Revisiting a previous blog (with revisions). Some of this is tedious and scattered, but context is necessary. It helps for me to dig it up as I get closer to letting it go.

Lulu & Frank’s defiance of the rules was indicative of the way they lived.

This is my mother Lulu and my stepfather Frank; photo taken just a few years before they passed away. My mom died first and then my stepfather passed about 18 months later.  Lots of irony because she took care of him for years after a stroke, then he outlived her. He actually came on to a mourner at her funeral. I should not have been shocked, but I was; trailer park trash. They had one of those on again, off again, mostly on again, relationships; it lasted over 40 years. As you can guess by now, I didn’t care much for Frank. He was an alcoholic who stopped drinking at a certain point, I don’t recall when (I was an adult living away from home). He married my mother with seven children, but he was selfish, crass and an unapologetic racist. Those were his tolerable traits. The conflict between us began the day they returned from their quickie marriage in Mexico. My mother divorced my father and married Frank on the same day. I still don’t know if that’s even possible; they might have been lying to me. Truthfully, I didn’t believe anything they told me. I still don’t.

I was eight years old when they married and my mother walked through our front door first. She was in a festive mood and officially introduced her new husband; my stepfather.

Mom: “Kids, this is your new father Frank,” and he said, “You kids can call me dad.”

I thought to myself, I don’t want to call this man dad, I have a dad, but he insisted; rather, he demanded.

I knew of course that my mother had been sleeping with this cretin for a while; a long while. I knew that my father found out about their affair and threw my mother out on the street (it was only for one night). She took us all to a Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, hotel that night and none of us got any sleep or at least I didn’t. Frank (not yet my stepfather) picked us up the next morning and I stared him down in the hotel elevator and point-blank asked him, “Are you sleeping with my mother?”

I already knew the answer, but of course he denied it. One of the many reasons I hated the pig. It wasn’t long after this incident that they were married or at least said they were. I admit I was a precocious child. I was super observant (still am) and I didn’t like what I saw. I felt that I was being forced into a situation I didn’t want to be in and I felt shame. Lots happened that seems almost fictional when I think about it today. Like the time we were camping in the woods and my mother pulled a rifle on Frank and we, my brothers and sisters, were certain she was going to kill him. I would have preferred to have Frank out of our lives, but I didn’t want to see my mother in prison. There were always lots of rifles around, Frank was a deer and rabbit hunter. He also made a habit of shooting frogs in the head because he liked how my mother fried their legs. He went hunting one time and my mother was in a panic because she hadn’t heard from him for days. I secretly wished him dead. A couple of days later he brought home a buck and we had to eat venison for a month. He often boasted about his kill and the number of rifles he owned.

His rifles didn’t scare me, he scared me. There was a time when they were having a huge brawl in their locked bedroom. My mother was screaming my name and begging for help, but I couldn’t open their locked door. I called 911. When the police arrived they asked if there were any weapons in the room and I replied, “No, just my stepfather’s hunting rifles.”

I remember the look the two police officers gave me. This was the chaos I lived in; sad to say, it all seemed very normal to me at the time. I learned to be independent and resilient. I stayed away from home a lot and never told my mother where I was and she didn’t ask. When it was just my mom and I, she would discuss her marriage with me. I liked being her confidant. I didn’t offer much in the way of advice; I hardly knew what to say. I knew what I wanted to say, but that wouldn’t have gone over well. I hoped she would leave him and she did leave him several times. Each time she’d call my father or her first husband Joe and allow them back into her life for a brief period. I’ll never know what power she had over men. Frank was always who she wanted to be with and she’d take him back in short order. As a child, I believed that all marriages worked this way.

I viewed my own marriage as inevitable; everyone married didn’t they? My father had a gay son from a previous marriage and when I would ask why he wasn’t married, my father would say, “Frankie’s different.” I certainly did not want to be different; therefore, despite my orientation, I started thinking about a wife and family. When I was nineteen years old and a college student in North Carolina, I was set up on a blind date with Lisa (not her name). Lisa was beautiful, smart, funny and perfect in just about every way and I knew almost instantly that I wanted her to be the mother of my children. Did I know I was gay? I knew that I had an attraction to men, but it was very easy to tuck that away into the far corners of my troubled mind. What I wanted more than anything else was a “normal” life. Of course I regret having pulled Lisa into this dishonest vortex, but that story is for another time.

Lisa and I were engaged about a year after we met and decided to marry after completing our undergraduate degrees. I can only tell you how it was for me; I was excited to have found someone exceptional to spend my life with. We spent all of our time away from university, together. During our first year dating, my mother was thrilled to have a family Thanksgiving dinner that included Lisa and her twin sister. We were all excited about the day as we awaited its arrival. However, as with most holidays in our house, this one too would be filled with drama — I should have known better.

On Thanksgiving eve, 1979, my mother and stepfather had a big argument. My mother called me when I was in my dorm room preparing to return home for the holiday (I was about 35 minutes from home and I had a car). My mom asked me to come home right away. She said that my stepfather had “come after her” while they were arguing and that she was hemorrhaging badly. I said, “Mom, shouldn’t you call 911?” and she replied, “I’d rather wait for you to get here.” This dependence on me was one she perpetuated throughout my youth and early adult life.

I was home in 30 minutes, having gone way over the speed limit to once again, rescue my mother. We sat in the emergency room for four hours until she was finally seen and admitted. She kept repeating, “I feel so badly that Thanksgiving is ruined.”

I assured her that we would find a way to make it happen and we did. My mother was released Thanksgiving morning and I agreed to do all of the cooking. The only dish I was unsure of was her turkey stuffing and my mom said she’d walk me through it. The entire time I was cooking, I was concerned that my stepfather would return home. At one point I heard him enter his camper in the backyard. My mother assured me that we didn’t have to worry about him. She said that he’d just stay in his camper and get drunk. She also shared that he was very angry that I brought her to the hospital. He felt that even though he had argued with her, it was his place, as her husband, to care for her. This was the mother/son, husband/wife, tug of war we battled throughout their entire marriage. What happened that Thanksgiving day is forever etched in my mind.

I cooked all day preparing for a 4:00 p.m. dinner. Lisa and her sister arrived at around 3:00 p.m. They sat with my mom and I was happy to hear laughter coming from the living room. I began thinking that I might be able to pull this off. My younger sister set the table and we called everyone to dinner; there were seven or eight of us. We were in the middle of expressing our gratitude, for what I’m not sure, and my stepfather walked into the dining room, obviously intoxicated. He had come into the house to get a jug of wine. I couldn’t even look at him. Odd that this is over 45 years ago, but I can see and hear it as it was yesterday. Frank glanced around the table, showed his teeth and said, “I hope you all choke on your food.” I admittedly have never been able to remain quiet and so I spoke up, “Maybe you’ll choke on that wine.”

Then, all hell broke loose. He lunged for my throat and most of what was on the table ended up on the floor. There was lots of screaming and Frank’s hands were squeezing harder around my neck. I couldn’t breathe. My younger brother grabbed him from behind, but Frank threw him off; my mother pleaded with him to let me go. I don’t actually remember what I was feeling while he was choking me. I do remember thinking that this was the way I was going to die. Frank must have had a moment of clarity and he finally let me go. I gasped for air and surveyed the dining room. Dishes, glass, food were everywhere; not a morsel was edible. Lisa and her sister were holding each other and sobbing. My brother Leo was talking Frank down and my mother was weeping in the corner of the room. The turkey was upside down on the floor next to the table.

I walked over to Lisa and her sister and I said, “Come on, we’re getting the hell out of here.”

We went to Lisa’s house so that we could calm down and process what had happened. My neck had huge welts and two large handprints. My mother called me and begged me not to involve the police. I told her that I wouldn’t call the police and that I never wanted to see or speak to my stepfather again. She said she understood and that she would be throwing him out and divorcing him.

Lisa’s family prayed and asked me to join them; I pretended to talk to God. What I did instead, was to tell myself that I would never again subject myself or anyone I loved, to such abhorrent abuse.

I did eventually forgive my stepfather. I also stopped calling him dad. Never too late to gain self-respect. I’ve never claimed that my life has been more difficult than anyone else’s; however, I do believe my desperation for peace has valid origins.

Hate is a word I take seriously; I believe at times it is valid to feel hate and process it.

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Future Travel

A couple of short local trips to Spain and parts of the Algarve coming up soon; an Iceland cruise by way of Northern Europe in May; Oslo, Norway with Paco for all of July (with visits from friends throughout the month), Krakow, Poland in October, and a much anticipated trip to the Puglia region of Italy in April 2025. Booked a Greece/Turkey/Egypt cruise for fall 2025. The United States in the late fall/early winter of 2025: Brooklyn, Florida, Portland, Maine, Maryland, and North Carolina.

State-of-Mind

A getaway this weekend that helped me gain perspective.

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My intention is not to hurt anyone by dredging up the past. My parents (all of them) are deceased and my siblings don’t talk about it. It’s more about sorting it out in my own mind; giving myself permission to be truthful with myself and others. I believe it helps for friends and family to know why I married and why I often react the way I do, in certain situations. Why I sometimes seem insecure and why I fight particular causes; why honesty in relationships is essential to me.