Cicero, IL

My earliest recollection of life is being a kid growing up on the Southside of Chicago. Our neighborhood was quiet, but rather unimpressive. We lived two blocks away from my school and the walks to and from school felt like a marathon. We didn't have a car, so transportation was via bus, train or by foot. I walked to and from school, which was no big deal except I was five years old when I started. I don't know—I probably wouldn't let Jake walk by himself to and from school under the same circumstances. But then again, no one ever claimed that my parents were smart or cared enough to think about their son walking by himself. Maybe they hoped something would happen to me; I wouldn't be surprised.

I tried to walk with other kids, but I always felt like I was intruding. You know how it feels when you walk, talk, or hang around people you don't know that well, and the cold-shoulder seems to be applied? That's how I always felt. If another kid didn't talk or acted like I was intruding, I excused myself quickly and fell behind. I soon got used to walking alone.

In school, I often sat quietly and kept to myself. I did, however, talk to girls whenever I had the opportunity. At a very early age I found it easier to befriend a girl instead of a boy. I found it easier to talk to girls. They seemed to like the fact that I was being nice and not being mean to them. I was thrilled that I had someone to talk to!

When it came time to play outside, I spent time watching more than playing. Again, I felt like the odd-kid out. As time passed, I learned how to skip rope with the girls instead of playing dodge-ball or tag with the boys. Of course this was a never-ending source of ridicule, so I stopped doing that. Then the girls got upset because they thought I didn't want to play with them anymore. My way of dealing with the situation? I found something to do by myself, and I discovered the library.

I became an avid reader. By the second grade, I started to read anything and everything about military history especially World War II. I was fascinated by stories of what men in the armed forces did in the European and Pacific theaters. To this day I still read about the military.

Unfortunately, this is also when I began to stop playing altogether which of course led to weight gain. By the time second grade was over, I weighed close to 90 pounds. I was eight years old. It was also the time in my life when I discovered how cruel the human race can really be. Sadly, it wasn't just the kids who were mean. Teachers, too, would let me know in their own way that I was a fat kid. I remember one time when a teacher told me she was going to write a note to my parents to tell them that my butt was always showing. She said it in front of the class. Yes, the kids laughed, and I just sat there and couldn't wait to run away. I was so humiliated that day. It was also the first time that I can remember my father ridiculing me.

That day I went home and told my mother what the teacher said. I remember her telling me not to worry about it, and when my dad came home from work, we sat down for dinner and she told him what was said. "Well look at him, Ann" he said. "He is fat".

That was the first time I realized that my father was ashamed of me. Unfortunately, I would soon find out he was also very angry. One day I came home and I ripped my shirt playing. My mom was not happy, but didn't seem upset. When my father came home, somehow it came up in conversation. I was in my room, and he came in and asked how I ripped my shirt. I said I didn't know, and before the last work left my mouth, he back-handed me across the face. "Don't lie - tell me!" he yelled. I didn't say a word. Soon, the belt was off, and he beat me with it. I'm not talking about one lick across the backside; several smacks to my butt. I cried out but to no avail. Actually, I think that caused him to hit me harder.

To this day I have a fear of belts. I kid you not. It wasn't the last time I felt his belt. He loved to beat me with it. I think he truly enjoyed it.

I was seven or eight years old when my father started to abuse me physically, emotionally, and mentally. Unfortunately, it didn't stop there.

My paternal grandfather, on the other hand, was thrilled that I was in his life. That man loved me! He would come over to spend time with me, and almost every Sunday he would take me to his favorite watering hole to hang with his buddy. This is when I learned how to play card games and poker. As my grandfather drank his Jameson or Seagram’s V.O., I would drink 7-up with cherry juice. Of course this did nothing for my weight problem, but oh well.

The only thing that turned out to be a negative about spending time with my grandfather was he too was an alcoholic, and he almost killed the two of us one day returning from the bar one Sunday afternoon. I don't remember the specific details, but on the way home we got into a car accident. I ended up with both legs broken, and broken arm, and a broken collarbone. He hit the windshield, but walked away. I spent the next five to six months in a body cast. Also, the story was told on many holiday get-togethers that when I was barely a year-old he accidentally dropped me. As I fell, the back of my neck his the edge of a counter-top before I landed on the kitchen floor. I cried for a half an hour, but no trip to the doctor or hospital. They thought it was funny. Yeah....real funny.

Regardless, I loved my grandfather. He was born in Ireland, and I spent so much time with him I gained his accent. He had a soft tonality that made his Irish brogue even more pleasant to listen to. To this day I can still hear his voice. He passed away when I was 12 years old.

Lastly, I remember going to Chicago Cubs games after school during first and second grade. Even though I went with other school kids, I spent time sitting by myself watching the game in the stands. The school provided the bus to get us to Wrigley Field, and it cost 50 cents to get in, and one dollar bought a hot dog and soda. I have very fond memories of those games. My favorite player was Billy Williams.

Then a month or so after starting the third grade, I came home from school to find my mother and father waiting for me. "Son, we are moving to Florida".