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I don’t think anyone in my family knew how much I was teased as a young child. I couldn’t play stickball or skellies without having an older teenager from the block blurt out, “You’re dad walks like a faggot.” So the choice was to stay home and not play, confront the bigger kids or ignore them and keep it all inside. I chose to ignore it hoping that someday they would just stop. They never stopped. If I went home, odds were good that there would be a yelling match. If I stayed outside, I was in for the bullying hour.
My best escape came when my dad would take me to his work on Saturdays. It was just him and I. He worked as a cashier at the Bronx Terminal Food Markets. We would get up early in the morning to catch the short subway ride and be there by 6 am. Those were the happiest moments of my childhood. Him and I were the only ones on this planet as we walked down Grand Concourse to take the D train to 161st Street. The Market was right by Yankee Stadium and it was almost as good as seeing a game with my dad, which we never did. I still felt like a champ walking with my dad. He would take great care of me. He would make sure everyone knew that I was his son and his co-workers would bring me treats and money. I welcomed both.
The only unpleasant person was my dad’s boss. I noticed that he was very rude to my dad and I was surprised that my dad would not stick up for himself. Even then it hit me; my dad let out feelings at home that he was afraid to let out at work. He was the only one working and without a college degree, he could not lose his job. Providing for his family was his purpose in life. He did not have the tools to realize that the best thing he could provide was happiness.
Seeing possibilities and choosing happiness over fear was tough for my dad to do in the 70’s Bronx as a first generation Puerto Rican. I remember wondering “why do we have to have rice with warm milk for dinner again?” We had very little money that’s why. My mother took care of my three sisters and I and my father brought home the pernil. (as close as I could get to bacon in Spanish- a shoulder of pork.) How poor we really were, I will never know.
One night when I was seven, my sisters and I overheard an argument between my dad and my mom where he said we were going to get evicted if he did not come up with the rent money. He was yelling at my mom for spending too much money on something. The rent was $300 a month and he claimed not to be anywhere close to having enough. The four of us called a board meeting with my oldest sister as CEO.
“We have to do something.” She said. “Any ideas?”
“Not me.”
“Me neither.”
“Nothing”
My oldest sister knew she would need to take the lead. “We should have a garage sale and sell our toys.”
We all agreed without a hint of hesitation. Our parents let us go through with it and we sold most of our toys making $75. I kept my Superman and Darth Vader action figures and I’m sure my sisters kept some of their favorites. We were so worried we did not make enough money and we would be out on the street.
We did not get evicted. I’ve always wondered whether my dad had blown the whole “not having enough money” drama out of proportion. Saying “I can’t afford it” was our family motto as was one of the oddest and most destructive global beliefs I have ever heard: “Careful not to laugh too much or have too much fun. It means that bad fortune is right around the corner.” Fear was rampant in our environment but so was love. Through all the dysfunction, there was a sense by all of us that this family would overcome every obstacle and ensure a life that was drug and crime-free with the highest of educational accomplishments by us children. If we were born to be light workers then nothing was going to stand in our way. I know that my parents believed in our ability to succeed in life. They just gave up on their own ability to do the same.
So my dad let his boss treat him like dirt and internalized his responses letting them fester until he got home. I don’t condone the choices that he made, but I don’t judge them either. He did not have the tools to learn self-love. I would later learn that his repressed feelings about his boss were just the tip of the iceberg. His self-hatred was so profound that it could only be caused by so shameful a shadow side in his eyes. One that would have to kill him before he would reveal it-through me.
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