Back in the olden days, in the summer of 1970, when my brother was about sixteen, my parents made him get a short haircut. He’d been growing it long, which drove my parents crazy, so they dragged him to a barber who gave him a crew cut. My brother was furious.

The next day my dad went off work, leaving me, my mom, my brother, and sister at home. And then my angry, shorn brother snapped. He grabbed a knife and threatened to kill my mother; my sister, who was fourteen, somehow wrestled the knife out of his hands. My mom locked herself in the bathroom. My sister called my dad to tell him he had to come home, and parked me in front of the drawer where the scissors were kept – not that a six-year-old was going to be much defense.

I was terrified. My brother picked the bathroom door lock, yanked my mother out and said he would give her a choice.She could let him shave her head so she would be just as humiliated as he was, or she could let him break a lamp that she treasured.

The lamp had been her mother’s, but it was probably quite old. It had three beautiful, fragile hand-painted glass globes and brass fittings. It was one of the few things that my mom took from my grandmother’s house when she died. I wasn’t sure if it was valuable or if it had sentimental value. Maybe she just thought it was lovely. So that was her choice: he’d smash the lamp to bits or shave her head. Which would it be?

I don’t think my brother knew that my sister had called my dad. There was a lot of screaming and crying – I think my mom was stalling, hoping my father would arrive. Finally she told my brother she’d made her choice. She sat down at the kitchen table so he could shave her hair. Just then, my dad screeched into the driveway. My sister promptly herded me into her room, where she and I listened to American Woman by the Guess Who over and over again, to drown out the sound of my dad yelling, the physical fight with my brother.

Hearing that song, especially the long version, “American Woman/No Sugar Tonight” has made me ill on more than one occasion since then. Seeing that lamp gives me the same reaction. Once my brother mentioned the lamp, casually, nonchalantly, as if it was just a lamp and not an object fraught with terrible memories. First I thought I was going to hyperventilate. Then I threw up. Could he truly not remember that day? It made me so angry that he could be unscathed, not scarred by it. Was it just a pretty lamp to him, an heirloom, not a reminder of how out of control he was as a teenager? My parents sent him away to a tough-love boot camp after that awful day – I wonder if he remembers that part of the story. I want to remind him, but I know I won’t.