First Memories
It was an early spring day in 1962 and I was four years old. As the eldest child, I had one brother eighteen months younger than I and another one just a few months old, On this day, our Mother had taken us all outside to play in the side yard of the duplex they were renting along the railroad tracks. While the details of the day are quite vague, this earliest memory included a train roaring down the tracks, a rose garden with prickly flowers, my mother sitting on an old fashion bench and a 2 year old brother who was not yet steady on his feet.
A few months later, my parents purchased their first home and instantly befriended many of the neighbors. While this next memory is just a few months later the first, it is much more vivid and – in fact – difficult to reflect on. Moreover, as the situation played out, it set a pattern of resentment and fear that lasts for the next two decades. It was a warm summer evening and my parents were visiting on the back porch of our next door neighbors (who – became so close to our family – that we called them Aunt and Uncle). As the story is told, my father would run over every 30 minutes or so to make certain that my two brothers are I were sound asleep. On one trip over to check on us, my father smelled smoke. After checking around the house, he determined that there was a small fire coming out of the furnace room; thus, he closed the door down the hall to the bedroom where my brothers are I were tucked into our beds and woke us up.
Acting swiftly, my father opened the bedroom window as he called to my mother and the neighbors to come over to our house. While he awaited our neighbor/ Uncle, he picked me up and placed me outside the bedroom window. He then placed my 2 year old brother on the ground next two me and then picked up my six month brother and attempted to place him in my arms. However, I was in complete shock and could do nothing but stand their and cry. Although, my father’s voice rang clear that evening “stop crying you baby… take your brother… grow up… take responsibility for your brothers and stop that damn crying you baby….” It was about this time that our Uncle showed up and took my baby brother from my father’s arms. After making sure that we were all safe, our Uncle helped my father out of the window as my mother and Aunt called the fire department.
The Early Years
The next few months and years were somewhat of a blur… we stayed with our Grandparents while our home was repaired from the fire and – a year or so later – I entered kindergarten.
The first day of school was somewhat of a painful experience. I knew as early as five years old that I was different from other kids my own age and I was scared to death to leave my mother and the safe environment of our home. In fact, as I recall, I was so upset about leaving my mother at the end of our driveway that day that I was kicking and crying all the way to the school where I sat in the corner and pouted for the next few days.
As a reflect on my early school years, I feel a lingering sense of isolation, fear, low self esteem and an inability to fit in. At the same time, our family continued to grow with a sister being born in 1964 which – for the entire family – was another shocking and disturbing memory. On the day my sister was born, my father was taking my three brothers and I to stay with our Grandparents across town while he was planned to spend the afternoon with our Mother in the hospital.
However, at a blind intersection (coincidentally, one block from the house we would eventually move into), a speeding car rammed our vehicle on the driver’s side sending our brown sedan up onto a front lawn. I suffered from a minor head wound and, thus, have flashes of memories from the ambulance coming and loading all of us into it – except my brother Tommy who had been thrown from the car and laid bleeding behind some bushes. In the confusion that took place and with my father fairly injured himself, my father didn’t notice that Tommy was missing.
At the hospital, I remember lots of tears, mass confusion and Grandma coming into the ER to calm me down. At the same time, a cab/taxi driver radioed into his dispatcher that he saw an injured young boy lying under some bushes where a tow truck had just towed away a ford sedan. The dispatcher – apparently worried about liability issues – told the driver to leave the child where it is and leave the scene. Fortunately, the driver chose to ignore his Supervisor and put my brother into his taxi and rushed him to the hospital. While all four of us in the car were slightly injured, my brother Tommy had the most traumas – particularly to his head and face. In the meantime, the doctor’s were challenged with what to tell my mother who had just given birth a few hours earlier and lay in a bed at the same hospital. While I don’t recall how and when they informed Mom that we were in the ER, I do recall my sister coming home from the hospital a few days later (those were the days where Mothers were kept in the hospital for up to a week after the birth of a baby).
The Extended Families
During these early years, my siblings and I spent a considerable amount of time with our cousins. On my Dads side, he had two brothers with his elder brother and his six kids living in the same Village as us - about three quarters of a mile from our home. While the eldest two cousins in this particular family were three to four years older than I, their third eldest was in my class and their fourth eldest was a year behind me in the class with my brother Tom. At times is was somewhat ironical that the Nuns could never remember which “Russell” went with which set of parents, but with four of us born within 2.5 years, who could blame them – those Russell eyes were a trademark characteristic for every child on my father’s side and – coincidentally – has been passed down to all of my nieces and nephews.
On my Mother’s side we had her only sibling – a sister who was 14 months younger than my Mother. Since my mother and her sister grew up in what can only be described as a dysfunctional family, their childhoods were not idyllic. Their mother (our Nana) was – in a word – Auntie Mame. There wasn’t a party she didn’t attend and love. From what I gathered later in life, Nana was not the devoted mother as she was perceived to be more concerned with where her next drink was coming from than with the well being of her girls. I’ll never forget one story my mother told me about when she was twelve years old. Apparently the family was going through some financial hard times and Nana was unable to buy more alcohol so she sold my mothers bicycle to get money to go to the liquor store. As an adult, that story resonated with me as she and her sister obviously had some hard times growing up.
Although, the stories made sense knowing how Nana and Pop Pop (our nickname for Grandpa) got along in their Golden years. Both were very independent souls who enjoyed a good time and - while they loved their children and grandchildren – they really didn’t really for (or like) one another. Most of the time, one would come over to our house for dinner without the other. In fact, when my grandfather retired and they sold their home, he moved to Florida and Nana got an apartment in town. As a kid, this was somewhat confusing; however, as I grew older, I came to realize that not only was Nana an alcoholic who was hard to live with, but Pop Pop appeared to have this other life that none of us were quite aware of.
In their early twenties, my mother and her sister joined a young singles group for Catholic’s where they both met their husbands to be, as well as a host of lifetime friends who were (and are) still a part of their lives. Since both sisters got engaged at about the same time, it was decided that they would have a double wedding. Therefore, on January 25th 1958, my mother, father, Aunt and Uncle were married in a joint ceremony in my mothers hometown of Clarendon Hills – which is the next suburb over from my fathers hometown of Hinsdale. Following those nuptials, I was the first child to be born – a total of 10.5 months later. My Aunt and Uncle served as Godparents to me. Then, a few months later, a daughter was born to my Aunt and Uncle. Over the next fifteen years, my mother had five more children and my Aunt had a total of eight.
While we saw my dads side of the family often (particularly since we went to school with many of them), it was my mothers side that we spent most of our time with as kids. Whether it was a birthday, anniversary, baptism, holy communion, graduation, wedding, Thanksgiving, July 4th, Easter and/or Christmas event, my mother sister, her husband and their brood of kids were present and, on some occasions, so was my fathers siblings and their kids.
The Formative Years
I wish I could say that I had a childhood filled with wonderful memories, but the truth is, I was so miserable, scared and incredibly lonely most of the time that I had a preoccupation with suicide from the age of twelve. In fact, it’s only been the past few years that suicidal ideation has left my consciousness altogether. My childhood experiences – and the perceptions that were cemented into my unconsciousness – involved the two basic parts of my life: my family and my relationship with my father; and my time away from home in school, on the playground and in “trying” to do things for approval – like participating in sports.
At home, my father traveled a great deal and – before he would leave on one of his business trips – he would look me in the eyes and tell me to look after my siblings and help my mother out with the kids and the meals. I learned early on that the only way to get parental approval was by helping out around the house – doing dishes, changing diapers, watching the younger kids and being a helper to my mother. I can remember my father telling me that when my mother was expecting her sixth child (which was born some sixteen months after the fifth child) that she was not to lift the baby in and out of the crib in the final stages of her pregnancy; therefore, he asked me to make certain that if Stephen needed to be lifted into or out of the crib that I should do it. Therefore, during that sixth and final pregnancy, I worked like hell to make things easier for my mother, seek attention and approval from my father and to take care of my siblings. Then, once my baby sister was born, I clearly remember changing diapers, feeding the baby and watching the other kids while Mom was cooking or resting.
As I looked back at these times as an early adult, I realized that I was pretty damn young to be taking on the responsibilities I did as a young child when you consider that there is eight years between Stephen and I and only nine and a half years between my baby sister (Katie) and I. Judging by today’s parenting standards, it would have been almost cruel to expect an eight year old child to change diapers, do dishes and tend to several younger siblings. However, it wasn’t the caring for my siblings that was challenging, difficult or painful. After all, it was performing these functions and tasks that provided me the only positive reinforcements I can recall. The challenges I alluded to above had to primarily do with my father.
To fully understand how and why our relationship was so troubled you have to understand how he was raised. He was the middle child of three boys. The eldest brother, Uncle Chuck, was the one that lived several blocks away. It was his kids that went to school with us – with his eldest two being the Village all star athletes and valedictorians. Uncle Chuck was the fair child golden haired boy to my grandparents. Even as a child, I could see that Grandma and Grandpa favored Uncle Chuck. Not only was he their eldest child, but he was the only one of the three sons to serve in the Korean War. Moreover, he trained and became a fighter Pilot. After the war, he went on to become a Senior Captain with American Airlines. This allowed Uncle Chuck to not only provide a good standard of living to his family (something my father tried desperately to do his entire career), but it also allowed my grandparents to fly anywhere in the world for free.
While I am not sure of the exact circumstances of my father’s childhood, I do know that – due to the depression – his parents (like my mothers parents) married later in life. Consequently, by the time my father was born his father was already 40ish. I recall my dad saying on more than one occasion that he has no memory of his father being anything but an old sick man. Since Grandpa was in poor health much of his adult life, I recall that everyone doted on him left and right. In fact, Grandma did all the driving, cooked all the meals and babied him like he was a lost puppy anytime I was around them. However, in my fathers formative years, I perceive that Grandpa often compared Dad to Uncle Chuck who was more athletic, got better grades, was more well liked and was generally more popular in the community. At the same time, based on what my mother told me, Grandpa did not spare the rod. My father, as I’m sure his brothers, were disciplined harshly with beatings and spankings until such a time as Grandpa became to ill and old to raise a hand to them.
With my father’s relationships with his father and his older brother serving as a back drop – combined with my fathers own worries about money, providing for his family, insecurities about self worth and a tendency to drink too much in the evenings – he and I were set up from the very beginning to be adversaries. While he insisted (at the earliest age I have memories) that I take care of my siblings and help out around the house, when he came back from one of his business trips it was another story. To begin with, he never seemed to be in a good mood when he came home. I often thought that he must either hate his job, or the pressure to provide for his family stressed him out that he took out his frustrations on those who could not push back (i.e. his family).
By the time I was twelve or so, my father came to deeply resent the role he had placed me in – particularly after coming back from a business trip. When he was in one of his anger moods, he would usually take it out on the one who was the most vocal – and the one he resented the most – me. His return would upset the family harmony. When – in a fit of anger – he would attempt to go after or discipline one of the other kids, I would step in and tell him that what he was doing was wrong. This became almost a ritual. It also resulted in more beatings than I care to remember; however, it was not the physical beatings that hurt me the most – particularly since I learned to position myself near an exit/door when he was in a bad mood so that I could run out of the house and wait for him to calm down. It’s almost funny to me now, but I can recall times where he would chase me down the street screaming at me that I was a rotten kid and – when he couldn’t catch me – throwing a rock or even a beer can at me. Fortunately, my father always went to bed by 9ish so I knew when it was safe to come back to the house. When I did, my mother was always waiting up for me. She and I would then watch a little TV together before retiring for the evening. By the next morning, while my father was usually still mad about whatever it was triggered his anger, he was calmed down enough to ignore me as I went off to school.
Throughout my life, it was the verbal and emotional abuse – especially when he was drinking – that caused the most hurt and pain. Those voices of “ you’re stupid… you’re worthless… you’re not good enough… why can’t you be more like Uncle Chucks two oldest boys… they’re athletic and smart... you’ll never amount to anything…” I think I was 18 years old before I finally stood up to my father concerning the constant comparisons to my two cousins – Tim and Pat. I remember screaming and crying in one of our usual fights that “I am not Tim or Pat and never will be… I am Mike”. This loud vocal exchange must have triggered a memory comparison of his own childhood being compared to Uncle Chuck because I never heard another comparison to Tim and Pat after that. However, after a decade of those comparisons, the damage was done. To this day, I still struggle with feelings of not being good enough… not smart enough… not athletic enough.
While my home was – for me – an angry and hostile environment, my time away from home was not any better. I realize now that the messages I was getting at home resulted in such a poor self image that even if I had the capability of being an “A” student, I wouldn’t be one. The truth is – “you are what you think you are”. If you think you are stupid, clumsy and will never amount of anything than you could to accept and believe that. As a result, I was a poor student who had trouble paying attention and didn’t fit in with the other kids. I was nerdy, lacked self confidence and had deeply flawed interpersonal skills. Consequently, I was mocked, picked on, the last one chosen in gym to play on a team, made fun of, ridiculed and beat up on a very regular basis from the time I was in second grade until I finished eight and went on to high school. By the time I was in sixth grade, our family had moved into a house a few blocks from the grade school; however, I was terrified each day to walk home from school. There were two bullies that would wait outside the school for me each day and – no matter how fast I can, how many different routes I would think of to get home, or how much I tried to talk and reason with them, they would chase me, push me down, kick my books and hit me until I would either scream to alert a neighbor or cry – which is what they were really wanting me to do. By getting me to cry, they fulfilled their objective of feeling superior and powerful.
Since I was so ashamed and embarrassed about how these bullies treated me day in and day out (and for believing that somehow I deserved what was happening to me for being stupid and uncoordinated), I took great lengths to hide what was going on from my family. I would dust myself off, clean myself up (sometimes with the garden hose out in back on the house) and I would go right to my room where I would hide any remaining traces of having been in a scuffle. I would sit there in my room and dread the inevitable dinner with my father… “Will he be in a good or bad mood? Will he still be mad at me for talking back to him? “Will he hear that I got a “D” on my math test and hit me?”
Given what was going on at home combined with being despised (if not hated at school) it’s no wonder that I got poor grades while my parents would continually insist that is was because I never applied myself. Who could study and learn in the environments that I had become accustom to? My inability to make friends, my lack of knowledge sex and my naivety of the world at large led to one of the most indelible (and painful) experiences of my childhood. I was in 7th grade and my teacher was facilitating a discussion on sexuality and profanity. As part of the dialogue he apparently was attempting to create, he had told us that we could ask any questions we wanted. He encouraged us to seek answers to those things that we did not understand. After listening to he and the rest of the students talk about things which were new and different to me, I asked what was meant by the term “intercourse”? Rather than respond to me in scientific or biological manner, he became noticeable irritated by saying “you know what that means..” No I don’t I explained… “yes you do you are just trying to cause problems…” This back and forth exchange went on for a while before I finally gave up and went home that day more confused than ever.
That evening my teacher called my mother and requested a meeting with her and my father at our home. When he showed up, my father was already in bed, thus, my mother escorted him into the dining room where he proceeded to tell her how inappropriate I was being in school that day… that – in his opinion – I was doing nothing more than trying to embarrass him… that I was seeking attention for myself…. that I was acting very immature…. that I had “problems” that needed her attention. I’m not sure if my mother knows this or not, but I was sitting on the stairs about fifteen feet from where she and my teacher were sitting and I heard their entire conversation. As my teacher relayed how poorly I behaved that day, I sat on the stairs crying into a towel so that no one would hear me. Not only was I completely devastated by having my teacher seemingly turn on me for simply being inquisitive, I still had no idea what I had done. The fact is that no one seemed to grasp is that I didn’t know anything about the birds and the bees. I had no idea what intercourse was or how babies were conceived. While everyone who knew me thought I was causing trouble for my teacher, the truth was I couldn’t have more earnest and honest in what I was asking. I was seeking to understand what the teacher was talking about and – in doing so – was again branded as “stupid”.
Getting up that next morning and going back to school was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I still didn’t know what I had done wrong and/or why my teacher was so angry with me. That day was very memorable as the other kids picked on me more than ever. In fact, things got so bad that day in school that my teacher asked me to go sit out in the hall while he told the other kids (within ear shot of me) that it wasn’t nice to pick on me… that they needed to be nicer to me. I think overhearing that message – on top of the one he gave to my mother the night before – left me in one of the lowest points of my childhood. It was following this experience that I first thought that I was no good, I was stupid and everyone would be better off if I just wasn’t around any more. I thought about how I could obtain a bunch of pills to overdose… I thought about lying down on the railroad tracks and wait for a train… I thought about riding my bicycle right into the path of an oncoming car… The later one would be revised in my early adult years when I fantasized about turning my car into the path of an oncoming semi truck.
