My parents did not listen to the Beatles. They were just a little too old, having had kids right at the time the Fab Four blew up in the States. My older siblings did not listen to the Beatles. They were just a little too young, and came to listening to their own music after the Beatles broke up. (As far as the Beatles knew, 7 or 8 years was a good long time to be a band. The Stones were just kids then.) In my house, it was either Eddy Arnold and the Kingston Trio, or KISS and REO Speedwagon.
The music to which I was subjected as a child is a small example of a number of perceived injustices I experienced growing up. To be sure, there were a few real injustices, but my estimation of these has even diminished since I saw “Slumdog Millionaire.” For a while there, however, my resentment at having spent 17 years in the house of my parents for a crime I did not commit was a defining part of my life. This shroud encased me in an emotional cowl which, while familiar, was isolating.
If I was going to be in this world, the shroud of resentment had to go, along with my sense of guilt for the things I had done (even though I acted in self-defense at all times.) I had to get ready to ask for forgiveness for the things I had done by forgiving the people I thought had wronged me. Removing the cowl is no fun, as any 8 day old Jewish boy can tell you. But after a snip here and a snip there, the boy gets a name and becomes a person in the world. This life demands sacrifices, yet living makes it worth the price.