Audio Rendition of "My Personal Tale: Reflections on Persecution of the Talented, Sensitive, and Unique; and Culture's Sick and Contradictory Purposes

Part 1:  Fathers, Sons, and Everyone 
Inherits a Laundry Room  

by SillyMickel Adzema

My Personal Tale:
Reflections on Persecution of the Talented, Sensitive, and Unique; and Culture's Sick 
and Contradictory Purposes
 Part One: Fathers, Sons, and 
Everyone Inherits a Laundry Room

 by SillyMickel Adzema

Prologue:  Touched by Michael's Story

For days I've been pondering Michael Jackson's life and his tragic and unfair persecution for basically succeeding at what our religion and culture say are the aims of life.  (See my article titled, "Message from Michael." In fact, it would be best to read that article before this one, as then this story will come across as more like a case study in the kinds of cultural processes I describe there. And one will get a lot more out of this read.)

I'd written an article in 2004 defending him during his persecution. I highlighted that article on this site after he died in honor of his memory. Additionally, I published an audio clip of that article on Entertonement.com, which clip is a personal reading of my 2004 article. I decided to do the reading for Michael and to do it with the flavor and style, also the passion, I'd intended for the article originally.

This heartfelt, personal reading ended up including some updates and comments, some personal asides of my own, and some unplanned eulogy-type passages that came out of me, as I got caught up in remembering how Michael had been scapegoated. As a result of this immersion in Michael, I was inspired to write "Message from Michael," in which I evaluated what one should take from a life with such soaring highs and then a crashing to Earth heard round the world.

All of this got me to thinking about culture's double-fuck on us all: First, in its brutally separating us from our source of life, guidance, and inspiration and creating a blank slate at birth, which would otherwise have been a map of life, with contact numbers directly to God and technical assistance angels -- a kind of Jacob's Ladder for when the going got rough; then, culture tells you to be an individual and aspire to greatness and puts up examples of people who have done so and made a difference for their society and the world; and then culture punishes severely any one who is exceptional and shows it and/or strives to do exactly as the cultural teachings were inspiring him or her to do. 

And the question was, why would culture be structured that way, and why would people hate exactly those kinds of people that would most likely be the ones set up for future generations to learn from? The answer follows from the basic sickness of the societal members, which as mentioned is caused by the double-binding culture. 

So we have sick societies and cultures. Yet within them we strive, still, for authentic lives of richness of experience, truth, love, and connection with our spiritual roots of strength, to be the unique person God intended, as well as awareness of the sacred map of our destiny, buried along with our source, which when found provides a felt inner compass that, if followed, daily brings us closer to God, more openness of feeling, and more desire for spreading love, joy, and for giving of oneself, and eventually brings us down the line directly to liberation. All of this must be done fighting a culture and its sick members who want us to be anything, anything at all (that is like them) but not exceptional. 

Further, the contradictory or mind-fucking quality of the cultural tenets is seen in that it is only through people who defy and buck the soul-murdering immersion in the cultural bosom that culture improves, that people receive help for their sufferings, and that anything good, improving on the average or status quo, can come into the world.

So that's the dilemma of culture, that's the mind-fuck, and that's the buzz saw that Michael Jackson got sucked into in the end.

But as I was going through all this, it opened up in me my own personal experiences with these elements. So, as it turned out, last night I was writing a little introduction for the article, "Message from Michael," and I ended up spending the night tapping into and laying out my story. I laughed, I cried, I had fun, I peed my pants (oh, just being sillymickel, not really); you just might too.

Plus, after reading this, you might have a little understanding of how authors, not just myself, can seem to know so much about others and certain topics or processes that seem often to readers would be hard to know without some gigantic "study." Read my story and I'll be surprised if you don't come away quite a bit more understanding of the kinds of processes I've described as impinging on Michael Jackson; and I think also with a great deal of clarity of why I'm able to see, with ease, what was really being done to him. 

My Own Story is Triggered

I wrote in my Prologue to "In Memoriam: Michael Jackson..."  that Michael "had lived his life with the un-self-conscious boldness and absolute commitment to his unique, real self -- more so even than most primalers are able to yet -- and for that he had been singled out, hounded, ridiculed, and laughed at; and these things no doubt diminished his life and then took it."

The whole story had got me to thinking but that quote captures the crux of it. I became reflective then, and I still am, as I recall how I'd also experienced persecution for being different - and for me, like Michael, it had to do with being more sensitive or more talented or intelligent, or all three, than males are "supposed" to be. 

Certainly those were the reasons that my father hated me, especially growing up.  He, ignorant and struggling; me, bright and athletic without trying or even wanting to be, and having everything come easy for me. Whereas for him, he had to wear himself out  struggling, desperately trying to prove to his father -- dead, of course, one of those "ghostly others," I've been mentioning -- that he in fact COULD take care of himself...and a wife, and six children. 

Discovering Dad's Daemon

Lest one think, "Well how could he know that about his Dad?":  Consider that my father NEVER shared anything about his life, his childhood, his parents, or any feelings at all with me or any of my siblings. Except on this one occasion, which I will relate. 

I was doing a family project and interviewing my Grandmother, parents, Godmother, and family of that generation, about their lives before us, their lives as children, the times, their feelings about things, basically getting the story or biographies that nobody younger in our extended family ever got, since the entire generation seemed to have this tight-lipped attitude about everything personal and on the inside. 

So it was that in the course of this, with everyone of the elders cooperating as best they could, though all being at least somewhat shy and reticent, and sadly forgetful of what their lives were like, that I was sitting down with my father and the tape recorder for his story. It was the hardest interview anyone could imagine. No matter what I asked him, he steered it right away to trying to get me to record his memory of the (a) list of vehicles he had owned in his life and the year he acquired them; or (b) the list of jobs, big or small, that he had worked in his life, beginning in childhood and up till his retirement, and the dates (of course).

I maintained my composure and persisted. Did you do much with your father? Did you see much of him? (Give me a break; I couldn't just come out and ask him how he FELT about his Dad; I had to work my way up to that; and I wasn't having any luck even with "How about games that you played back then; can you give me just one game, for starters, that you remember playing, with friends or your siblings, or anything?" Now, trying getting "No, can't remember any." to a question like that and you know you've got some heavy lifting coming.)

Somehow -- and yes, I did have to take down on the recorder and I think also in writing the lists of vehicles and jobs; but he had a recorder off button to my head, what could I do? -- but somehow during that time, and the persistent questioning, often saying things in different ways, breaking the questions up into their components to try to get single word responses (failed), even reducing them to yes or no questions (you've never heard so many, "don't remember"; "coulda been either"; "don't know's; and the like, in your life...failed). But persistence and time must have had at least some effect, for he let slip one remark -- God knows he probably regretted saying it, later, and may even have feared that I'd gotten some power over him because of it; I'm serious, that's really the way my Dad thought about things. 

I was asking him about his Dad and asking some things along the lines of, does he remember his Dad saying anything to him that stood out, or did you have the sense that your Dad loved you, or have any idea of what he thought of you, did he praise you, put you down, and on and on, in that vein, and largely without getting even a shimmer of light into his actual youth experience. But it was in the midst of those questions that this slipped out, reluctant and tentative, the words: "My Dad worried about me." 

That was the first opening, but I had no idea what he meant. So I pushed my advantage, "What do you mean, Dad, he worried about you? You mean he worried something might happen to you, like in the mines, or getting hurt or sick?"  

"No." 

"Well, what was he worried about, Dad?" (seriously, pulling teeth HAS to be easier!) In retrospect, I see it coming out, and I envision oatmeal slowly emanating out of him, from his mouth, but elsewhere too; that's the way it seemed to me -- like it wasn't said, but more like it leaked, pushed out by some inner built up pressure stronger than him, and in a way that was thick, vague, and with no thing at all to even connect it with. 

It was the revelation in a vacuum, which I would ponder for the rest of my life, and realize its importance, as it was the one thing his inner self pushed out of him. Because, no doubt, it was something always on his mind, and it was the thing around which he built his life, and every other truth about him could not come out, would have to wait in line, until this cork had popped, or until this logjam were broken up. Somehow his unconscious knew that before anything could be said about him, this would have to be expressed.

So, here's what bubbled up out of him; no doubt against all his wishes:  "My Dad was worried I wouldn't be able to take care of myself." 

I still didn't quite understand. I said, "not take care of yourself...what do you mean, Dad, take care of yourself, how?"

Still reticent, and his voice a little quieter than before at each piece that he was revealing, he said, looking more vulnerable by far than when we started, and a little sad and a little mad at me for putting him there, he said, "wasn't sure I'd be able to get a job, make a living..." he trailed off.

Well, I don't remember if I ever got more from him that day. But I remember feeling, first, "Geez, Dad, what are you telling me? Did your Dad think you were mentally "retarded" (using the word that would have applied at that time); then when I heard more, I came away feeling pretty sure that, since my father WAS a hard worker and had proven it by going into the mines at an early age, among other things, like paper routes and such at even earlier ages, that my grandfather must have been concerned about his lack of "smarts."  His sister reported that he absolutely hated school and schoolwork, and had a difficult time with it, and didn't do well at all. He barely got by. In fact, he quit school, with a couple of years or less to go, and got a job in the mines.

Underground mining was chosen by my father over going to high school. That tells you where he put the pleasures of his life at that time. In fact, he would not have graduated at all, except for an incident at the mines. I don't have the details at hand, but I believe it had to do with a runaway car or line of them, and donkeys that were supposed to be pulling them. Something happened; and the way I understand it, he barely escaped with his life being run over by barreling rail cars, or the donkeys or something. The event is vague; but his closest sister and my Godmother confided gravely, a very unusual tone for her, that "He was scared out of his wits. He left the mines, and would never go back. He was terrified. He never forgot it; and it stayed with him for the rest of his life." Now, that's a lot of terror for simply the incident the way my father described it to others. People are in auto accidents in which they almost lose their lives, but don't have such terror, and even go back to driving.

We'll never know for sure what happened in the mines to scare him so much, but we can expect that he wasn't telling the whole story, and he might not even have been telling the correct story. For example, if he'd been - pure speculation, mind you - forced into some kind of bizarre male sex initiation, and being the young fresh high school meat in such a context of men working in filth and darkness and for long hours, where no one got to see daylight, barely got home in time to catch some zzzz's before going to work again, and so no time for the wife, well wouldn't those men be living in an environment somewhat resembling that of jail. And we know about men's sexual thoughts and behaviors in that kind of confinement. We'll never know, but something like what I'm speculating would explain a lot about the person he became that my siblings and I knew. While mostly we draw a blank, even when talking to his brothers and sisters for some roots to why he turned out, why, even quite different from all of them.

Cont'd, top of next col.)

My Personal Tale, cont'd

(Cont'd, from bottom of col. 2

Well whatever the incident in the mine was, it was enough to scare the high school hatred out of him. Although for the rest of his life he was really down on "book knowledge," with a passion, and pumping himself up constantly claiming he had life knowledge, which was superior; superior to anything that I or my brother or sister would accomplish at the collegiate and post-collegiate levels - expected, for that is how he kept us down and himself from feeling dumb or the terrible unfairness. But later in life he was even smarter than doctors - other professionals as well - but especially doctors; half-joking, which is my hope, that they don't know nothing and that he was as good as a doctor; in fact, better.

He finished high school, graduating at the same time as his younger sister, my Godmother and Aunt Martha. He was a year and a little older than her. But what she said about it struck me as odd. I asked her before she passed away how that was graduating together, expecting her to say something positive, as I was imagining how much fun it would at any stage in school to have been in the same grade as my sister, Peggy, who was also a year younger than me, like my Aunt Martha was to my Dad. Hell, Peggy was my best friend when we were preschool; we even vowed to get married -- knowing not a damn thing about it. And she remains my supporter and source of unconditional love this day.

So my Aunt Marth's comments surprised me. She said, "embarrassing." 

For starters, this was the first time I'd heard slip from any of that generation that my father even in high school had something that was like what we would all see and cringe at while we were growing up with him as a father, and even afterwards, until the day he died. "Embarassing," was the perfect way of describing how all of us felt if any of our friends were to find out who our Dad was. Nobody ever brought home a date or squeeze to meet the parents. Hell, no one ever brought anyone over the house, except the neighbor's kids who knew my Dad, and even then, only rarely. We all felt that he was capable of saying or acting in such a way that would be social suicide for us. Plus, the whole family, my mother included, were in danger at any social or family gathering of that same feeling: being embarassed. My father did not seem to have any sensitivity to other people; he would bluntly say the most hurtful things to people loudly and in earshot of everyone. There were so many ways that you'd end up feeling ashamed that you were related to him.

But none of his brothers and sisters has let on even a wink that they'd felt anything but normal having him around when they were growing up. That is, until Aunt Martha said this to my wife and me, years after he's passed away.

But getting back to what my grandfarther said to him - ""wasn't sure I'd be able to get a job, make a living..." my best guess is that  might cause him to not make wise financial choices or to otherwise not be able to navigate the increasingly complex job and economic environment that was occurring then.

So also, it made perfect sense then WHY it was SO important to "have it recorded" for the sake of the freakin Akashic Records, no doubt, that, indeed, he HAD all these jobs, one after the other, and sometimes two at a time, and even three. And regarding the "vehicles" -- which when he was coming into his prime they were also; and they were the symbols of success. So, his vehicles -- and as he pointed out, I bought each of them with cash, and bought them new. -- were the prima facie evidence that not only could he get jobs, but that he could be very successful in handling money, taking care of his obligations, essentially, that he could, well, "in spades" even, "take care of himself."

That he could buy that many new vehicles had to be for him, the final evidence that "Dad, you're wrong. I've proven you wrong. How could you ever think that of me? I've showed you. And now I hope you will respect me, and see me the way that I deserve to be seen."

Now, thinking of my father that way and how he pushed himself, struggled hard, saved every penny, didn't waste any money on booze, vacations, or any of the sensual gratifications -- he raised us as real Spartans -- you can be sure. So, sacrificing, saving, and working long hours; his life revolving around a desire to be able to make his father eat his words, take them back, and (behind it all) then maybe his Dad would love him, and not think of him as not smart enough, consider what I must have represented to him.

A whiz since the first grade at "book knowledge," top of my class, always; socially successful without having to try (well, he'd do everything in his power over the years to fuck THAT up!), athletically adept at everything, often upon my first try, it must have galled him no end. No doubt I was his stick in the face, poke in the face, constant bee sting reminder of -- no, not that he had sold out or anything; he had in fact succeeded with what little God had given him. No, different than Jackson, I was the reminder that life was unfair. 

He'd been born into poverty and had to struggle, knowing that others are born wealthy and don't. Unfair, but that's life. But then I'm his son, born into poverty also, but considering the gifts and talents that teachers and others are telling him that I have, well it must have been like spawning one of those snotty rich kids and having to live with them, work to feed and clothe them, and so on. And then to have to see that every day must have been a painful reminder that (and these are his exact words, words he often used -- not coincidentally, I think) that he was the "poor shnook" and that, damn the luck, HE "had gotten the shitty end of the stick" in life. 

I should point out that among his generation and his social group he was not the brightest bulb in the pack, and socially, he was rougher around the edges than his peers, but there wasn't any kind of great contrast that would make him feel bad about his fate. But with his children, myself and a few others of the six, there WAS that great contrast. And he spent his time with us doing everything in his power to try to undermine our success or achievements in anything -- academically, socially, athletically -- in fact in any area of life except the one that he had succeeded in; and even in that, he would undermine any effort at making a living that didn't involve just getting an ordinary job, physical work, work that a high school graduate would do; working class jobs. 

He did this with ridicule, grounding us, conveniently, for social events that were important social milestones and learning experiences that could not be gotten any other way by concocting something from the past that he didn't like that we did that we should be grounded for, and for out and out not giving his permission for activities that he knew we'd be successful for. 

In that respect, I have to give the example that causes me heartache right now, at the age of 59, as I'm thinking about it, although his action completely changed the direction of my life, caused me to act out and become self-destructive, and essentially hung over me like a huge cloud of sadness, regret, and -- ah, I see, so THIS  was how he made himself feel better about his life...at my expense...I absolutely never thought of this before in my life until this very moment, although I've had occasion to relate this life-changing action by my father to every therapist who ever knew me, and every friend who ever got close enough to where we began revealing who we "really" were. 

OK, coming down from sad insight epiphany of finally getting WHY my father had been so cruel at that moment, so unexpectedly cruel. Coming down enough to reveal what is was. Remember how I was just saying above that unlike Michael Jackson who might bring up feelings of jealousy, or that people might have made the wrong choices in life, I probably brought up in my father the feeling of the "UNFAIRNESS" of his life.

So, there we have it, making perfect, diamond clear sense. He hated me for the gifts God gave me, which I didn't even have to struggle or work for. Bright, athletic, sociable, naturally caring, sensitive, and loving -- he hated all those things; and I don't just mean in me, I mean, IN ANYBODY! 

Christ! Even my sense of humor -- boy, would we laugh and have fun among my brothers and sisters...after dinner, say, on a school day during the winter... and towards the end of the meal, it would start, someone would make a comment, before you know it we'd be coming back with things, and practically falling on the floor with our laughter. We loved each other; we worked hard all day -- our Dad adding plenty to our normal work as schoolkids -- and after dinner there was a lull when Dad had left the table (and we could all breathe a little easier, for certainly anything of humor or any kind of conversation among us, would receive some mean or sarcastic put down, telling us basically "who the hell do you think you are, talking, being happy, making an assertion, when you are just a stupid kid, you have a "head like a tack," and are just a "piece of shit" thinking you're "hot shit" or something).

So, for sense of humor -- well, and this is the first thing I always say about my father to try to give people an idea of just how different a guy we're talking about, for starters: My father is the only person I know in the world -- and this is literally true -- who never SMILED...never smiled the entire time that I was growing up...with a few exceptions which are totally consistent. For he would smile, ONLY at weddings, and after he'd had a few to drink. 

He wasn't a drunk, but a few drinks, every four to five years, at a wedding, and then this transformation where he'd be smiling, glad-handing, even noticing his kids, once he was even supportive of one of my aspirations at such a time, encouraging me and even offering to talk to the band about me joining them to show off my drumming skills. This is a guy that on any other occasion, not drinking, would think me an egotist for trying to be a musician. So it was the drink, only, that quieted his mind of that demon of put down and criticism -- I believe it was about being too dumb to "take care of himself" -- enough to act like a normal human being for a few hours.

But at any other time, re: humor; well, I just have to tell you about the many times that I heard him just rip and tear into, on TV now, (who would you guess? For me, it would be Bush. There's a lot of people that really piss people off.) But my father, as usual being in a class unto himself,  well I'll tell you the man who he despised the most, out of all of them. It would  go something like this:

We'd be sitting around in the evening watching the show. My mother was always there, I would be there, any of my bros and sisters could be there. And -- one of those happy times for us -- we'd watch the show and we'd be cracking up. Who? Well, me of course. My mother, ALWAYS, too; she had a great sense of humor. My sister almost always would be there, too, and laughing so hard, why, probably peeing her pants! (No, not literally. That's a little side joke to Peggy if she ever reads this, she'll know what I mean) -- but figuratively, yes, she and I would laugh; it was just great. And my older sister, Mary Ann, why she'd be just as much in hysterics. We'd all be having fun. Chuckie, probably wouldn't be there, Joseph, older, probably engaged in schoolwork; Jim, too young.

But myself, my Mom, and perhaps my two sisters would be light-hearted, happy, laughing, grateful for the gift of this comedian and the temporary lifting of the ordinary drudgery and darkness or meanness of our lives that this comedian was providing. 

Then, from the corner seat, my Dad, bowl of ice cream in his lap, and making his way methodically through it, smack in the middle of an uproar of our hilarity:  "That SHIT!" -- like a bowling ball at us, right down the center of the alley....STRIKE! All pins of mirth down. That's 10 for starters, for you, Dad, and you've still got another roll. 

"That's STUPID!"  OK, Dad, you're really on a roll. That's another strike. 10 pins of mirth still down. Geez, Dad, it's only the first frame, and you're already bowling 20 plus the next two rolls in the next frame.

The rest of us in the room are much more subdued, but I mean I've tried questioning him about it, you learn you're not going to get anywhere.

Uh, oh, the show continues, and we just can't help ourselves because this routine on TV we've seen many times; and it's always a riot. Oh, my God, yes, this time it is too. It's funny, yes; oh the faces he makes; he's a freaking genius of expression, no doubt, making us roar just with those incredible larger than life ways he's able to move his rubbery face, saying with each expression more than a thousand words could. 

We're cracking up, but then he's also making us a little sad. It's the tramp routine, and you know the guy is lonely and sad, but he's trying to be "above" it and to actually still be giving to others, or to poor hurt birdies in this park you imagine, because they've got a park bench on the stage as the main prop he's working off. So we're laughing, and then we're feeling sad, a tear comes to my eye, for sure, and I feel a welling up in my chest. There's such a beauty in people,  even when they're down and out. Yea, he's telling the truth about people in this skit; he's making us aware not  to judge people on the clothes they wear or the money in their bank account,  but on their heart. 

It's perfect; pure genius. And he's a beautiful person too; so gentle and caring… and funny" is all going through me, welling up about the beautiful poignancy, and also the sad tragedy, of life…tear beginning its journey down the cheek.... 

"What a DAMN IDIOT!"

"Wow, I didn't even realize it was your turn to roll already, Dad.  Geez, Dad, you're good at this. I mean all the mirth pins are down…let's see, that's ten; but then -- don't know how you did  it on one roll but -- you got the poignancy pins -- ALL OF THEM, WOW! -- down the lane over. But, Dad, gotta give you credit, you've got to be the genius of Spoiler Bowl. You should really think of going Pro. I mean, you've even got another ten for all ten existential connection pins in the lane on the other side!!! I mean there ain't no happy or insightful or feeling pins left in this whole place; and you've captured  more grumpy points, meanness points, think you even got hate points too, this time, Dad…or at least you've got a good  shot at them"

"THAT'S SILLY!"

"Wow, Dad, you're on a roll for sure. You may just be the first person to eliminate good-hearted pins in the future!"

"Who the hell does that panzy, Skelton, think he is!  Stupid faggot.  Oh, he's so sweet (said sarcastically), helping a little birdie in a park… THAT'S RIDICULOUS"

"You sure don't need no help from me, Dad. I think you've eliminated mirth, clear through into the next decade. Don't know why they don't just cede the Spoiler Bowl crown to you right now."

"Do YOU think that's funny?" he says to me.

"Well, yea, Dad, I don't think everyone could do what Red Skelton does, just the way he moves gets you smiling."

"He's a damn TRAMP! That’s not funny. You think tramps are happy, you think tramps are going around helping little birdies…they'd probably cook 'em up before helpin' 'em out. That's crazy, and STUPID! You're telling me, that's FUNNY! HA! (sarcastically put.)

"Well, yea, Dad," I'm thinking, "I was thinking it was really damn funny till you opened your mouth.

"Now, take it easy, Joe…" Here comes my Mom; she's pretty good sometimes. "Just you don't understand him don't make him nothing. He's a good man, I say. He's gentle and sweet. You might try that sometimes."

"Good one, Mom!" goes through my mind.

HA!! Comes out of his mouth. "MEEEEEE!!! NOT in a MILLION YEARS!!.."

"I know." My Mom, quietly, practically to herself.

"THERE'S NO WAY I'd be any silly damn panzy. It's STUPID. STUPID and SILLY. Anybody thinks it's funny's gotta be STUPID, too"

"Well, Dad, there's no game left. You won and everybody's left. No pins stand anywhere her and into the future. In fact, you, once again, have beaten all possible records and have eliminated all good-hearted feeling right through into the future, all the way out to November of the year 2000. I gotta feeling with your total elimination of the mirth and existential awareness pins and your build up of the mean-spirited and grumpy awards out to 2000, that you've probably caused, just tonight alone, the election of the most insensitive, perhaps worst  President in history,  with all the grumply and mean-spirited prevailing and the hope and good-heartednes eliminated. That's practically unbeatable. But then it always seems that way. Next time, you'll probably outdo yourself; you always do. It's always a real spectacle with you, Dad. I wouldn't be surprised next time you set off getting Santa Claus shot down out of the sky on Christmas Eve. You're something else, Dad."

So, let's say that my Dad didn't have a sense of humor; but you'll know what I mean now.
 

But I was saying that he was so obsessed with his own lousy roll of the life dice, that he couldn't stand having any of his kids have it better in life or accomplish anything better, which is the exact opposite of what parents are said to universally feel about their kids success, isn't it.? We've been talking about Michael Jackson being brought down by people who've sold out, compromised, and who were jealous of him, and also thinking it unfair because of Michael Jackson not being a "real man" like them, and so in their minds, he's a perv, he's queer, he doesn't deserve it, "like me, who's a real guy," and so he had to be shot down. Does my flashback above give you any inkling that I might now a little something, more than mere "book knowledge" of which I speak?

But I never told you the greatest and most obvious damage he inflicted out of those feelings of not being able to stand it if we had it too much better than him. Indeed, it is  such a big part of my family's history that, not only does all my siblings rate it as a milestone in who I became; some of them remember the actual details of it with better clarity then even I do. And the topper is that, of all the things that my parents did to my siblings and I -- the beatings, the harshness, the meanness, the undermining of our natural feelings to be the best that we can be in life and to aspire to more than what we've known; granted most or that was my father; but my mother played her crucial role. In this instance, her role was pivotal… and devastating.

TO BE CONTINUED