My Infancy Debriefing: “What was going on when you were born? What kind of families did your mother and father come from? Was your mom and/or dad and adult child?" (An exercise in overcoming childhood trauma as part of my therapy).

My mother has always said that I was her only “planned child”. Modern translation: I was the “Band-aid” child. My parents—AKA “Alec and Lil”--were both 21 years old when they married in 1961. Good Catholics that they were, they had four children by 1965.

When my mother was 8 months pregnant with her 4th child, my father confessed that he had been having a serious affair with another woman. Three days later she went into labor and delivered my brother, their only son. 

Having no other choice, my mother plowed forward with caring for their children while my father continued sowing his wild oats. It was during this period that she sought the counsel of the local parish’s priest. She was desperately loyal to Catholic doctrine, but also recognized that having more children at that point went against all common sense. The priest told her that, despite the Catholic church’s staunch opposition of birth control as a whole, she had to do what she felt was right in her heart, for the good of her family. With her conscience clear, she went on birth control for the first time. 

About 4 years later, my parents came to believe that all was good in their world once again. Was this a delusion fueled by false hope, or denial, or by (Catholic) guilt? It's anyone's guess--but the affair was ancient history, and the power-couple of Alec and Lil were back in the game. A completely imbalanced, immature, dysfunctional game mind you--but a game nonetheless.  

"A perfect time for another baby!"--said no one in that situation, ever.  Except my parents--they thought it was a fabulous idea.  I was conceived, and born, not long after. 

Their marriage was, of course, not the second coming of Christ they'd hoped it would be. Old doubts gained new traction. Perspective gave deeper roots to resentment. Time and maturity were the kryptonite of my parents’ marriage, it seems, because by late 1973, it became crystal clear to both of them that they were out of options; their relationship had passed the point of no return before I was 4 years old. 

At that time, my father Alec was an NYPD cop who walked the beat in Times Square. This was at the height of the civil-rights movement, as well as the free-love, hippie way of life—with midtown Manhattan perhaps being the epicenter of it all. It was a job only those with very thick skins could endure unscathed. He was not one of those people. 

My dad is a walking paradox. The mystery and excitement of Manhattan drew him like a moth to the flame. Times Square in the 60’s and 70’s was oozing with sex, drugs and experimentation, which was scandalously titillating to him, as was the prestige and valor that went with being a police officer. 

At the same time, he was a pensive, artsy, easy-going mama’s boy who hated confrontation. Where battle-of-wills are concerned, my father takes the medal for having the most consecutive duels with all the different aspects of himself.   

It was a difficult time for any empath to be an NYPD cop, and for my dad, the job ate away at his soul. Everyone agrees that he was a problem drinker during this time. He was never violent or aggressive when he drank—quite the opposite. From my understanding, drinking turned off the emotions that managed to escape his many barriers, and only made it easier for him to avoid facing feelings (of course, avoiding feelings is something he’s always done, and continues to do, despite not having a drop of alcohol in over 4 decades).

If my mother wasn’t born a strong woman, life’s circumstances surely made her one. She is the oldest of four, daughter to two first generation Italian-American parents. There's a full 16-year age gap between she and her youngest sibling. Her childhood, like most, was full of both joy and sadness. 

The joy comes from having lived with extended family for most of her young years, creating wonderful memories with their musically-gifted brood: Dinner tables full of lovingly prepared banquets, and spirits to mellow the mind. And always, a guitar strumming, along with voices harmonizing to barbershop, doo-wop, or The Beatles. 

The sadness, because her brother wound up in jail at 14, and her mother died of cancer at the age of 42. 

Cancer is a monster now, but back then, when treatments were extremely limited, it was Satan himself. My mother was only 21 when her mom died, a mere 10 days before her first child--my sister Ann--was born. Her youngest sister, Joanie, was just 4, and as the life was fading from my grandmother's eyes, my mom promised her she'd always have Joanie's back--a promise she would never break. 

My father was an illegitimate child, which was a pretty big deal at the time he was born in 1941. But as was standard practice of that time, the truth about his biological father and everything that went with that story was pushed under the rug. Until, that is, the rug was yanked from underneath his feet. 

While going through the process of marrying my mother, a birth certificate was required. It was only then, when he was 20 years old, that his mother realized the gig was up, and she had to explain why there was a stranger’s name on his birth certificate. 

As it turned out, she gave a very rudimentary explanation at the time—the man he’d known to be his father his whole life actually was his stepfather. Normally, a disclosure of that magnitude would bring on a tsunami of questions, along with emotions. But that’s not how Alec rolled. 

This revelation about his biological father was huge, for sure. Actually, it was TOO huge, so instead of the potentially introspective, life-changing event it could have been, emotional blockades instantly locked into place, like roller shutters on urban bodegas at night, and nothing of substance could pass through the heavy barricades. 

At any rate, there is no question that I was born after an early rupture in my parents’ marriage that they either thought had been repaired, or that they thought my birth would repair.  But before I turned 4, they broke up for good.