My Father My Hell

As a father, I always tried to do right by my kids; I wasn’t always successful. It was probably because there wasn’t anyone in my life growing up that I could learn from. So I pretty much flew by the seat of my pants. All I knew was that I wasn’t going to treat my kids the way I was treated. I think in that regard I was successful. You see, I don’t have one good memory of me with my father. Anytime we were together it turned out to be a disaster. Even a simple trip to the beach was traumatic. I was a fat kid, go figure, and he insisted that I wear the same orange spandex trunks as him. I don’t have to elaborate on that do I? So, here I am at ten years old in orange spandex trunks, and now, it’s time to learn how to swim. Being in the Navy earlier in his life, he was an expert on all things water. In his infinite wisdom, to teach me how to swim, he thought it best just to throw me in deep water, then he told me to swim to him. When I started to sink like a rock, he became angry, snatched me out of the water, then went fishing, leaving me totally embarrassed and looking stupid in those orange spandex trunks.

There are many stories like that, way too many to go into here. He was an abusive man; he was six foot two with hands the size of a keeper fluke and the weight of a small truck behind them. You knew you were getting hit when he swung those keeper flukes in your direction. He would beat my mother, then me and my brother would try to intervene, thus turning the focus of his attack on us. My brother was his stepson; I was the reason he was married to my mother. If you knew my uncles, you would understand. Since my mother already had one child out of wedlock, she would be damned if she would have another that way. Things were much different in the fifties. So my father was given an offer he dare not refuse. Needless to say, I believe that he resented me my whole life. At least when I lived under his roof. My younger sister escaped most of the abuse because as my brother and I got older, I’m sure that he knew there would be consequences for his actions, plus she was a cute little girl.

We lived a poor life. We lived in the projects in the North Bronx; needless to say that growing up a fat white child in the projects definitely had its drawbacks, like trying to get to and from school every day without being jumped. I had no safe place as a kid. I wasn’t safe in the street and I wasn’t safe at home. I guess that’s why I’m quick to temper, it’s a protection mechanism. I do have to thank him though, because growing up in that environment, it gave me the strength I needed to deal with some of the tough times I had to endure in my life as an adult. It also taught me to show a little more compassion towards others.

You might be asking yourself by now, WTF am I reading and why? It’s simple: today would have been his 84th birthday and he snuck into my mind. The flood of bad memories just popped in and that forced me to re-evaluate how his actions as a father impacted my life. I started to think, how do my kids see me? In their minds, was I as evil to them as my father was to me? I hope they don’t wait until I’m dead to share their thoughts. On another note, what I would never understand is how my grandfather could be such loving and caring person and his son, my father, could be so abusive and mean. I guess I’ll never know.

My eldest grandson Richie had a college art project this year and was directed to interview a family member and illustrate something about his life; he chose me. We spoke for about an hour and touched on several things about my life. The end result was the fact that aside from some of my accomplishments, what I was most proud of is that I broke the chains of abuse. The result of that decision was that my sons are great fathers, much better then I ever was. Because of that, my grandkids had an even better life with the love and support necessary to have a wonderful life. Attached is a sketch of me, my grandson’s art project.

The physical and mental abuse at the hands of my father created my own personal Hell. The hatred I had for that man consumed my very existence for many years. The only thing that finally gave me some peace was a time in my early thirties when I sat down with the cause of my personal Hell, my father, and hashed things out with him, so my youngest son might have a relationship with his grandfather. After that day, I was not only freed from the chains of abuse, I was freed from the all consuming hatred and anger, allowing me to live a more peaceful life.

So the moral of my story is this; forgive but never forget, learn from your mistakes, and the better you teach and treat your kids, the better off the future generations of your family will live. It’s all about the future.

There might be some family members that will read this and say, "That’s not the Sonny I knew, he was kind and generous." Yes he was, to everyone else, not us: Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. R. I. P. pop.