Anger Is My Middle Name: A Memoir Read online

  PRAISE FOR LISBETH ZORNIG ANDERSEN’S ANGER IS MY MIDDLE NAME

  “Heart-wrenching . . . an important testimonial from a Denmark few ever see from within . . . a reminder that if we give a little extra—if we give of ourselves—we might also give a child a chance to rise and break the social curse.”

  —Kristeligt Dagblad

  “Although a grim tale, the book is ultimately life-affirming, as it illustrates that it is possible to reject one’s negative background and have a good life.”

  —Litteratursiden

  “A deeply moving odyssey through the twilight of Denmark’s underclass.”

  —Politiken

  “Moving in its honesty.”

  —Jyllands-Posten

  Text copyright © 2011 by Lisbeth Zornig Andersen

  Translation copyright © 2020 by Mark Mussari

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously published as Zornig—vrede er mit mellemnavn by Gyldendal A/S in Denmark in 2011. Translated from Danish by Mark Mussari. First published in English by Amazon Crossing in 2020.

  Published by Amazon Crossing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Crossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542015905 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 1542015901 (hardcover)

  ISBN-13: 9781542015899 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 1542015898 (paperback)

  Cover design by Rex Bonomelli

  Unless otherwise noted, all images are courtesy of a private collection.

  First edition

  CONTENTS

  ARTICLE 19

  PROLOGUE

  1968–71

  1971–72

  1972–74

  1975–77

  1977–78

  1979–80

  1980–81

  1981–82

  1982–83

  1983–84

  1984–86

  EPILOGUE

  MY FAMILY AND ME TODAY

  HOW DO WE BREAK THE PATTERN?

  AFTERWORD

  ARTICLE 12

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  ARTICLE 19

  1. States Parties shall take all appropriate legislative, administrative, social and educational measures to protect the child from all forms of physical or mental violence, injury or abuse, neglect or negligent treatment, maltreatment or exploitation, including sexual abuse, while in the care of parent(s), legal guardian(s) or any other person who has the care of the child.

  United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child

  PROLOGUE

  Sometimes I think about my life when I was a filthy, unwanted kid from Copenhagen living out in the country and roaming around Lolland with my three older brothers. One summer we took off on our bikes and rode all the way to the local beach at Hestehovedets Harbor, near Nakskov. I must have been eight at the time. I sat on the back of my brothers’ bikes. We swam in our underwear, dried ourselves off with our sweaters, and then rode home again. No one even knew we had gone. We didn’t bring any food with us—we didn’t even have any blankets like the other people swimming. But we knew where you could pick apples and berries along the way. A lovely summer memory of a time when my brothers were protecting me, but also a memory of a childhood without the boundaries every child needs. A childhood characterized for many years by betrayal, violence, and sexual assault, all of which formed the person I am today. A person who defies authority without blinking yet is still afraid to sleep with the lights off—who gets dry mouthed when she has to renew her passport. Who’d have thought that I would ever enter the world of politics and become a spokesperson for children?

  One evening in 2009, after many years of working full-time as an IT programmer and business developer, I came home tired and exhausted, as usual. With groceries in both hands and my computer bag slung over my shoulder, I fought my way through the hallway, which was overflowing with my children’s and their friends’ shoes. For once I didn’t yell that the children needed to get their shoes out of there if they wanted to keep them. Instead, I just sat down at the kitchen table and stared at the scene. I counted six children. My daughter Ida stood out—there was something different about her. Did she have that many ear piercings when I left for work that morning—and that hair color? I suddenly realized that I’d been working too much and knew too little about my own children’s lives.

  The next day I quit my job. Although it was the most exciting I’d ever had, it demanded my constant attention, and I gave it my all, from early morning to late at night. So, while it was a huge relief to quit, it was also incredibly stressful to go freelance and worry about not finding enough work. About getting sick. About not being good enough. The constant angst that had followed me since my early childhood.

  I started working as a self-employed IT and management consultant and subcontractor for the Danish company Zangenberg. At home, I became much more present as a mother. I was also earning more money, so I could give my family bigger gifts and we could travel more. I spent most of my time at Zangenberg sitting alone, deep in research and analysis, at an elegant desk in an all-white office in a tony neighborhood.

  Early one morning I checked my phone to find a voice message from Henrik Lund, the personal secretary to Karen Ellemann, then Denmark’s recently appointed Minister of Social Affairs and Secretary of the Interior. Lund asked me to call him back, which I did while wondering why a minister’s secretary was calling me. He told me the minister was inviting me for coffee because she wanted to hear a little about my life and discuss a few things. I inquired a bit more about it, and Lund said it concerned my experience being institutionalized during my childhood.

  We scheduled a meeting at the ministry for a week later: Friday afternoon, November 6, 2009.

  When the day for having coffee with the minister finally arrived, Henrik showed me into the minister’s office. Smiling broadly, Karen Ellemann stood there, her hand extended. We sat down, Karen poured some coffee, and I waited anxiously. Karen said that she had read a feature written by Karen Gjesing and me in the magazine Danish Communities. The article, by then a few years old, was the result of an evening Karen and I had spent talking about finding some use for our shared history.

  Karen Gjesing had been my social worker at Hylleholt Residence for Girls: I was a wild fourteen-year-old who’d escaped western Lolland and had wound up at a treatment center for young girls with behavioral problems. In the article, Karen wrote about investing oneself in other people’s children; I used my background as an economist with a degree from the University of Copenhagen to create a business case study that laid out what my brother Tonny and I had both cost and contributed to society. The report compared Tonny’s time in institutions, which hadn’t done him much good, and his long criminal record of drug and alcohol abuse, to the massive investment in me, including time at a special institution with a high percentage of well-educated social workers and other practitioners, many hours of psychological treatment, and rehabilitation benefits through the entire educational system.

  Karen Ellemann explained that she was attracted to the idea that civil society, certain individuals, had probably made the biggest difference for me. I agreed—but I added that a lot of money had been invested in me in the form of treatment and education, which were also important. We dove into an intense conversation about personal re
sponsibility and vulnerable children and teenagers. Along the way, she told me about her own life as an elementary school teacher and a divorced career woman with joint custody of her children.

  Suddenly she asked what I knew about the National Council for Children. I stared at her. The National Council for Children? I replied that I didn’t know much about it and that I was more focused on at-risk teens. She responded that the National Council for Children covers children up to the age of eighteen and monitors whether Denmark is complying with the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child, while also acting as a spokesperson for children.

  “Exciting,” I said, wondering why she’d brought it up.

  She told me they were searching for a chairperson for the National Council and she was offering me the post, saying that I represented our nation’s most vulnerable in a way the council had never seen before. I had no idea how to respond and felt as if I needed to say something clever. Instead, I asked if there was any information about the National Council I could look at.

  “Yes,” she replied. “You can look at their website—and here are some things I’ve printed out for you.”

  Karen gave me the weekend to think about the offer, along with her cell-phone number in case there was anything I wanted to discuss. I thanked her, stood up, and left. On my way out of the ministry, I called Karen Gjesing to tell her about the job offer and ask if she thought I should take it.

  “Damn! Chair of the National Council for Children!” she exclaimed. “Yes—of course!”

  I accepted the offer. For the next three years I served as chair of the National Council for Children, throwing myself into politics and appearing almost daily in both print and broadcast media. I met frequently with members of the Danish parliament, where I fought to strengthen children’s rights and to work those rights into legislation—including placing greater focus on the authorities’ responsibility for children’s well-being, holding meetings with the Catholic church about ethical guidelines for priests, and ensuring Denmark’s compliance with the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child at meetings in Geneva. And so much more.

  Who would have ever believed it? Not me.

  This book is not about my time as chair of the National Council for Children, however: it is about my childhood, which qualified me for the job. I invite you to join me on a journey to Denmark’s darker side—to an everyday life filled with abuse and violence at a level only few can imagine. I’ve chosen to share my story to illustrate how a child experiences a truly terrible upbringing. When I was chair of Denmark’s National Council for Children, I met many children living the same unfortunate life my brothers and I experienced. My role was to serve as a spokesperson for those children—for all children, including the most vulnerable. Whether you’re a neighbor, a social worker, a schoolteacher, or a grandparent, you must and should act. In this book, you’ll meet many people who acted on my behalf. I hope they will inspire you to reach out as well.

  At the same time, I hope the book will impart some wisdom to adults, both young and old, who’ve also been abused. They’ll recognize themselves in scenes they’ve possibly never told anyone about because of their shame, guilt, and sorrow. Hopefully they’ll discover that they can still lead normal—even good—lives. I hope my tale will help professionals who work with children—as well as adults who’ve experienced safe and happy childhoods—understand the damage that can be done to vulnerable children and adults.

  I’ve tried to describe what I remember of my early childhood. Therefore, the story develops in both language and perspective as I get older. The first chapters are almost unreflective descriptions of events in which I don’t relate to what happened. I simply recount what I remember, have been told, or have read in my case files. Later chapters contain some of the reflections I recall having at a specific age. I didn’t include all incidents or events—only a selection to offer the basic tenor of my everyday childhood.

  I chose this style because I wanted to give the child Lisbeth a credible voice, which I could not achieve if I told my story in the rationalizing voice of an adult. Still, I’ve cheated a bit by using photo captions to supply the adult voice relating past incidents.

  Throughout the book, I’ve tried to stick to descriptions rather than judgments. Some people from my past will feel singled out, but I can’t describe the realities of my life if I omit what’s offensive. The people who assaulted me know who they are: now they will have to face the fact that the rest of the world also knows that they abused at least one child, just as I must live as an adult who was abused.

  A little about memory: I realize that I might recall things imprecisely—everyone does—but I haven’t changed the text because of it. What I recall is the reality I experienced, the one that shaped me—that still shapes me—as a person.

  Recognizing that I may have forgotten things, or remembered them incorrectly, I’ve strengthened my memory by seeking access to my personal files and by interviewing most of the people about whom I’ve written. I have included a few of those documents in this book. Director Mette Korsgaard, from Krage Film, documented some of these interviews on camera in My Childhood in Hell (Min barndom i helvede). The documentary follows my efforts to understand my childhood: it shows how I was able to break free from my social inheritance.

  My mother and father know what I have written—that I have written about both their love and failure. I haven’t asked for their permission. They chose to take part in the documentary to explain themselves. I believe they accept the book as an honest account of my brothers’ and my childhood, which they have not always been part of.

  At the time that I wrote this book, two of my brothers knew about it; I asked for their blessing to write about them, and they granted it. My stepfather acknowledges the abuse, but claims not to recall if it was also of a sexual nature.

  “Zornig”—my middle name—means “angry” in German. Except for the gratitude I’ve felt for the help of so many friendly people, anger has been the driving force in my life. I hope that, with time, I can let go of it altogether. Until then, anger is my middle name—for better or worse.

  1968–71

  Mom and Dad are beautiful. They’re both blond and thin. Mom often wears short skirts or shorts and high boots in a matching color. It’s the height of fashion—and Mom likes to look chic. Some people say she resembles the Swedish singer Anniqa. Dad often wears white shirts, which he uses when he works as a waiter. He has thick, wavy hair and eyes that are always smiling. I love my father’s eyes.

  Now and then we visit Grandma and Grandpa, who live nearby in a red wooden house. Grandpa mostly just lies in bed since he broke his leg, although he gets up sometimes to take his three-wheel moped to the pub. Before Grandpa got hurt, he used to go down to the harbor every morning to try to find work. He usually got paid in cash, but sometimes they paid him in fish. That’s why Mom hates fish.

  Grandma and Grandpa’s house always smells like gas, petroleum, boiled potatoes, and dogs. The house has a living room, a kitchen, two bedrooms, and an attic. And there’s a small bathroom with no sink. The bathroom floor bulges and turns up at the edges. And it always smells like pee.

  One of the bedrooms is Grandpa’s. He has his bed, a standing ashtray, a police radio, a walkie-talkie, and his beloved parrot, Jakob. Jakob has his own bag of peanuts next to his cage. Grandpa lies there every day in a fog, smoking with his cigarette holder. Sometimes he yells at Grandma in the living room when he wants coffee or a beer, and then Grandma yells back, “Shut up, you old fool,” and laughs.

  Sometimes I go into Grandpa’s room. Not to talk to Grandpa—I’m afraid of him. He coughs all the time, speaks in a rusty voice, and is cross-eyed. But I like to talk to Jakob, who can sing the old Danish song: “That time when I left home, Jakob came along.”

  Grandma’s room has a single bed, a double bed, and a closet. When I stay over, I sleep with Grandma in the double bed. Next to her bed is a nightstand with a small radio that plays music all night lo
ng and a soda bottle with a cork in it. Grandma always keeps a red or green soda on the nightstand. Every evening she takes one sip and then puts the cork back in. Jens sleeps in the other bed. He’s my cousin, the son of my uncle Pjevs. Jens lives with Grandma and Grandpa.

  I’ve never been in the attic. I wouldn’t dare. That’s where Putte lives. He’s one of my uncles. Sometimes he comes running into the house to hide from the police. Then Grandma says he isn’t home.

  The kitchen is small and narrow and smells like gas from the stove and the white water heater hanging over the sink. This is where we wash ourselves too. In the doorway to the kitchen there’s a curtain you can pull closed when you need to wash up. The pot for potatoes sits on the gas stove. There’s a gray ring of dried potato foam on the inside of the pot. When she needs to make dinner, Grandma fills the big pot with potatoes and water and carries it into the living room. Then she sits down by the coffee table with the pot in her lap and peels the potatoes.

  Grandma and Grandpa have two dogs, Døtter and Chap. I like to lie down on the floor with Døtter and bury my nose in her stomach while I listen to the adults talking. The wood floor in the living room is shiny and greasy. From the floor, I can look up at the coffee table, which is covered with ashtrays and coffee cups, cream in a brown pitcher, and a sugar bowl with sugar cubes in it. And there’s a huge thermos with a spigot on the side and a button on top you can push to get coffee. There are usually a lot of beer bottles on the table too. Grandma never drinks beer, but Grandpa and many of their guests do. Under the table there’s an orange rug with long tufts. If you look closely enough, you can see a whole field of brown tobacco in between the tufts. It’s tobacco from all the adults who roll cigarettes. Grandma and Grandpa always have a lot of guests.

  Mom was eighteen when she married Dad. They’re from the same neighborhood in South Harbor. She told me that they became sweethearts one day when Dad and one of his friends were teasing Mom about missing some teeth. She gave him a good smack, as she says, and then they became sweethearts. She was already pregnant by another man with my older brother Michael at that time, but Dad says that they got married because it was one way to leave home and get your own apartment.