participants were given a suggestion in passing that the stop sign was actually a yield sign.  When asked at another session what sign they remembered seeing, those who had been given the false information claimed emphatically it was a yield sign, and those who were not given a false suggestion were much more accurate in stating it was a stop sign.

A study by Saul M. Kassin and his colleagues at Williams College investigated the reactions of individuals falsely accused of damaging a computer by pressing the wrong key. Initially, these individuals denied they had hit the key.  However, when other students stated they had they had seen them hit the key, the individual's own guilt at the fact that maybe they were wrong, convinced them to sign a document saying they had hit the key. This even cemented further in their minds that they had hit the damaging key, so they came to believe they had.

What does this have to do with my mother? I think that she has repeated the scenario of abandoning us so many times and told so many lies about it, that she truly believes that she did not abandon us, despite the glaring fact that I was only nine years old and my brothers even younger.  The lie has been repeated in her mind so many times that she was a good mother that there is no way she can conceive she did this act, and certainly could not conceive that she used the words, "I WILL KILL YOU!" To accept this would mean that she would have to accept she was not a perfect mother to her children, and to do that would mean she would have to accept so many other truths. Truths that would change her way of thinking and, in reality, would make life so much easier for her, but to do this, she would also have to accept the guilt. The strange truth is you can't let the guilt go until you accept it.

But what would make a mother justified in using those words to a nine-year-old child? What would make a mother so impervious toward her own children? Yale University has used brain scans to study brains that drive good and bad mothering and has found a definite correlation between levels of neuron activity and what they call measures of "adequate" and "inadequate parenting."  Looking deeper into this, I found that Richmond University in Virginia has discovered that women develop a set of "Maternal Neurons" that operate as "Good/bad mother switches." They say that during pregnancy, there is a cluster of brain cells created and "switch on" after birth that correlate with good or bad parenting behaviors.  When my mom left her first husband, I was not quite a year old yet. When she uttered those words, "I will kill you!" my brother Barry had recently been born.  Was there some sort of bad switch turned on due to pregnancy, or does it go much deeper than that? Was it personal, or is it genetic?  Was there an unusually high release of stress hormones (adrenaline and noradrenalin) released due to stress with the situation between my mother and my stepfather, coupled with the guilt of the affair and anger at me for questioning her, that caused her to act so irrationally in that moment?

I probably will never know, and to be honest, it does not really matter. The sad thing is, so long as my mother denies she feels any guilt, she will never move on, and my brothers and I will never have a true relationship with her. That is the sad thing about all this.  The good thing.... the cycle has been broken.

Update: 

Since writing this in the summer of 2010, my mother and I had a conversation on the phone. She brought this topic up all by herself. For the first time, I found out some history. She was very forthcoming. She was abused as a child, and so was her sister.  She has no clue as to why or how she was able to abandon us. In fact, she finds it quite strange that her sister did the exact same thing with her child. She can find no excuse for it and finds it reprehensible. This was a shock to me as she has never shown true remorse in the past. Probably because she was too busy trying to hide from her own shame. Now she is accepting it. And that is the first step of letting the guilt go. Hopefully, this is a positive beginning for her. I hope so. She is my mom, and I still love her.

Update 2: 

Mom is back to her old ways.  Denies we ever had that last conversation. In fact h=she accused me of saying something in article written about my performing and my past, that was not true.  I knew I did not say what she accused me of as I say it the same every way, the exact same!  But hey, reporters sometimes get things wrong. I told her that I would go back and read the article and if it says what she said it did, I would aplogize to her,  even though I did not write the article, but if it does not say that, she would have to apologize for calling me a liar as she has done so many times or else, there was never any reason for us to speak again.  I went back, the article did not say what she accused. I sent it to her. She refused to apologize.  As a result, when she does reach out I simply reminder all she has to do is apologize for calling me a liar. She just can not bring herself to do so. Instead, asks why I would do that to an old lady?  It is a shame. But, it is what it is.  And I have been really trying to set healthy bouindries for myself.

Tied to a downspout.

 The Banachek Way:

 

Tied to a downspout from a 2-story building, his tiny hands bound behind his back, the six-year-old looked up as the bully sneered down at him, spat on his feet, and chuckled. “Get out of that, fuckwad.” the bully taunted, then swaggered away, never once looking back.

The boy’s eyes held a flicker of innocence—the faint, resilient smile of someone who knew it could have been worse. Despite the unusually fierce sun beating down on England’s gray sky, he felt a strange calm. For now, he was safe, because he understood one thing: he wasn’t beaten yet.

He watched the bully disappear into the distance and saw his situation as a complex puzzle—a challenge waiting to be solved. His eyes caught a glint in the sun: a broken piece of glass. Slowly, he rolled off his shoes, then, using his right foot, he removed the sock on his left foot. Stretching out, he carefully positioned his feet, moving closer to the perilous shard. Just barely touching the jagged edge.

He shifted, inching toward the glass, changing his stance many times. After what felt like an eternity—17 minutes—he finally reached a position where he could drag the shiny piece of shard towards his body, and then grab the glass with his trembling hands. He had reached the halfway point—the dangerous, crucial moment where he would know if he could succeed or fail. With the small shard of glass safely held in his hand, the real test lay ahead: cutting the rope that held him captive.

Another 20 minutes crept by, the boy didn't notice the sweat, the blood, or the burning ache in his hands. Only the rope mattered. With the blunt piece of glass, he furiously sawed at the stubborn strands. His muscles screamed, his vision blurred, but he didn't stop.

Then, with a final, desperate snap, the rope gave way. A tidal wave of adrenaline and triumph surged through him. He stood, tears of relief and joy streaming down his face. In that exhilarating moment, he learned two things: never give up when your back is against the wall, and always believe there's a way to win.

Two years later, the bully returned. The 13-year-old stood outside the 8-year-old boy's apartment, staring defiantly at the young man. He plunged a Bowie knife into the soft earth at his feet. The message was clear: “Fear me, I am going to hurt you, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

Just then, a window on the building slid open. The boy's stepfather peered out. "Steve, supper's ready," he said.

"But Dad..." The boy gestured at the menacing figure, feeling a sense of relief knowing his stepfather would surely fix the situation.

Instead, his father’s words sent a cold shock through the boy’s body: "Take care of that first, then come eat!" The window slid shut with an emphasized hopeless thump.

The bully grinned, advancing. With nowhere to run, the younger boy made a choice. He wouldn't fail. He charged, fists raised, a whirlwind of desperation and fury. The younger boy struck the older. The bully stumbled, then fell, and to the young boy's disbelief, the bully began to cry. No one had ever fought back before. The bully scrambled to his feet and ran, leaving his knife behind. The boy picked it up, cleaned it, and headed inside for supper. He had learned another important lesson: sometimes, the only way to win is to believe in yourself and go all out. In later years, when things got tough, the older boy, now a man, would take out the knife and stare at it as a reminder that there is always a way to succeed.

These instances are true. They really happened and set the stage for Banachek’s (formerly Steven Shaw) life.

He was abandoned in South Africa at the age of 9, left to raise his two younger siblings (1 year and 3 years old) with only an alcoholic stepfather who provided a roof over their heads but was hardly ever around. Most people would call this a tragedy. Banachek calls it freedom. It taught him to create his own moral compass and to always be a leader. He had to sacrifice a conventional childhood, but in return, he gained a unique perspective and a strong sense of right and wrong.

He worked three jobs in high school just to survive. He sacrificed a college education. Most people would call this a disadvantage. Banachek calls it an opportunity. He used it to find a love for entertainment, a passion that has taken him to every continent but one, every European country, most Asian and African countries, and along the way, he has met amazing people and had adventures that a conventional life could never offer.

In 1987, Banachek was chained and buried alive for a television special. It was a stunt so dangerous that even Houdini himself couldn’t complete it. Houdini had to be dug out, and his diary entry read, “The weight of the earth is crushing.” Banachek, like Houdini, knew it was the illusion of danger that was most important. His plan was to secretly slip out of the coffin into a hidden room while the cameras rolled, and men shoveled dirt onto the coffin for cover of the deception.  Once out, the bulldozers would come in and fill the rest. This way if the coffin collapsed from the weight, Banachek would still be safe. He would then tunnel back in 3 feet from the top once the hole was full. (Remember, Houdini only had to tunnel 2 feet and could not succeed.) When he arrived at the set, he discovered his partner had failed to follow the specific instructions for building the room. It was now a death trap. Banachek proceeded with the stunt anyway, but first he threw an extra 2 by 4 into the hidden room.

As the bulldozers began to fill the hole with dirt, the walls of the hidden room started to very slowly collapse. As Banachek started to tunnel back into the grave, a wall pinned Banachek in the small doorway, threatening to crush him. He never panicked. Reaching back, he wedged a two-by-four between the front and back walls, holding back the weight of the earth just long enough to continue his escape.

He tunneled back into the grave, closed the door, and waited. Forty-five minutes later, he burst to the surface, exhausted. The audience was in awe, never knowing how close he came to death. They also never knew that because of a bully when he was 6, he was able to think outside the box, never panic, and see each adventure through to its conclusion.  Banachek was always aware, panicking got you killed, clear thinking is what would save you.

Banachek never has nightmares about his near-death experiences because he does not see them as almost failures but rather as successful adventures. No matter the outcome, at the very least, he will always have a good story to tell. For Banachek, these near-death experiences aren't failures but triumphs. They are adventures that have helped him learn the lesson: never let your almost failures keep you from being your best self. See them as learning experiences that propel you toward success.

Reframe any negatives in your life to positives. You can always find a way.  By doing this, Banachek has become the most awarded mentalist in the United States, written nine best-selling books in the art of Mind-reading and every mentalist today uses at least one, if not more, of his creations. There is a reason Criss Angel, Penn and Teller, David Blaine, and others have sought out his expertise.  It all comes down to the fact Banachek believes in himself, and you should believe in yourself too. Life is too short to focus on negatives, and most often, a negative can be a positive if you look at it from a different angle.