During my time in New Hampshire, I did more than become a martial artist. I had already begun to make quite the name for myself as a hell-raiser.

I couldn’t really talk until I was four. They thought I was deaf, but it turns out I just chose to communicate through a series of unintelligible grunts and snorts. My older sister, Aubrey, became my interpreter and the only person who could understand my unique form of communication. Aubrey was also a saint as a child and barely made a sound. This contrast seemed to make my existence even louder.

On the topic of talking, I had some interesting first words. My father would watch the show Tour of Duty, about the war in Vietnam. The show’s intro featured UH-1 Huey helicopters flying through the jungle with the Rolling Stones’ “Paint It Black” as the soundtrack. I would hear that sweet melody and run into the room to see the helicopters careening through the sky. This likely began my helicopter obsession and resulted in my first words: an emphatic “Tour-de-Duty,” which I would scream whenever I wanted to watch the show. Around this time, I rapidly spiraled into a full-blown military obsession. I refused to wear anything other than camouflage outfits and carried around various pieces of kit, like binoculars, helmets, or grenades. Occasionally, I would even add some camouflage face paint to ensure that whatever enemy was out there would definitely not notice me. My most prized outfit at the time was a Coast Guard uniform, modeled after my father’s, which I proudly wore for my school photo and any more formal event. All school projects included drawings showcasing military might. My assignment to paint with glaze on a plate for Mother’s Day was no exception. While most people in the class stuck with flowers, hearts, and the like, I painted a Coast Guard cutter with “Happy Mother’s Day” as an afterthought across the top. If you had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have told you, without hesitation, that I was going to be a helicopter pilot.

I already mentioned that I broke my collarbone and had stitches, but I also had school photos taken with a black eye and lived a life where, at all times, I was bruised and torn. It was so bad that, at one point, my parents were brought into the school and questioned. I was really leaning into “The Bull” nickname.

Most of the stories about me during this time were mischievous and resulted in me getting into trouble. There’s the story about my parents trying to enjoy a ski vacation and getting paged to return to the daycare. Upon their arrival, they were greeted by the panicked daycare staff and me, absolutely irate, yelling about how “I hate the babies,” meaning my fellow daycare captives - ski trip ruined.

I also earned another nickname when I got into an altercation with a neighbor. Instead of deploying my martial arts skills, I went more feral and bit him, thus becoming “the biter and the spitter.” I’m not sure where the spitting part came from, but I am sure it was warranted.

During family get-togethers, when things were broken, missing, or went sideways, I was usually at the center of it. And if I wasn’t, it was easy to blame on the kid running around recklessly in camouflage. Family get-togethers seemed to always go sideways with my family. Leading up to every holiday, there would be drama about who was hosting, who would be there, who would cook, and who was already fighting with whom. Silent treatments and “passionate discussions” were commonplace, and you always had to tread lightly or someone would cook off. At the head of this were the matriarch and patriarch, my grandparents on my father’s side, who ruled over the family with stern authority. I am sure “Grampy” and “Grammy” loved all their children and grandchildren, but they did not make a habit of demonstrating it. I remember being told by my grandmother that kids should be “seen and not heard,” and I distinctly remember being told that if I continued to misbehave, I’d be locked in the closet and fed bread and water. I think it’s safe to say that, as the loudest and youngest of all the grandchildren, I was not the favorite. There are some family photos of me being held and fawned over as a baby, but they were not outwardly affectionate people. I have many memories of my childhood with my grandparents, but no recollection of them telling me how much they loved me or that they were proud of me. What I do remember is my mother bragging about my elementary school teacher, who said what a great student I was and how I was a pleasure to have in class. My grandmother retorted, “I’m sure she tells every parent that.”

I have only fond memories of these early years, but I am sure, on some level, this bothered me.

In the summer of 1991, we packed up again to move to Chesapeake, Virginia.