Dmitry A. (SLE) — Rules, Resistance, and Unspoken Magic

The Burden of Childhood and the Injustice Tracker

Memories of childhood completely threw me off balance: I realized just how much injustice there was in childhood. SLEs always track whether they are being treated fairly or unfairly.

I’ll tell you how I punched Rusha in the face. Rusha was my second cousin. My mom and I came to Moscow to visit relatives. I must have been about five years old, though I analyzed the situation when I was seven or eight. There was this Moscow second cousin, Rusha—his real name was Dima Fedotov; I don’t know why Rusha. His mom called him that, and I liked it because you could humiliate him with that word—Rusha. “Ugh, Rusha!” But he was older than me. And for a little SLE-child, any older being is automatically an authority.

Unspoken Aggression at the Dacha

Apparently, he didn’t like me very much. We were staying at their dacha near Moscow. Rusha was hanging out with a friend who was even older than him. Since Rusha couldn’t show direct aggression toward me, he egged his friend on to mock me. It was very unpleasant.

I internally understood that I just didn’t fit into their comfortable vacation — some kid from some “Sour City” had shown up. They asked me: “Where are you from?” I said: “From Gorky.” They replied: “From Sour? Ha-ha.” (Note: A pun on "Gorky," which means "bitter," turned into "sour")

It irritated me so much — what do you mean, Sour, I’ll smash your face in right now! But I couldn’t hit him — he was a relative, and I was a proper boy. I thought: Sour, fine, Sour then.

Breaking Point and Retribution

They kept provoking me, provoking me, the two of them, quietly and persistently. Then the friend left somewhere, and we were about to leave too. And on the last day I beat up Rusha. I dumped everything on him. I allowed myself everything. I broke his nose. I remember grandma and his mom leading Rusha away, blood running from his nose, and I felt so proud, so relieved — like I’d finally punched him in the face for all my grievances.

The Trap of "Proper" Upbringing

Analyzing my childhood shows that I was raised very properly—and that interfered with me greatly. That very “properness” led to me punching Rusha, because when aggression was directed at me, I had to suppress my outrage. I was a guest, I was proper, I was supposed to behave properly. I bottled up my dissatisfaction—which could have easily turned into a punch between the eyes.

If I had simply allowed myself to be myself and say: “Guys, one more word and I’ll knock all your front teeth out,” there would have been no need for a fight at all. Why? Because I would have sounded different. They would have understood that their teeth were already wrapped around my fists, and that it was better not to mess with me. But why did they mess with me? Because I was “sour,” because I was a wimp.

And why was I a wimp? Because I was proper. They understood I wouldn’t punch them.

Impunity and Family Rules

I really liked that I wasn’t punished for breaking Rusha’s nose. They just took me to another room. We were separated, and no one scolded me at all. They simply said: “Well yes, he broke Rusha’s nose… oh well.” There was no aggression, not a single word against me. That made me happy.

In our family, you were supposed to be proper. Proper meant: always wash your hands before eating; don’t clink your spoon against the plate; when you bring a spoonful of soup to your mouth, make sure it doesn’t tap against your teeth; when you stir tea, nothing should jingle. We were from a respectable family. Some unsightly village folk might allow themselves such things because they were ill-mannered, but we were the well-mannered bunch.

The Ultimate Mockery: Playing the Violin

And how well-mannered were we really? I’ll say even more. Looking back, I’ve come to the conclusion that the greatest mockery you could pull on a SLE is sending him to learn the violin. It was total madness.

Before school, when I was six, I was sent to learn the violin. I was from a proper family, a professor’s family. I had to live up to it—Dimka had to go and learn the violin. Not boxing, not sambo, not axe throwing, not climbing trees—playing the violin, not even the accordion. Well, I bore that blow of fate with dignity.

Robin Bobin and the Lumberjack Role

When I played “Robin Bobin Barabek,” everyone cried. The most interesting part was that we were little kids, learning through staged performances, and I got the best roles. Take “A Little Fir Tree Was Born in the Forest”—a bunny ran past, a gray wolf, and then the lumberjack came and chopped down the fir tree right to the root. I was that lumberjack.

My granddad carved me a proper wooden axe. You could tell I was holding a real, genuine axe. Being the "proper" boy I was, I’d walk out, playing the violin, and chop down the tree with this axe. A proper role for a SLE.

I also really liked the song “Robin Bobin Barabek” because it was about food. All songs about food touch my heart. And in that one, he ate forty people, a cow, a bull, and a gray-haired butcher... I liked that the guy ate so sumptuously! He was truly enjoying himself, it was fun to sing, such a amusing poem. How the guy wanted to go wild and eat properly, and then says: “My belly hurts.”

The Red Violin and Conductive Hearing

My violin was special. Everyone else had a regular violin, but mine was red. I got the red violin. They gave it to me for free at that school.

I studied for a year. When we were finishing our studies, our teacher said: “You should become a conductor.”

That pleased me, because in an orchestra I could hear every instrument separately—meaning, I didn't just hear everyone altogether, but could pick out any musician with my ear at any moment along with their performance, how they played against the general background. In a classroom, there’s a general hum, but I could spot the sixth row, second seat, and hear what they were saying.

I was delighted to receive such a recommendation—to become a conductor. I was the only one who got that suggestion; the rest were just musicians. So, overall, I didn’t disgrace my SLE nature, even under a torture as great as playing the violin.

Public Humiliation and Unfairness

I really disliked public punishment; I considered it personal humiliation—there’s nothing worse. There should be no public punishments, no unfair punishments. In general, there shouldn’t be any punishments at all.

I wasn’t beaten; I don’t know what that’s like. It wasn’t done in our family. But when someone told me off on the street, scolded me—especially in front of everyone, God forbid with acquaintances present—that was the worst thing. There are many examples of that.

The Fear of Unjustified Risk

Once I was afraid to slide down a hill into a river. For my parents, the river was shallower than knee-deep, but for me, it was practically up to my head. I was scared, very scared. I understood that it was an unjustified risk. I didn’t want to take it: I’d just fall into the water and not reach the bottom with my feet. For them, it was fine—they step in and it’s only knee-deep, but I could drown.

I really didn’t want to go down that hill. But my parents pushed me. I was a boy, a future soldier; I had to do it, everyone could... I remember who “everyone” was—those kids were three or four years older than me, seven- or eight-year-old draft horses sliding down that hill, while I was about five. Adults said: “Come on, slide down! What are you afraid of, are you a sissy?”

What do you mean, a sissy?! I remember how hurt I was when they accused me of being a coward.

What was I afraid of? I was afraid of unjustified risk. And it was said out loud, for the whole beach to hear; it felt awful. My parents should have tried to understand what I was afraid of. At least ask. Find out why I didn’t want to go there. But it wasn’t fear of the height of the hill at all. It was the depth. But since in the eyes of adults I was a future soldier, it felt like there was no chance they’d ever understand me.

The Confrontation in Karelia

A similar situation happened with a horse when I was seven or eight—a little green kid. My mother and I went to Karelia in winter. There were huge snowdrifts; we were skiing, and a horse with a foal was roaming around. We needed to ski past it. My mother said, “Go ahead!” And I saw that the horse was furious—ears pinned back, baring its teeth, full-on aggression. I read that well. And I imagined that if the horse charged at me, I wouldn’t be able to run away with my little legs. No chance at all. The snow was deep, skis sank in, there was only one track, and trying to run through loose snow on skis is nonsense. You’d have to take the skis off and run, because that would be faster—but the snow was deep, the horse would catch up anyway, and I’d get beaten up regardless. I flat-out refused, and my mother said, “No, go! Go on! What are you, a coward?”

What kind of coward? If it had been something within my abilities... Rusha was a year older than me, and I didn’t chicken out of punching him in the teeth. I did it—nothing happened, even though I could have gotten it from the older kid. I wasn’t afraid because it was within my strength. But I couldn’t handle a horse; I couldn’t outrun it.

Public Betrayal and Lasting Resentment

I realized there was aggression from my mother and aggression from the horse, and I needed to take measures. I took off my skis and ran in the opposite direction from the horse. I ran into the forest, went a long way through it. I ran home—and at home I paid for it in front of my mother’s acquaintances.

Not only did she yell at me, she also beat me in the face with pants. Everyone saw it. It didn’t hurt, it wasn’t scary—it was unbearably hurtful that nobody understood me at all, and on top of that I was so badly humiliated.

That’s real humiliation. You don’t forget it. And when you tell it, you feel aggression: “Why did they treat me like that?”

Would they dare beat me in the face with pants now, when I could at least dodge, at most hit back with those same pants? Now nobody would dare do that to me; now it’s kind of scary to mess with me. But back then, for some reason, they thought it was acceptable. That’s wrong.

Controlled Risk vs. Unjustified Fear

Parents really need to understand the reason for a child’s fear in any given situation. A SLE doesn’t get scared for no reason. I never got scared for no reason. I always clearly assessed my strength. Always.

When I bought my first car, an “eight,” I raced, took ninety-degree turns at huge speeds, practically on two wheels. Everyone told me, “You’re going to crash like that someday.” I told everyone, “I never take unjustified risks.” I always control the car. When I stop controlling it, I slow down; I never drive like a maniac. From the outside it looks like I’m reckless, but I have full control.

I fought at school, but only when I knew I was stronger. I never finished anyone off, never hit the face, even though they hit me in the face in return. I knew that if I hit the face, there’d be blood and I’d have to answer for it. I always hit the chest. It’s very hard to knock an opponent down that way, even if he’s weaker than you but standing fairly solidly. But I did it, consciously—I deliberately chose the harder path.

The Turning Point with the Sport Horse

You have to build self-confidence in a child. I was a spineless little wimp for a very long time. But in first grade I started attending a riding school. I had inner insecurity, but fairly quickly—literally by the third lesson—one athlete, a big guy, about eighteen years old, led a horse up to me and said: “Here, take him for a walk.”

A sport horse is a completely different animal compared to school horses. It has temperament, it has strength. I had to walk up to this wild beast, take it by the reins, and walk it after the lesson so it could cool down. And it could feel that a wimp had come up to it—it wanted to break free and run.

And right then an enormous sense of responsibility switched on inside me. I realized that if I let it go now, I would never catch it again. It would be shameful, first of all, because I couldn’t handle it, and second, because it would simply be wrong.

I was the one in charge here, no matter how much it tried to break away—and it even tried to rear up on its hind legs. I was eight years old, and next to me this huge horse was rearing up, four times taller than me. I still held it, held it and made it understand that I was the one in charge, even though I was terribly scared.

Those five minutes of walking were pure hard labor—whole years, entire eras seemed to pass for me in that time. I held the horse with all my strength, God forbid I let it go. And then I realized that I could endure all of this.

Breaking the Block and Earning Respect

And the first thing I did after that was stop allowing people to mock me at school. Before that I had been a wimp—that is, a punching bag. The very next day after the incident with the horse, I beat up the strongest boy in the school. I really took him apart; I simply allowed myself to do it.

I had always been able to, but there was a psychological block—lack of self-confidence. I knocked him down, beat him well, really well. That’s it.

And the world changed for me. I realized that maybe they wouldn’t respect me for my intelligence, but at least I was no longer subjected to humiliation among my peers. They understood that now they had to reckon with me, and moreover, they would have to reckon with my opinion—and that is worth a lot.

Calculated Risks and Overcoming Panic

You can’t tell an SLE, “No, it won’t work, there are so many dangers.” Yes, if I didn’t know there were dangers... I assess the degree of risk perfectly. I will never take unjustified risks. I worry about any pain in my life. Fights are fights, but I don’t like pain. I’m afraid of dental treatment, for example. So I assess any risk. If I find it acceptable, it means I’ve already thought it through.

You only start thinking that something might be dangerous, and I’ve already thought about it ten times and realized it won’t hurt me. And if it won’t hurt, then we’ll get through it. This is a very important point, because all sorts of women love to dramatize: “Oh, there are bandits there, they’ll cut your head off...” Clucking away. I already know there are bandits and that heads get cut off. If I know that, it means I’ve taken some safety measures—I’m not a complete idiot. I never take unjustified risks. Never.

Controlling the Situation: Spatial Awareness and Performance

I’ve never had the desire to do something just on a dare: “Come on, let’s go!” First, I assess my capabilities: to go or not to go. If I feel that I can do it—even if it’s at the extreme edge of my abilities—and I understand that I still have a margin of safety left, only then will I go.

I’ve taken turns at high speed, practically on two wheels. Everyone who saw it thought, “That’s it, he’s flipped.” But I was controlling the situation. I like effects like that. Yes, I like showing that what you weaklings can’t do, I can.

I have a great sense of my own physical position—how I’m sitting, whether I can get hurt. If a blow is coming, I feel where I need to move away from it, whether to the right or left. Those moments before impact are fractions of a second, but it turns out I think through a tremendous amount in that time.

Split-Second Processing in a Crisis

To make it clear how my brain works in a critical situation, I can give an example—a fall from a horse.

There was a competition; I was poorly prepared and fell off the horse. As I was falling, I was flying from a height of about one meter twenty. I’m flying and I realize that I don’t have the reins in my hands, I’m not holding the horse, and I see the reins flying past me. A thought pops up: “Grab them!” Because if I fall and there are no reins in my hands, the horse will be uncontrollable and I’ll have to run after it.

I grab the reins, turn toward the spectators, and see the audience. Someone is surprised, someone is frightened; Anechka was there. Anya is looking, and I’m ashamed. She’s watching my disgrace, watching me fall off a horse.

I also remembered that it’s better to fall in front of the horse’s front legs. In that case, the horse will never step on the rider; it will stop.

Only after all these thoughts did I actually hit the ground. That’s how quickly my brain works. I clearly remember all the sensations I experienced at that moment; I even remember the exact position of my body.

High-Definition Sensory Perception

In critical situations, my attention sharpens very strongly; it feels as though I see everything at once. It seems to me that I even perceive everything tactilely. When I see something, sensations immediately switch on. I see a cup—I know what it feels like to the touch.

If there are objects of an orange-red color or something unusual that doesn’t fit into the scene at all, that will attract my attention; I will absolutely need to touch it. If something is new, I also need to touch it.

Many people think, for example, that on a table, against a general background, you can’t notice anything. I notice everything. That’s why I don’t like it when you come to some café and they serve excellent dishes, but there’s a small chip on the plate. It seems like a trifle, but I notice it. The waiter comes over and there’s a tiny hair on his sleeve. Where did it come from on his sleeve? If it’s on his sleeve, then it could end up in the food.

I see absolutely everything down to the smallest details, to the finest nuances. When I choose products, I sort of taste them through the packaging. I can taste a drink without even opening the bottle.

Personal Territory and the Art of Concealment

A child needs their own corner or their own territory. Absolutely. I had such a place—it was my “shed.” People could go in there, but I made myself a hiding place. I dragged in something like a safe door and made myself a fake safe. I closed this safe with that door. And while everyone thought the secrets were behind the door, in fact all the secrets were in the door. The door had a false bottom, and nobody suspected it. Things like that were enough for me. If I had secrets, I kept them there. No one hides things better than an SLE.

Try this: you have an empty room and one stool, and you need to hide a knife. Where would you hide it? You need to stick the blade into the underside of the stool. Who would guess it’s there? No one.

I hid better than anyone. If there was someone stronger and more agile than me, I always watched that person and eventually did it better than them. When we played hide-and-seek, everyone got tired of looking for me. I read books about ninjas, about the art of being invisible. They weren’t actually invisible, but they knew how to blend into the landscape so well that they became invisible. I did the same.

For example, if it’s getting toward evening somewhere, the sun is setting, and it shines straight into your eyes, it’s uncomfortable to look against the sun—you can’t see anything. That’s exactly where you need to hide. It seems like an open place, but nothing is visible.

Physical Training and Brain Teasers

Everything in a child needs to be developed: I went swimming, I did cross-country skiing. I really didn’t like running long distances, but in short sprints I had no equal.

As for thinking, I really liked various tasks in magazines. In Murzilka, you had to find ten differences between two pictures. I waited eagerly for each issue.

There was a lot of interesting material in the magazine Science and Life. Various logic puzzles. They had even more interesting things, for example, seeing something three-dimensional in something flat. That just blew my mind. It completely changed my worldview. Thank God we subscribed to Science and Life at home. I loved it very much.

The Fear of Looking Foolish

The scariest thing, aside from public humiliation, is feeling stupid. Because of this, I didn’t like studying. I was afraid of looking stupid. I’m not stupid; everything came to me very easily.

I hated school. In the early grades: they call my last name—“F”, and that’s it: “Ha-ha-ha.”

That’s it—everyone who’s laughing, two-thirds of the class also got Fs; they’re just as stupid as I am, but they called out my name. Was it really impossible not to announce it publicly? I already know I got an F; I got my notebook back and see the grade. Why humiliate me in front of the whole class and make me look stupid?

Even though two-thirds of them are just as stupid and just as clueless.

The Need for Motivation and Practical Utility

The bad grades were there because there was no motivation, and when there’s no motivation—nothing is worse. If I don’t understand what something is for, and there’s an opportunity not to do it, I’d rather not do it.

If it just had to be done, I’d scrape by with C’s and D’s—C, D, C, D—just to pass somehow, because I didn’t understand why I had to study it. I strictly need to see a practical benefit.

To this day, I don’t understand why I was taught higher mathematics: derivatives, differentials, sines, cosines. Did it make my life any easier? No. I didn’t understand what it was needed for, not at all. And I barely managed to pass it. It wouldn’t even go into my head, and there were these huge formulas. Memorizing all those formulas without motivation was pure torture for me. I could never do it.

The Absurdity of Redundant Learning

Worse still, I found out that some great mathematician had calculated all of this long ago, that every equation has its own solution, and that there’s a giant reference book containing over two hundred and fifty thousand of these equations—practically all of them gathered in one place...

That completely threw me off track. Why learn it if it’s all calculated and there’s a reference book? Normal people, if they’re engineers, just use those calculations and consult the reference book. I learned that later.

Real Responsibility at the Radio Technical College

By my own will, I enrolled in a radio technical college, and there I was getting A's and B's. I was interested. I understood the clear, practical benefit of every single subject. I enjoyed studying there; I enjoyed the responsibility that fell onto my shoulders.

In the first semester, ten percent of our class got kicked out. And I understood that if I didn’t pass the first semester right now, I’d be expelled. And if I was expelled, I wouldn’t get a secondary education—I’d be a nobody, worth nothing. The responsibility was immense. This was eighth grade, fifteen years old.

I clearly realized that if I studied half-heartedly, I’d just be kicked out, and my whole life, my fate, my entire future would go down the drain. I knew I had to pass everything. It was that kind of deep, serious responsibility... A child like that absolutely needs responsibility.

The Power of Praise and Non-Standard Thinking

If a teacher was well-disposed toward me—which was rare—I would always get straight A's in their subject. I always made an effort whenever teachers showed interest in me. If I was given credit in advance, told I was doing great, I worked off that advance in full.

At our technical college, we had an engineering design class. I was the only one who passed it with an A. Once, they praised me in advance, saying that I had a talent and a very unconventional vision for how to construct things. That was all it took. For that praise, I... I became the best. I really was the best. I loved it!

Interest was shown in me, so I showed interest in return. I realized that here I could prove myself, and I did. They praised me for seeing an unconventional approach. We were given a very simple task, and I found an original solution—I designed an unusual control panel, something that didn't exist before.

I broke established rules. I didn’t follow the standard path. I had a bit of a protest in me: why should I do it as written, like it’s always been done?

When they praised me, I realized this teacher wasn't a closed-minded, rigid person who would force me to go strictly left-to-right, black-on-white, and so on. Where there’s room for creativity and a chance to change existing norms, I have no equal. I always have plenty of ideas—if only they were encouraged...

Unleashing Potential: Taking Center Stage

SLEs can be geniuses. All it takes is praising them just a little bit—and that's it!

In pedagogical college, I studied at the Faculty of Physics and Mathematics. Physics came easily to me, studying was boring, and I already knew everything. I just wanted to get it over with, get my degree, and move on with my life.

Then suddenly, an offer came up. There was a college with a focus on physics and astronomy that invited us to play KVN (a popular comedy competition) against them. My classmates decided there was no better candidate for the team than me. It was music to my ears.

We won that KVN with such a triumph that people on the faculty were still talking about it two years later. That was an event! And I made that event happen. I was given room to spread my wings. All the jokes, unconventional expressions, and creative ideas—everything was needed to break up the purely technical tasks. I believe I carried the team. I had an absolute blast.

Finding Magic in the Mundane

Besides all that, I really loved magic and fairytale wonder in any action. Every action should be filled with some kind of meaning. If there’s no ordinary meaning, then there must be a fairytale meaning. What is that? I like finding something surprising in the most mundane places.

Just recently, for instance, there was a coffee advertising poster in a store. Some exhausted-looking girl is standing there with a cup of coffee, and the text reads: “Your favorite coffee.” Her facial expression, it seemed to me, was terrible—just downright awful. Nobody drinks coffee with a face like that!

An idea immediately popped into my head to tell my wife a story about this girl. I deliberately turned the poster away so my wife couldn’t see it, and I said:

“Can you imagine, once upon a time there was a girl, and she was captured by the Nazis. She spent several months in the Gestapo; she was tortured, abused, beaten. Then, in an unusual way, she jumped into a completely different era. And what era do you think? The Inquisition.

And since she had just come from the Gestapo, she didn’t look like the people of that time at all. She was immediately caught as a witch. And there she was tortured, beaten, stretched on the rack, subjected to all kinds of torture. And once again, she jumped through time.

And she ended up captured by our PR agents. And they said: ‘We’ll take just one photo of you.’ And they took this photo right here.”

I turned the poster around and showed my wife. Her surprise was that priceless reaction for which all of this was invented. I love to surprise people—to spot something extraordinary inside something overly complicated. I really like everything unusual, everything that seems impossible. I believe that anything is possible. And it’s even better when it happens, because it makes our lives brighter. None of that grayness and decay.

Rejection of Rigid Regulations

“You must bring indoor shoes to school!” Oh, get lost with your indoor shoes. I always forgot that stupid bag with the spare shoes at school, or I’d go home wearing the indoor shoes and forget my boots there. It was a complete nightmare.

Why all these conventions? Who needs them? Who benefits?

SLEs always protest against rules and regulations. And who sets these rules anyway? Are they even an authority? Who wrote the rules? Who are they to begin with?

The Trap of Rigid Military Regulations

If we talk about whether to send an SLE child to a military academy—you should think carefully first.

Military life means regulations, strict rules, prescribed actions—all of which irritate me. If I don’t control the situation, then I’m submitting to the rules. The only way I could avoid rules in the army is by being a commander, but to become a commander you have to go through all that regulatory stuff first. It stresses me out.

I’m afraid those regulations would simply ruin my brain. They’d stitch up all my nonconformity with their rules. So the prospect of the army scares me a bit—precisely because of that rigidly structured system.

Freedom of Speech over Social Conventions

Parents should know that such children may swear. It gives them freedom—a sense of complete personal freedom. You have your rules, you live crushed by those rules, and I don’t give a damn about them. I’ll say things however I want, and I don’t care how people will treat me afterward.

This is a protest against rigidly structured rules. A rule is nonsense. Every rule has exceptions. I am exactly that exception. I’m for exceptions.

Often such children use words like “ass.” It’s easier. If you say “bottom,” it sounds too proper. Speaking in proper words feels uncomfortable to me. “Ass” is familiar, clear, simple, rule-free, straightforward. I’d have to be proper to say “bottom.” I won’t be proper. By breaking rules, I feel free.

Naturalism and the Obscene Poem as Protest

Let’s talk about SLE-style naturalism. It’s simply a protest. I really liked—and still like—pseudo-obscene poems.

It seems like a poem is being read, but no swear words are actually spoken—yet by the rhyme they’re all implied, and everyone understands what’s meant. That’s exactly the protest. Why can’t I read these poems? There’s nothing to punish me for—I didn’t say anything, I didn’t utter a single swear word. What you thought is on your conscience; I just read a poem. But I know exactly why I’m doing it. I was teasing people around me.

You’re not allowed, but I am. Rules are not for me. What do you mean “not allowed”? And why not?

Questioning Double Standards and Arbitrary Demands

When I started to understand things a bit, around fifth or sixth grade, I thought: “If a police officer is always supposed to be righteous, then why do traffic cops take bribes? So he’s using the fact that I’m supposed to be righteous. Then you be righteous too! And if we’re all unrighteous, then let’s at least be honest about it.”

“You must line up by height.” Why on earth must we line up by height? I don’t like standing next to some people, and with others I do. And why do we have to stand in a line at all? I want to sit down. Why are there all these things that no one can explain?

And the simplest answer is: “That’s how it’s done, that’s what’s right, that’s what’s required.” Required by whom? I don’t need it. “You must!” I don’t owe anyone anything.

And this “I don’t owe anyone anything” is the protest—obscene ditties; I’ll say it however I want.

Cut the Pompous Talk: Real Respect Needs No Flattery

Pompous words always pissed me off. Oh, just shove your way of talking up your ass! Do you even understand what you’re saying?

If I have respect—real respect—I will never say a bad word, never say anything against that person, never argue back if I respect them. I don’t need grand words; they’re usually used falsely. And that always outraged me. If you want to convey respect or admiration, it can be done more simply, more down to earth. If I love—I love. I won’t use pompous words for it. What am I, an idiot or something?

Speaking in “proper” words is outside my space. Outside my space is pompous speech: “Hello, children! My name is Auntie Motya!” In my space it’s: “Hi! I’m Auntie Motya! I’ve come from Africa.” That’s simpler. Auntie Motya said hi—that means she’s one of us, she’s in my space.

Detecting Arrogance and Falseness

The arrogance of parents, teachers, and classmates always bothered me as well. I pick up on moods very clearly. Sometimes someone comes along who doesn’t know you at all, but they already have a bad attitude toward you, even though they’ve never seen you before. You can smile at me, but I’ll see right through whether that smile is fake or not. I understand it instantly.

At school, this outraged me to the core. They hadn't even asked my name or who I was yet, but they had already stamped a label on me, deciding I had to be a certain way according to their opinion. That always infuriated me; I absolutely hated it.

I even protested against literature class—I could drop literature entirely out of principle. I felt a condescending, disrespectful attitude from the teacher. That was it. Game over, goodbye.

Personal Space and Internal Order

I’ll talk again about inner responsibility. Such a child has some deep, internal understanding of what is good and bad, necessary and unnecessary, right and wrong. These things are unshakable. If something fits my personal rule of what is right, then that’s how it will be.

I learned from my relatives how things were done in our family: we hang the towel here. I understand that you could also not hang the towel there, but that would be inconvenient. It would personally cause me inconvenience. Why hang it there at all? But if I’ve agreed that this is probably the optimal option—that we hang the towel exactly here, put the pots here, that it doesn’t block the passage, doesn’t ruin the overall look, is easy to reach, and there’s somewhere to put things—then I agree with that. That’s right.

But if some object or thing is not where it should be (in my view), then why isn’t it there? I will notice it. It’s wrong.

They close the door. Why do doors have to be closed? I need space—I will definitely open all the doors. And I notice a half-closed door too—it doesn’t fit into my idea of “right.” It’s very important what kind of “right–wrong” parents instill in a child.

The Sacred Ideal of Romance

I like romance and romantic feelings.

Love is my most delicate, most inviolable place that no one’s filthy little rat paws are allowed to touch—no one’s! If there’s even the slightest chance that someone will find out, or express an opinion, or think something about it, it cannot be allowed—because this is the most sacred thing, the one thing no one must ever touch. It’s a special kind of fairytale. No one can be admitted to it. Under no circumstances.

But it’s always there. It exists at every age.

There are real feelings, so strong, so magical... I can tell a story from my life; it’s very interesting.

The Summer Camp Romance

It was the summer of 1987. Through my radio club, I got a free spot at a Pioneer summer camp. I’d been going to Pioneer camps since 1981, but this time I went as the head of the radio club. I ended up in the first squad, the oldest one. Since I didn’t really pay much attention to girls—you either need to focus on all that properly or not deal with it at all, and it was easier not to deal with it—I didn't bother worrying about it. I had my radio club.

Next to our building was the building of the second squad. There was an extraordinary girl there whom I liked immediately. But how to approach her, how to talk to her, how to become friends... I had no idea at all. I was fourteen years old. Who was I? The head of the radio club. Great... I didn’t know how to talk to girls.

She was special, and if I talked to her, I’d ruin the whole fairytale. I imagined her saying: “Who do you think you are? Shut your mouth and get out of here.”

Why on earth would I ruin my fairytale? I’d rather not find out if things could have been better, as long as they didn't get worse. So I didn’t talk to her.

She noticed me too. We would look at each other from the windows of our camp buildings. When I played badminton, she came out to watch—when she played, I came out to watch. But we didn’t speak.

Practically the whole camp knew about it. It was something incredible. Apparently, we infected the whole camp with those magical vibrations so much that everyone knew Diman had a girlfriend in that other building and that they had this extraordinary relationship.

And then came the last evening, the final disco, and I finally decided to invite her to a dance. My legs felt like lead; it was so hard to walk up to her. I barely managed to overcome myself. And we danced one dance in total silence. Just silently. We didn’t even look at each other. And that was it.

But what a story remained! How many people knew about it, how many were envious—and that nourished the fairytale. And an SLE has a fairytale like that in every age period. Love for a SLE is an absolute necessity.

Absolute Privacy in Personal Matters

If parents meddle in your fairytale or ask about your relationships, nothing is worse. That’s the most secret thing, something I will never allow anyone near. No one gets to stick their nose in here. If my parents ask about my relationship, I’ll answer: “What business is it of yours? Whether you like it or not, it’s mine.”

It is such a deep taboo... No one is allowed to enter there at all; no one should touch it with their hands under any circumstances.

Navigating Physiology and Boundaries

There was a serious problem: “How do you even communicate with girls? How do you handle physiology, your own physiology? What do you do with it?”

Reading about it felt embarrassing, and besides, where would you even get the information? I can tell you about one moment. Unexpectedly, among some old magazines, I found a journal. I don’t remember what it was called—either Medicine or Medical Worker, I don’t know. In short, a medical journal. And it was entirely devoted to sex, male physiology, female physiology, and psychological issues in various situations.

I read it for a very long time. For several years it was my desk reference book. I hid it away, stashed it. And honestly, that’s probably the best way. That way, no one pestered me with: “So, how are things going with you?”

Don’t tell me anything—I’ll figure it out myself. I technically need to be informed; the data has to be there. How to present this information to a child, I don’t know. Maybe my parents secretly planted that journal for me. But I prefer to believe I found it by accident, and that thought reassures me. I want people to stay out of my life, but nevertheless, I found that information at home.

Role Models and Natural Goodwill

The relationship between a man and a woman—respect and goodwill—should be observed by the child through their parents, seeing how they behave. Parents are the role models.

In our house, it was custom to have dinner all together. And on weekends, breakfast, lunch, and dinner were strictly together as a family. That stayed with me. That’s a role model. Our whole family gathered at one table. That’s cool. That’s good. In my mind, that was categorized under “right.” If I had seen real, proper, good romantic relationships between my parents, I definitely would have adopted them, and nothing would have even needed to be explained. I would have seen: a man respects and loves a woman. It’s great when a child sees that positive example.

Natural Goodwill and Protecting the Vulnerable

Deep down, a child like this is inherently well-disposed toward others. When I was little, I really liked saying hello to everyone. I’d walk out into the yard and say “hello” to every single person. I got a real kick out of it, feeling the response and attention I received back.

It was never hard for me to help an old woman cross the street. I’d be walking with friends, and I’d see some elderly lady darting around, confused. Someone else might not notice, but I couldn’t not notice—I saw her. And immediately there was this impulse: “Everyone stop right now; grandma will cross, then you can go on.”

I even remember once scolding a tram driver. We were riding on a tram, and an old woman was running after it. The driver closed the doors right in front of her and only then noticed her. The old woman barely managed to get on. I went up and started shouting across the whole tram straight into the driver’s cab, telling her that she was blind and could have shown some respect.

Parents should encourage a child’s good deeds. The example set by parents is crucial, and it shouldn't be a formality. When my relatives greeted people, they did it sincerely. I pick up on any falseness immediately—it stands out clearly, and I hear it.

True Authority vs. Superficial Friendship

If my parents act merely as my "friends," then they are not an authority for me. If I respect them, then they have authority.

If someone is an authority, I will imitate them, copy them, and study their positive qualities. I will put up with all their shortcomings if it’s a person I respect. They earn my respect by showing sincere interest in me, accepting my interests, and encouraging me in my endeavors. If I did something important to me and I’m praised at that moment—that’s it, that’s great. And if I’m also given the right advice, it means the person truly understands the subject. They showed interest in me and know more than I do in this area—so they become an authority to me.

Betrayal of Trust and Public Humiliation

The moment an authority humiliates me, they instantly lose that status. How so? That’s betrayal! I trusted the person, I put them on a pedestal, made them an authority—and they allowed themselves to sink so low. That’s it, they’re nobody to me. And next time, who knows whether there will be any trust at all. A second chance—I might never give it. This is serious stuff. It’s a real tragedy.

If someone is an authority for me and applies a little pressure, that’s not scary—as long as they don’t humiliate me. To humiliate means to scold, especially publicly, and without cause. If I’m wrong, you can scold me. I know myself that I’m wrong; I’m ready for a reprimand.

Conscience and Disproportionate Retaliation

I was always fully aware of all my actions, even when I didn’t like cats in my childhood. Boys sometimes torment cats; I had a bad phase like that too, and I’m ashamed of it. But I clearly understood that by harming a cat, I would bring some kind of harm upon myself—I felt intuitively that I shouldn't do it.

As for aggression: many people say that SLEs are aggressive. That’s complete nonsense! There’s no desire to just attack someone for no reason, to lash out. There is a clear understanding that even if I’m strong, I will never be the first to start anything. I have never started first.

But if I do get involved, then I go all the way. If someone just pushes me, invades my personal space, I will push back so hard that the offender will fly to the next wall and hit their head against it. My response is disproportionate; in terms of force, it is stronger than the attack.

The Danger of Pressure and Coercion

My personal sense of responsibility helped me in such situations. I’m sure every SLE has exactly the same responsibility. You just need to explain everything to them calmly, without emotions, without threats, without pressure—especially without pressure.

No pressure. If there’s pressure—even if it’s just a tone of command in the voice—an enormous desire for physical retaliation arises. Truly, even toward parents.

But inside, there’s a prohibition: you can’t hit your parents. What am I going to do to them? I’m just a green kid, and they’re parents, they’re adults. I don’t have the strength to hit them, but the desire is huge. And I can’t. I can’t, and it’s forbidden.

That’s it—a block. And this enormous emotional impulse to strike back, which I can’t release because it’s forbidden, can grow into a serious complex—no joke! Then later, when I finally snap, I’ll hit back so hard they won't forget it anytime soon.

How Parents Should Handle Conflicts

A child should be allowed to be a child in childhood. I wasn’t always allowed that. I always had to behave properly. And I did behave properly, because I had personal responsibility. But if I had been allowed to be myself… allowed to fight… if I had realized earlier that I could hit back… An SLE needs to be taught how to fight.

Parents shouldn’t scare a child with words like: “What are you doing, you hit a person…! Do you even know who you are?”

And then that other kid’s mother comes and starts yelling too. If an SLE hits someone, and the offended kid’s father naturally comes to sort it out, let him sort it out not with the little SLE, but with the SLE’s parents. They’ll vent their emotions, and if I see that, my conscience will torment me afterward. And then I won’t know what to do with the person I hurt. I hit him, and to myself I’m kind of a hero, but if I know his mother came because I split his lip, I’ll start beating myself up internally.

I need my parents to tell me calmly afterward: “Diman, you did this—but was it adequate? Try to analyze the situation. Were you acting appropriately? Did you attack first? Were you just defending yourself? Could you have hit him softer, without splitting his lip?”

That’s the kind of conversation that’s needed—without emotions, without aggression.

How to Correct an SLE: Logic Over Insults

If I don’t feel guilty and you scold me, you can get a very serious backlash. The first impulse is to punch back—as a direct response. But how do you punch your parents? You can’t. And then the internal struggle starts: I don’t want to, I can’t, it’s impossible. An internal confrontation begins.

You can apply pressure; you must never humiliate.

If I’m at fault but don’t realize it yet, explain clearly what the problem is. Don’t say, “You’re a piece of trash…” Don’t insult me. You need to explain everything simply, clearly, in normal language. Just set the priorities straight, and I’ll draw my own conclusions; I’ll punish myself. I’ll realize that I was wrong. And that directly appeals to my sense of personal responsibility.

Encouraging Imagination and Avoiding Dismissal

A SLE desperately needs parents to take a genuine interest in their hobbies. I needed attention and guidance. If I drew a tree, someone needed to teach me how to draw the leaves, and so on.

I came up with very unusual things—the kinds of ideas that rarely cross someone's mind. Parents need to encourage that, show wonder, and fuel the child’s imagination. You could say, for instance: “Did you know Lomonosov thought the exact same way you do?”

Now that is cool! I’m already fired up. That’s a challenge.

If a loved one doesn’t support a SLE in their endeavors, it’s a complete tragedy: I am uninteresting. My ideas are uninteresting. The main thing is not to comment negatively. I don’t need a negative response. I need a "Christmas-like" response. I need adults to be amazed and accept my initiative.

If they show amazement: “Listen, there’s actually something to this! Try exploring this idea further,”—even if you know the idea is utopian—that works. But when they say: “You’re an idiot, that’s wrong, that’s not how it works. Go think some more!”—I won’t think about that topic at all anymore. But if they say: “Oh, listen, that’s awesome! Go on, develop that idea!”—I’ll develop it, and I’ll figure out where I made a mistake all on my own.

Gamifying Discipline and Escaping into Imagination

I thought about how you can manage a child without pressure. I think it would be good to try through games: “So, today you’re the captain. You learn your lessons—then we’ll sail to the Persian Gulf. The Persian Gulf will be in the kitchen. There we’ll attack the dragon’s cave…”

The child will do their homework instantly. Imagination plays very strongly at that moment. I had my own worlds; I could wander there for a long time. It was a whole life.

If they pressured me or forced me to do something, I would immediately think, “I can’t.” Naturally, I’d get stuck, sit there wiping my nose and feeling miserable. To get out of that stupid state, I would escape in my thoughts to some world of my own, where I could chase dragons, sail an ancient ship, drive a tank, or shoot. My imagination was very rich.

So by setting up an unusual game moment in a child’s life, you’ll make them much more cooperative: “Today we have a Spanish day. We speak Spanish, eat Spanish food, walk Spanish-style, watch Spanish films. That’s it. Wonderful. Don Pedro quickly does his homework, and then we play. While I’m making spaghetti, you do Russian, and then we switch to Spanish.”

Simplifying the Rules: Teaching for Value

You can also do something with motivation by explaining why a certain task needs to be done. I need to clearly understand the concrete benefit.

For example, why study the Russian language? Well, primarily because we all speak Russian. But if you look at Russian grammar rules and how they are written—it’s enough to make you drop dead. Sometimes you have to read a rule six times just to understand the word order, and then read it another six times to get the actual meaning.

For a kid in fifth or sixth grade, it’s hard to figure all that out. I’d read it and couldn’t make sense of it—there were so many unfamiliar words, like "allegory" and so on. Explain their meaning first, and only then use them in examples! Everything needs to be explained to a child in simpler terms.

It wasn’t until I was thirty-five that someone finally explained to me how verbal adjectives differ from participle phrases. They explained it in plain words, not with those stupid textbook sentences. They explained it in simple, clear language—and I understood everything instantly.

Source: How to Raise a Child Without Complexes by O. Mikhevnina