I wrote this longhand about three months ago. I woke up one morning, grabbed pen and a pad of paper and just started writing. About two hours later, I had written twenty three pages worth of thoughts on the subject. I realize my lack of religious beliefs may antagonize some, but like I've said before, this blog is my therapy. I've gone three months without and am just realizing how important it had become to me. It gives me the chance to be silly, deep, reflect and state my views. If this angers anyone, I apologize.
God's Tests
Do the things that shape our lives happen due to circumstance, chance or are they tests set upon us by the almighty one? If one believes it is circumstance, then one would live in a world that is reminiscent of an ever changing Robert Frost poem. If one believes it is by chance, then everything is based on luck or merely being somewhere at a particular time. Then of course, there is God. If one's roots are deep seated in faith, one believes that everything is either predestined or our every move is a choice based on on tests that a higher power has set upon us. While I do not believe in a higher power, I started thinking about my own life's test and how they have shaped my life.
Pro-lifers will rejoice in the knowledge that my biological Irish Catholic mother decided to give birth to me. I was adopted by a wonderful Jewish mother and atheist father. He was raised Lutheran, but had the food fortune of being well educated and turned his back on organized religion when he learned that question need real answers. I've followed in hos footsteps and quite possibly have taken his "question everything" mantra to a whole new level.
Adoption can be taken differently depending on many variables. One aspect of adoption that defines many of us, is the age at which you were adopted. I was four days old, so my mind only recognizes one set of parents and therefor, aside from questions of heritage, I have no interest in knowing my biological background. Since I can remember, I've known I was adopted and I consider myself lucky. My parents are intelligent and taught me well. They provided me with all the essentials to become a caring, intelligent and humorous individual. The key word is individual. They gave me everything they could, all the while teaching me the value of things, tangible and not.I was never handed anything on a silver platter and while at times I envied those who had, I soon saw how those glistening exteriors were shells for very hollow interiors. They taught me about the finer things in life, such as art, music, literature, stage and screen and of course, fine dining. Friends of mine used to come to my home and think it was a library. They laughed when I mentioned eating lamb once a week. I never took these things for granted and to this day, I feel blessed to have been able to have access to so much culture, right in my own home. In many ways, I feel I was given up for what I believe was a better life.
As a youngster my parents stressed the importance of education. My mother took me out of nursery school and taught me how to read and write. Spending countless days with my mother was not all playing and General Hospital (although I did know who Mark Hamill was before Star Wars). Every meal was accompanied by classical music and should we have a dish attached to any particular ethnicity, somewhere during the meal, there would be a history lesson about that region. By the time I entered school, I knew the difference between Bach and Brahms, the ingredients in moussaka and could tell you everything there was to know about Greek and Norse mythology.
School came very easy to me and by second grade my parents realized I wasn't being challenged at the local public school. I took a test in an attempt to get into St. Ann's in Brooklyn. At the time, mentioning you attended St. Ann's was the elementary and high school equivalent of saying you went to Harvard or Yale. It was incredibly prestigious and very expensive. My parents did what they could and made arrangements so I could attend. After the entrance exam, it was suggest that, due to my score, I skip third grade (while the story might have become exaggerated over the years, the rumor was I got one or two of the two hundred questions incorrect). This advanced placement would have positive and negative effects on my life.
Skipping a grade as a youngster means nothing. Changing schools was more traumatic. I was barely eight years old and in fourth grade, but being I had older friends in my neighborhood, it wasn't a big deal. I was as smart, if not smarter than almost everyone in my grade, but I had missed how to write in script (I know they call it cursive, but when I was a kid, it was script). To this day, and at this moment, I'm trying to understand my own chicken scratch. I spent five years in St. Ann's (which has no religious affiliation) In those year, I learned more than I did in all the years in high school and college. I learned to read and write at a level far beyond my age and with additional support at home, I was reading at an 11th grade level in sixth grade. The school nurtured my educational mind, but from it, grew a true cynicism towards the educational system as I see it today. I read more Shakespeare in 6th grade than I did in all the rest of my school years. When I got to Eastchester High School and we read Catcher in the Rye in 11th grade, I rolled my eyes and told the teacher that I refused to read it, as it was a children's book. I explained that I had read it in 6th grade and then again in 9th and that in 9th it was below our reading level. I assumed, at that time, that everyone read somewhat close to the same level. Obviously, the teacher stuck to her guns, I didn't read it and wrote my silly essay based on memory.
My school problems started in 9th grade. My parents couldn't afford to keep me in St. Ann's. At the time, high school rivaled college tuition. They enrolled me in a new school in NYC called High School for the Humanities. I arrived during the inaugural year and the school only had 9th and 10th grades. The problem was that for all the hoopla this school received, the reality was, it was a run of the mill NYC public high school. The only real change was that semesters were cut in half and this school ran on a 10-week quarter grading system. This proved to be good and bad, because you gained or lost good teachers in a short span. The school tried and failed on many levels. The lack of continuity hurt them. At times we'd read the same novels in different classes in the same school year. I also found the material to be well below what I was reading as much as four years before. It was a test to get through it without losing interests. This distraction coupled with the fact that my age had caught up with me became a problem. Being a 13-year-old squeaky voiced white kid, surrounded by 14-19-year-old (and yes I said 19) black and Puerto Rican kids proved to be a trying time. The race issue was not a problem, as I'd grown up in a very multi-ethnic community,but the age and voice thing played a part. The real problem wasn't the guys, but here was this kid, barely starting to go through puberty, surrounded by beautiful Spanish girls, some four years my senior. Looking back, it's always nice to say that my first girlfriend (for two whole weeks) was seventeen when I was thirteen. She also looked about twenty two, which made it even funnier. I desperately wanted to fit into this world. In St. Ann's everyone was pretty much the same. Different backgrounds, but all basically the same. I never felt like I was one to succumb to peer pressure, but there was a real need not to get my ass kicked on a daily basis. With help from the ever growing hip-hop culture and my friends from the neighborhood, I took on a persona which by suburban definition would be called a "whigger." This actually was done more out of necessity than a need to feel cool. Walking in the Wyckoff or Gowanus project in 1984 wearing a crew neck sweater and penny loafers would catch you a bullet. Wearing Lee Jeans, Le Tigre shirts and some fresh suede Pumas or white on white Adidas with fat laces to match my shirt was called blending and I was successful. To me this was passing a huge test. No other white kid could walk into these parks, but on the courts in these places I was known as Larry Bird. Not only for my skin color, but at a young age, I was somewhat known for my basketball prowess. The acceptance not only let me roam freely in this neighborhood, but offered me protection in others. At no time, did I feel this was a front. This is who I had become.
The aforementioned acceptance came with a price. In general, I hung out with older kids who lacked dreams or aspirations. Many of them had already discovered the wonders of drugs and alcohol. While I never had any interest in drugs, I did find alcohol to be interesting. At 13-14 I was regularly getting drunk on the weekends. It was a different time. At 13, I could walk into a local bodega and buy whatever I wanted. Imagine today a little white boy walking out holding two 40oz bottles of Old English 800. I started having real fun and the first thing to go was my grades. In the NYC school system, skipping school isn't that big a deal. I'd cut classes and hang out in parks, in buildings and friend's houses and drink. In 9th grade I missed close to 90 days of school and still got A's and B's. In 10th, I missed 142 of 183 days of school and even some finals. In the end, my parents decided for the welfare of myself and my brother, a move out of Brooklyn was necessary.
I never wanted to leave and my first year in Eastchester was trying. I had left all my friends. Not just friends, but people who had become family. People who would and on more than one occasion took a beating for me. I also was coming into a situation where I was to repeat tenth grade. In my mind, it was a fresh start, but I was fish out of water. Unfortunately, personal issues kept my attention away from my studies. I resented my parents, I resented authority, I hated the world. I became confrontational with everyone. Even those I loved. I hated my time in Eastchester High School. The teachers carried themselves with such an undeserved pretentious attitude. Many seemed put off by my knowledge of the subjects they were attempting to teach. For the first time in my life I was being shunned for actually knowing what I was talking about. It seemed to me that they felt it was their job to introduce the students to each subject and my previous knowledge only made them angry. It's easy to say that I was just a spoiled teenager, but now, in my latter years I realize just how poor they were. The few I liked showed character and seemed to genuinely care about us, but more times than not they were robotic, regurgitating cliff note style definitions of what we should know. I remember in my senior year, I asked that I be removed from a teacher's class because she had some sort of axe to grind with me. I asked to be switched into the class of a brand new teacher. I was told that the class wasn't at my level and it couldn't be done. I explained that the main class wasn't at my level and it should be my right to take the class I wanted. I remember this teacher bubbling with enthusiasm even in the middle of a class that would break the will of most. Luckily for me, I got to go to summer school that summer and she was my teacher. I remember getting assignments weeks in advance and doing them the night before and getting A's. School was easy, but my desire was lacking. Poor attendance, attitude and the fact that I think I did homework a handful of times, led to poor grades, even though papers and tests grades were generally pretty high. I longed for the challenge of St. Ann's and even that at the dinner table. I realized if I wanted to be challenged I'd have to look elsewhere.
Eastchester taught me one valuable lesson. If I wanted to continue in my quest to enhance my intelligence and broaden my horizons, I'd have to do it on my own. Complacency is a disease in Westchester County. People don't strive, don't move the way they do in the city and I feared I'd fall into the trap. I've learned now, in my older years, that the entire county, especially Eastchester is like a giant Venus Flytrap, just waiting for it's next victim. I still reside in the same town, so this is a test I've obviously failed. It's not to say Eastchester is worse than anywhere else, but it's so hard to detach the tentacles it grabs you with, even when you know it's as easy as walking away.
School isn't the only place we learn lessons. Humans aren't the only teachers out there. Sometimes lessons can come from the most unlikely sources, such as our household pets. When I was young we had a Siberian Husky named Velya. Velya was undeniably one of the most beautiful animals I've ever seen. The problem was Velya was not only protective but her defensive manner sometimes became an offensive behavior. She had a tendency to bite people and not only when she felt threatened, although that was usually the case. She wasn't always being malicious, but sometimes we forget that house pets are still animals and protect their space. They don't have the cognitive abilities we have and when they feel trapped or antagonized, they strike. I was spending a weekend with my grandparents when I got a call from my parents saying that Velya had to be put down. I cried for hours and couldn't fathom what could have made my parents do such a thing. Apparently a friend of my parents was over for dinner and this self proclaimed dog expert backed our pet into a corner and in a moment of sheer genius, put her hands over the dogs ears and went face to face with the dog. The dog growled and then struck, nearly ripping her nose from her face. By law the dog had to be put down. This was a test for me, because I wanted to hate this person for killing my dog. In the end, I learned a valuable lesson about life. We never know as much as we think we know. I also learned we should never underestimate what one will do when they feel threatened, no matter if we feel we are threatening them or not. We all know the cliche about walking a mile in one's shoes, but when people are teased, bullied, or threatened, many might react completely differently than one would expect. Columbine and other recent tragedies has proved that.
My next test, was one of my most difficult challenges. A year before my brother was adopted, my parents adopted a baby girl who we named Lora. She was a few days old when we brought her home and I was the proudest older brother there ever was. For the rest of my life I would have this child to protect. My life had a specific meaning and at ten, this was monumental. A little less than a month into my brotherhood, I was playing in the street with friends, when my mother called out to me. I rolled my eyes, assuming it was the usual request to run to the corner store for milk, cigarettes or the god-awful women's products. She asked me to come inside and I reluctantly followed. She then told me to sit down because she had something important to tell me. My mind was still on the ballgame outside. I stared. I saw a tear in her eye. She explained to me that when a parent gives a child up for adoption, they have 30 days to change their mind and that the following day some people were going to come to our house and pick her up. Looking back, I honestly can't tell you what was more painful, the knowledge she was being taken away or the fact we had to care for her for 24 more hours with this knowledge. I was so upset, but it wasn't real. The following afternoon, we sat, with friends and family there for support and I held her one last time, the people came to the house, we kissed her goodbye and she was gone, forever. I was a wreck and it was the first time in my young life I remembered seeing my father cry. The family was completely distraught and I remember at that very moment asking why something like this would and could happen. Years later, when my mother passed, I was looking through a drawer with some stuff she had and under a jewelry box I saw a picture. At first glance I thought it was my brother as a baby, but when I turned it over, every emotion from that horrible day came flooding back. Why did this happen? What lesson was to be learned by this? I wouldn't trade my brother for anything in the world, but I'll always wonder about that little girl. How is her life? How would mine have been different? All I do know is that if it hadn't happened, she'd be 31 now and she'd have a brother who worshipped her.
Aside from the Eastchester High experience, all of these life experience took place before the age of fifteen. Most had been pretty good experiences. If these were a case of God's will, I'd say in many occasions I was taken from a potentially bad place and put in a good one. Then, like so many of us have experienced, things I loved started to be taken away from me. Starting with my sister. Everything I started to appreciate or care for was slowly being ripped away from me. The one thing I could count on was my friends and then we moved.
Eastchester is like a world apart from Brooklyn. It's quiet, very clicky and incredibly white. In 1985, when I moved, I felt like I had moved to some remote location down south where segregation still existed. So many still had problems with rap music and the booming hip hop influx. Most people I went to high school with wore leather or jean jackets adorned with patches from their favorite heavy metal bands. To be honest, when I moved, I didn't even know who these bands were. I was the kid with the grey sheepskin jacket walked with a strut. I was used to walking the streets at night carrying a boom box and surrounded with friends strapped with knives and the occasional gun. I had no use for driving in circles, wearing hideous pastels and Cosby sweaters with tapered pants. Eastchester was and in many ways still is an anomoly to me. I've been to many different towns and met many different people, but Eastchester is so different. For years I've teased my friends who grew up here about the inbreeding. About how there are really only like six different families and they are all cousins, but their children keep marrying each other. It's a wonderful thing when you look at the closeness of most people in the town, but I also think it contributes to the number of nut jobs that roam the streets. I find it funny that generations of people refer to it as "the bubble." The bubble is where everyone knows your name, but they also know your business. It's also a bubble because once inside, you feel like you can never leave. For good reasons and bad. The one thing that has always bothered me is the people that have let the town define them. I promised myself long ago I'd be different. With each passing day, I feel I've failed that test. Don't get me wrong. I've met some of my best friends and some wonderful people. There are just so many times that I wish there was more variety in town. Not only in ethnicity, but in personalities. I know so many people who are just like their friends. To the point they are interchangeable. If variety is the spice of life, then Eastchester is mostly salt, and very little pepper.
So was this God's will? To put a stranger in a strange land. Is the test to see if I can break free, when so many before me have failed? Is it to adapt to my surroundings and become part of the machine? My philosophical differences with most of my neighbors lends me to believe that this isn't the case. What is it is? What if the test is to succumb to what I know isn't real, isn't true? Isn't that what faith is anyway?
Any faith I may have had was gone when both my mother's parents were stricken with Alzheimer's. It turned the two most loving people into zombies. This isn't what made me lose faith, because I realize people get ill. What made me lose faith was the fact they stayed in this state for nearly ten years. They died with no dignity, no money and no recollection of the wonderful lives they had lived. They died, not knowing who was staring back at them. What test was a God giving us? Two people who had spent their lives giving love, unconditionally to everyone they touched, to die not recognizing those who so greatly appreciated them. There was me, so completely unable to accept they didn't recognize me, that I couldn't bear to see them. So who was being tested? To die alone, surrounded by love, doesn't seem like a fair test for anyone.
For years I was the one who was to be the great doctor, lawyer or some other high profile professional because of my academic prowess. Few realize the pressure that puts on a child to be so young and already deemed a success. Pretty much the only place to go is down from that giant pedestal. So to combat the immense pressure, I always did exactly the opposite of what was expected of me. I skipped the first semester of college to work and then did both the following semester. I realized that being 19-21 with money was a far easier way to enjoy a life of parties and girls than it was to sit in a classroom with no money. Someone must have forgot to send me the memo about girls in college having much lower standards than those outside of it. So I started roofing and as much as it surprised most people, I loved it. Other than coaching little league and having sex, it was my favorite thing to do when I was 21. Ironically, and people will be shocked to know this, but when I turned 21 I basically stopped drinking. I was happily involved in a relationship with someone who really couldn't get into all the bars, so I gave that part of my life up. I also felt an obligation to the kids I coached and knowing games were early on the weekends at times, I needed to be responsible. So for seven years I lugged my ever growing ass up and down ladders and never had more fun at any job, before or since. All the time the P-word was hanging over my head. Apparently, roofing wasn't living up to my potential. Potential was gnawing at me every day. I kept being asked when I was returning to school to get a "real" job. Finally I caved in and enrolled in Manhattan College. I was 26 at the time and it seemed pretty cool. I went for Physical Education so basically most of the time I was playing sports and hanging out with 18-21 physically fit girls. Not a bad deal after breaking my back roofing. Life was good. I could get into this. Work with kids, get paid and make all my family proud. I hated the classroom stuff, but it came pretty easy, so it wasn't that bad. I was going to do the right thing and show everyone that I was successful, no matter what I chose to do. I turned my back on something I liked and started to grow a fondness for this next endeavor. God's Will? Maybe, it seemed like I was destined to do this. Everyone kept telling me they always saw me doing this.
Manhattan College was in full swing. My grades were up, the finish line in sight and all was good in the world. It was a Wednesday morning and we had a basketball class. The teacher said we were skipping drills and playing a game. He told everyone to take a quick stretch and then jog a lap before playing. I sat on the ground watching. He approached me and asked me why I wasn't stretching. I said "coach, you know I'm six or seven years older than everyone else, I've never stretched in my life, never been hurt and there isn't more than one kid in this class who can hang with my in basketball." He told me to appease him and do my stretches. I shot him a look and complied. Two minutes later, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. I looked over and the guy next to me had a look of horror and he said "what the fuck was that?" I paused and then felt a stiffness in my knee. I looked down and within seconds my knee was the size of a small watermelon. The school denied any responsibility and me, not being a complete prick, never thought to sue the school. To this day, both my ACLs are torn and I can't play sports. The one thing, no matter how bad life got, was sports. It was my escape. And from that day forward, it was taken away as I knew it. I can't tell you how many people told me to have faith or that it happened for a reason. I was done with faith for good. If a voice from the heavens called down to me and warned me of a storm and told me to build an arc and collect two of every animal, I'd yell back "What have you done for me? Fuck em, teach em to swim!"
As the years went by the knees got worse and the ability to work, play and even sleep became a chore. My inability to run lent itself to weight gain. Extreme weight gain. My potential, my lifestyle, my ability to choose any career I want and my happiness shattered because of a stretch? What was the test? I also became bitter and found that not everyone, especially those of the opposite sex are attracted to intelligent and funny guys when they are overweight and bitch about their knees every time it's going to rain. Maybe I should do a Match.com survey and find out. People think I exaggerate, but any more than two hours standing is brutally painful. So for whatever reason I've had my favorite activities taken away, which in return makes my social life a health risk. Maybe the omnipotent one is just trying to kill me so I can chill by his big chair in the sky. Maybe I'm the chosen one and he's fucking with me because he wants me for his rec league in the clouds. Just maybe!
So let's reflect. In my somewhat short life, I've had a sibling taken away, a wonderful education and incredible friends disposed of due to relocation. MY loyal pet destroyed due to someone else's narcissistic feeling they were the dog whisperer. I was hailed a boy genius, only to be thrust into high school with no pubes, no self confidence and a voice that sounded like Lacy Charbet. I fell into a rut of being a dick, more out of boredom than my need to rage against the machine. My loving grandparents taken from me ten years before they died. This was also the beginning of my mother's plight. Her devotion to them caused her to break down, both physically and emotionally. I returned to school only to have my favorite activities taken from me. So here's my question. Is the test over? Do I get the go straight to heaven card? Will I win lotto? Marry a millionaire? Nope we're not done yet.
"She has six months to live." That's what the doctor nonchalantly said to us. This was my mother's second bout with cancer. She fought through though. She waited to see my brother finish college, even though she was too weak to see the graduation. I missed it to, to stay with her. She fought for a few years. even in her sickness she pushed my brother, provided for all of us and never showed any weakness. This was her most proud moment as a a parent and she couldn't be there for it. She and sat and she cried for him, I cried for her. She never stopped looking at the picture my father took of my brother in his cap and gown. She died two months later and at no point was she not suffering. She could have given in long before. She suffered for us, because, as she put it, it was selfish to give up. I'll never be as strong as my mother. No matter how hard I try. She was my rock. She was the family's rock. Not only my father and brother, but everyone. When she passed, we all went our separate ways, like the lights had been turned down in an old movie theater for the last time. I don't believe that every time times are tough, she's looking down. Why should she suffer more, to see me, or my family suffer. As much as I wish I could pretend she's with me, she's not. She's gone. So how could someone who suffered to prolong our peaceful lives, to take care of us, even in their sickly state be taken away in such an awful way? How could someone who did so much for others, but rarely saw it reciprocated be made to suffer? So whose test was this? Nobody benefited. Nobody learned anything. Nobody grew in any way from this. So who was tested? The only thing I learned is that, if you live long enough, everything will be taken away.
The things that have surrounded and affected my life have contributed to my inability to love and be loved fully. My arrogance and need to feel powerful cost me one relationship. My inability to commit due to exterior factors cost me another. My weakened heart, my self righteousness and my temper have also cost me dearly. Worst of all, my mistake of taking some for granted has cost me, because I tend to dwell on peoples' deficiencies and weakness rather than their strengths and positive attributes. I owe many for their understanding and continued friendship. Almost everyone I've scorned who has forgiven me has found happiness and peace in their lives and they do not know just how happy that makes me. Is that my test. To make people so unhappy, to feel so horrible, that once rid of me, they see the light? So is there a place for me?
Is this the story of a boy, now a man, who constantly takes the wrong road? Is it one of someone who is continually in the wrong place at the wrong time? Is this one ongoing test of faith? Could, or should I say, would any deity predestine someone to such hardships? I always tell myself it could be worse and I believe that. I couldn't imagine losing a loved one to an accident as many I've known have. Maybe my test is to be thankful for what I still have. Which I am with great sincerity. Maybe my test is to continue to bring others moments of levity and to push away my problems to help others with theirs. Maybe, just maybe, this isn't a test at all. There is no road, no wrong place or wrong time and there is no god in which to have faith in. Maybe this is merely life as we know it. A combination of choice and circumstances that isn't meant to be understood. Maybe the choices of others play a bigger role than those of ours. What if I wasn't adopted and I drowned at the beach in Florida. What if I didn't move and my young drinking turned into a live of drugs? Maybe if I'd have gone straight to college I would have done something reckless and ended up with HIV. Maybe if my sister had stayed, my brother's life would have been horrible. Maybe my grandparents did know who we were and I was wrong for not visiting. Maybe without my mother's suffering and her death, I'd never realize how precious life is. Maybe that is the test.
I have learned many things over the years. I've learned never to get too confident when things are good and not to cave in when the chips are down. I've learned that if you are inherently good, to never expect the same in return. Finally, I've learned there are only two constants in life, love and regret. I just hope that at the end of the day, the love outweighs the regret, because if it doesn't, the I believe I failed this test.
God's Tests
Do the things that shape our lives happen due to circumstance, chance or are they tests set upon us by the almighty one? If one believes it is circumstance, then one would live in a world that is reminiscent of an ever changing Robert Frost poem. If one believes it is by chance, then everything is based on luck or merely being somewhere at a particular time. Then of course, there is God. If one's roots are deep seated in faith, one believes that everything is either predestined or our every move is a choice based on on tests that a higher power has set upon us. While I do not believe in a higher power, I started thinking about my own life's test and how they have shaped my life.
Pro-lifers will rejoice in the knowledge that my biological Irish Catholic mother decided to give birth to me. I was adopted by a wonderful Jewish mother and atheist father. He was raised Lutheran, but had the food fortune of being well educated and turned his back on organized religion when he learned that question need real answers. I've followed in hos footsteps and quite possibly have taken his "question everything" mantra to a whole new level.
Adoption can be taken differently depending on many variables. One aspect of adoption that defines many of us, is the age at which you were adopted. I was four days old, so my mind only recognizes one set of parents and therefor, aside from questions of heritage, I have no interest in knowing my biological background. Since I can remember, I've known I was adopted and I consider myself lucky. My parents are intelligent and taught me well. They provided me with all the essentials to become a caring, intelligent and humorous individual. The key word is individual. They gave me everything they could, all the while teaching me the value of things, tangible and not.I was never handed anything on a silver platter and while at times I envied those who had, I soon saw how those glistening exteriors were shells for very hollow interiors. They taught me about the finer things in life, such as art, music, literature, stage and screen and of course, fine dining. Friends of mine used to come to my home and think it was a library. They laughed when I mentioned eating lamb once a week. I never took these things for granted and to this day, I feel blessed to have been able to have access to so much culture, right in my own home. In many ways, I feel I was given up for what I believe was a better life.
As a youngster my parents stressed the importance of education. My mother took me out of nursery school and taught me how to read and write. Spending countless days with my mother was not all playing and General Hospital (although I did know who Mark Hamill was before Star Wars). Every meal was accompanied by classical music and should we have a dish attached to any particular ethnicity, somewhere during the meal, there would be a history lesson about that region. By the time I entered school, I knew the difference between Bach and Brahms, the ingredients in moussaka and could tell you everything there was to know about Greek and Norse mythology.
School came very easy to me and by second grade my parents realized I wasn't being challenged at the local public school. I took a test in an attempt to get into St. Ann's in Brooklyn. At the time, mentioning you attended St. Ann's was the elementary and high school equivalent of saying you went to Harvard or Yale. It was incredibly prestigious and very expensive. My parents did what they could and made arrangements so I could attend. After the entrance exam, it was suggest that, due to my score, I skip third grade (while the story might have become exaggerated over the years, the rumor was I got one or two of the two hundred questions incorrect). This advanced placement would have positive and negative effects on my life.
Skipping a grade as a youngster means nothing. Changing schools was more traumatic. I was barely eight years old and in fourth grade, but being I had older friends in my neighborhood, it wasn't a big deal. I was as smart, if not smarter than almost everyone in my grade, but I had missed how to write in script (I know they call it cursive, but when I was a kid, it was script). To this day, and at this moment, I'm trying to understand my own chicken scratch. I spent five years in St. Ann's (which has no religious affiliation) In those year, I learned more than I did in all the years in high school and college. I learned to read and write at a level far beyond my age and with additional support at home, I was reading at an 11th grade level in sixth grade. The school nurtured my educational mind, but from it, grew a true cynicism towards the educational system as I see it today. I read more Shakespeare in 6th grade than I did in all the rest of my school years. When I got to Eastchester High School and we read Catcher in the Rye in 11th grade, I rolled my eyes and told the teacher that I refused to read it, as it was a children's book. I explained that I had read it in 6th grade and then again in 9th and that in 9th it was below our reading level. I assumed, at that time, that everyone read somewhat close to the same level. Obviously, the teacher stuck to her guns, I didn't read it and wrote my silly essay based on memory.
My school problems started in 9th grade. My parents couldn't afford to keep me in St. Ann's. At the time, high school rivaled college tuition. They enrolled me in a new school in NYC called High School for the Humanities. I arrived during the inaugural year and the school only had 9th and 10th grades. The problem was that for all the hoopla this school received, the reality was, it was a run of the mill NYC public high school. The only real change was that semesters were cut in half and this school ran on a 10-week quarter grading system. This proved to be good and bad, because you gained or lost good teachers in a short span. The school tried and failed on many levels. The lack of continuity hurt them. At times we'd read the same novels in different classes in the same school year. I also found the material to be well below what I was reading as much as four years before. It was a test to get through it without losing interests. This distraction coupled with the fact that my age had caught up with me became a problem. Being a 13-year-old squeaky voiced white kid, surrounded by 14-19-year-old (and yes I said 19) black and Puerto Rican kids proved to be a trying time. The race issue was not a problem, as I'd grown up in a very multi-ethnic community,but the age and voice thing played a part. The real problem wasn't the guys, but here was this kid, barely starting to go through puberty, surrounded by beautiful Spanish girls, some four years my senior. Looking back, it's always nice to say that my first girlfriend (for two whole weeks) was seventeen when I was thirteen. She also looked about twenty two, which made it even funnier. I desperately wanted to fit into this world. In St. Ann's everyone was pretty much the same. Different backgrounds, but all basically the same. I never felt like I was one to succumb to peer pressure, but there was a real need not to get my ass kicked on a daily basis. With help from the ever growing hip-hop culture and my friends from the neighborhood, I took on a persona which by suburban definition would be called a "whigger." This actually was done more out of necessity than a need to feel cool. Walking in the Wyckoff or Gowanus project in 1984 wearing a crew neck sweater and penny loafers would catch you a bullet. Wearing Lee Jeans, Le Tigre shirts and some fresh suede Pumas or white on white Adidas with fat laces to match my shirt was called blending and I was successful. To me this was passing a huge test. No other white kid could walk into these parks, but on the courts in these places I was known as Larry Bird. Not only for my skin color, but at a young age, I was somewhat known for my basketball prowess. The acceptance not only let me roam freely in this neighborhood, but offered me protection in others. At no time, did I feel this was a front. This is who I had become.
The aforementioned acceptance came with a price. In general, I hung out with older kids who lacked dreams or aspirations. Many of them had already discovered the wonders of drugs and alcohol. While I never had any interest in drugs, I did find alcohol to be interesting. At 13-14 I was regularly getting drunk on the weekends. It was a different time. At 13, I could walk into a local bodega and buy whatever I wanted. Imagine today a little white boy walking out holding two 40oz bottles of Old English 800. I started having real fun and the first thing to go was my grades. In the NYC school system, skipping school isn't that big a deal. I'd cut classes and hang out in parks, in buildings and friend's houses and drink. In 9th grade I missed close to 90 days of school and still got A's and B's. In 10th, I missed 142 of 183 days of school and even some finals. In the end, my parents decided for the welfare of myself and my brother, a move out of Brooklyn was necessary.
I never wanted to leave and my first year in Eastchester was trying. I had left all my friends. Not just friends, but people who had become family. People who would and on more than one occasion took a beating for me. I also was coming into a situation where I was to repeat tenth grade. In my mind, it was a fresh start, but I was fish out of water. Unfortunately, personal issues kept my attention away from my studies. I resented my parents, I resented authority, I hated the world. I became confrontational with everyone. Even those I loved. I hated my time in Eastchester High School. The teachers carried themselves with such an undeserved pretentious attitude. Many seemed put off by my knowledge of the subjects they were attempting to teach. For the first time in my life I was being shunned for actually knowing what I was talking about. It seemed to me that they felt it was their job to introduce the students to each subject and my previous knowledge only made them angry. It's easy to say that I was just a spoiled teenager, but now, in my latter years I realize just how poor they were. The few I liked showed character and seemed to genuinely care about us, but more times than not they were robotic, regurgitating cliff note style definitions of what we should know. I remember in my senior year, I asked that I be removed from a teacher's class because she had some sort of axe to grind with me. I asked to be switched into the class of a brand new teacher. I was told that the class wasn't at my level and it couldn't be done. I explained that the main class wasn't at my level and it should be my right to take the class I wanted. I remember this teacher bubbling with enthusiasm even in the middle of a class that would break the will of most. Luckily for me, I got to go to summer school that summer and she was my teacher. I remember getting assignments weeks in advance and doing them the night before and getting A's. School was easy, but my desire was lacking. Poor attendance, attitude and the fact that I think I did homework a handful of times, led to poor grades, even though papers and tests grades were generally pretty high. I longed for the challenge of St. Ann's and even that at the dinner table. I realized if I wanted to be challenged I'd have to look elsewhere.
Eastchester taught me one valuable lesson. If I wanted to continue in my quest to enhance my intelligence and broaden my horizons, I'd have to do it on my own. Complacency is a disease in Westchester County. People don't strive, don't move the way they do in the city and I feared I'd fall into the trap. I've learned now, in my older years, that the entire county, especially Eastchester is like a giant Venus Flytrap, just waiting for it's next victim. I still reside in the same town, so this is a test I've obviously failed. It's not to say Eastchester is worse than anywhere else, but it's so hard to detach the tentacles it grabs you with, even when you know it's as easy as walking away.
School isn't the only place we learn lessons. Humans aren't the only teachers out there. Sometimes lessons can come from the most unlikely sources, such as our household pets. When I was young we had a Siberian Husky named Velya. Velya was undeniably one of the most beautiful animals I've ever seen. The problem was Velya was not only protective but her defensive manner sometimes became an offensive behavior. She had a tendency to bite people and not only when she felt threatened, although that was usually the case. She wasn't always being malicious, but sometimes we forget that house pets are still animals and protect their space. They don't have the cognitive abilities we have and when they feel trapped or antagonized, they strike. I was spending a weekend with my grandparents when I got a call from my parents saying that Velya had to be put down. I cried for hours and couldn't fathom what could have made my parents do such a thing. Apparently a friend of my parents was over for dinner and this self proclaimed dog expert backed our pet into a corner and in a moment of sheer genius, put her hands over the dogs ears and went face to face with the dog. The dog growled and then struck, nearly ripping her nose from her face. By law the dog had to be put down. This was a test for me, because I wanted to hate this person for killing my dog. In the end, I learned a valuable lesson about life. We never know as much as we think we know. I also learned we should never underestimate what one will do when they feel threatened, no matter if we feel we are threatening them or not. We all know the cliche about walking a mile in one's shoes, but when people are teased, bullied, or threatened, many might react completely differently than one would expect. Columbine and other recent tragedies has proved that.
My next test, was one of my most difficult challenges. A year before my brother was adopted, my parents adopted a baby girl who we named Lora. She was a few days old when we brought her home and I was the proudest older brother there ever was. For the rest of my life I would have this child to protect. My life had a specific meaning and at ten, this was monumental. A little less than a month into my brotherhood, I was playing in the street with friends, when my mother called out to me. I rolled my eyes, assuming it was the usual request to run to the corner store for milk, cigarettes or the god-awful women's products. She asked me to come inside and I reluctantly followed. She then told me to sit down because she had something important to tell me. My mind was still on the ballgame outside. I stared. I saw a tear in her eye. She explained to me that when a parent gives a child up for adoption, they have 30 days to change their mind and that the following day some people were going to come to our house and pick her up. Looking back, I honestly can't tell you what was more painful, the knowledge she was being taken away or the fact we had to care for her for 24 more hours with this knowledge. I was so upset, but it wasn't real. The following afternoon, we sat, with friends and family there for support and I held her one last time, the people came to the house, we kissed her goodbye and she was gone, forever. I was a wreck and it was the first time in my young life I remembered seeing my father cry. The family was completely distraught and I remember at that very moment asking why something like this would and could happen. Years later, when my mother passed, I was looking through a drawer with some stuff she had and under a jewelry box I saw a picture. At first glance I thought it was my brother as a baby, but when I turned it over, every emotion from that horrible day came flooding back. Why did this happen? What lesson was to be learned by this? I wouldn't trade my brother for anything in the world, but I'll always wonder about that little girl. How is her life? How would mine have been different? All I do know is that if it hadn't happened, she'd be 31 now and she'd have a brother who worshipped her.
Aside from the Eastchester High experience, all of these life experience took place before the age of fifteen. Most had been pretty good experiences. If these were a case of God's will, I'd say in many occasions I was taken from a potentially bad place and put in a good one. Then, like so many of us have experienced, things I loved started to be taken away from me. Starting with my sister. Everything I started to appreciate or care for was slowly being ripped away from me. The one thing I could count on was my friends and then we moved.
Eastchester is like a world apart from Brooklyn. It's quiet, very clicky and incredibly white. In 1985, when I moved, I felt like I had moved to some remote location down south where segregation still existed. So many still had problems with rap music and the booming hip hop influx. Most people I went to high school with wore leather or jean jackets adorned with patches from their favorite heavy metal bands. To be honest, when I moved, I didn't even know who these bands were. I was the kid with the grey sheepskin jacket walked with a strut. I was used to walking the streets at night carrying a boom box and surrounded with friends strapped with knives and the occasional gun. I had no use for driving in circles, wearing hideous pastels and Cosby sweaters with tapered pants. Eastchester was and in many ways still is an anomoly to me. I've been to many different towns and met many different people, but Eastchester is so different. For years I've teased my friends who grew up here about the inbreeding. About how there are really only like six different families and they are all cousins, but their children keep marrying each other. It's a wonderful thing when you look at the closeness of most people in the town, but I also think it contributes to the number of nut jobs that roam the streets. I find it funny that generations of people refer to it as "the bubble." The bubble is where everyone knows your name, but they also know your business. It's also a bubble because once inside, you feel like you can never leave. For good reasons and bad. The one thing that has always bothered me is the people that have let the town define them. I promised myself long ago I'd be different. With each passing day, I feel I've failed that test. Don't get me wrong. I've met some of my best friends and some wonderful people. There are just so many times that I wish there was more variety in town. Not only in ethnicity, but in personalities. I know so many people who are just like their friends. To the point they are interchangeable. If variety is the spice of life, then Eastchester is mostly salt, and very little pepper.
So was this God's will? To put a stranger in a strange land. Is the test to see if I can break free, when so many before me have failed? Is it to adapt to my surroundings and become part of the machine? My philosophical differences with most of my neighbors lends me to believe that this isn't the case. What is it is? What if the test is to succumb to what I know isn't real, isn't true? Isn't that what faith is anyway?
Any faith I may have had was gone when both my mother's parents were stricken with Alzheimer's. It turned the two most loving people into zombies. This isn't what made me lose faith, because I realize people get ill. What made me lose faith was the fact they stayed in this state for nearly ten years. They died with no dignity, no money and no recollection of the wonderful lives they had lived. They died, not knowing who was staring back at them. What test was a God giving us? Two people who had spent their lives giving love, unconditionally to everyone they touched, to die not recognizing those who so greatly appreciated them. There was me, so completely unable to accept they didn't recognize me, that I couldn't bear to see them. So who was being tested? To die alone, surrounded by love, doesn't seem like a fair test for anyone.
For years I was the one who was to be the great doctor, lawyer or some other high profile professional because of my academic prowess. Few realize the pressure that puts on a child to be so young and already deemed a success. Pretty much the only place to go is down from that giant pedestal. So to combat the immense pressure, I always did exactly the opposite of what was expected of me. I skipped the first semester of college to work and then did both the following semester. I realized that being 19-21 with money was a far easier way to enjoy a life of parties and girls than it was to sit in a classroom with no money. Someone must have forgot to send me the memo about girls in college having much lower standards than those outside of it. So I started roofing and as much as it surprised most people, I loved it. Other than coaching little league and having sex, it was my favorite thing to do when I was 21. Ironically, and people will be shocked to know this, but when I turned 21 I basically stopped drinking. I was happily involved in a relationship with someone who really couldn't get into all the bars, so I gave that part of my life up. I also felt an obligation to the kids I coached and knowing games were early on the weekends at times, I needed to be responsible. So for seven years I lugged my ever growing ass up and down ladders and never had more fun at any job, before or since. All the time the P-word was hanging over my head. Apparently, roofing wasn't living up to my potential. Potential was gnawing at me every day. I kept being asked when I was returning to school to get a "real" job. Finally I caved in and enrolled in Manhattan College. I was 26 at the time and it seemed pretty cool. I went for Physical Education so basically most of the time I was playing sports and hanging out with 18-21 physically fit girls. Not a bad deal after breaking my back roofing. Life was good. I could get into this. Work with kids, get paid and make all my family proud. I hated the classroom stuff, but it came pretty easy, so it wasn't that bad. I was going to do the right thing and show everyone that I was successful, no matter what I chose to do. I turned my back on something I liked and started to grow a fondness for this next endeavor. God's Will? Maybe, it seemed like I was destined to do this. Everyone kept telling me they always saw me doing this.
Manhattan College was in full swing. My grades were up, the finish line in sight and all was good in the world. It was a Wednesday morning and we had a basketball class. The teacher said we were skipping drills and playing a game. He told everyone to take a quick stretch and then jog a lap before playing. I sat on the ground watching. He approached me and asked me why I wasn't stretching. I said "coach, you know I'm six or seven years older than everyone else, I've never stretched in my life, never been hurt and there isn't more than one kid in this class who can hang with my in basketball." He told me to appease him and do my stretches. I shot him a look and complied. Two minutes later, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. I looked over and the guy next to me had a look of horror and he said "what the fuck was that?" I paused and then felt a stiffness in my knee. I looked down and within seconds my knee was the size of a small watermelon. The school denied any responsibility and me, not being a complete prick, never thought to sue the school. To this day, both my ACLs are torn and I can't play sports. The one thing, no matter how bad life got, was sports. It was my escape. And from that day forward, it was taken away as I knew it. I can't tell you how many people told me to have faith or that it happened for a reason. I was done with faith for good. If a voice from the heavens called down to me and warned me of a storm and told me to build an arc and collect two of every animal, I'd yell back "What have you done for me? Fuck em, teach em to swim!"
As the years went by the knees got worse and the ability to work, play and even sleep became a chore. My inability to run lent itself to weight gain. Extreme weight gain. My potential, my lifestyle, my ability to choose any career I want and my happiness shattered because of a stretch? What was the test? I also became bitter and found that not everyone, especially those of the opposite sex are attracted to intelligent and funny guys when they are overweight and bitch about their knees every time it's going to rain. Maybe I should do a Match.com survey and find out. People think I exaggerate, but any more than two hours standing is brutally painful. So for whatever reason I've had my favorite activities taken away, which in return makes my social life a health risk. Maybe the omnipotent one is just trying to kill me so I can chill by his big chair in the sky. Maybe I'm the chosen one and he's fucking with me because he wants me for his rec league in the clouds. Just maybe!
So let's reflect. In my somewhat short life, I've had a sibling taken away, a wonderful education and incredible friends disposed of due to relocation. MY loyal pet destroyed due to someone else's narcissistic feeling they were the dog whisperer. I was hailed a boy genius, only to be thrust into high school with no pubes, no self confidence and a voice that sounded like Lacy Charbet. I fell into a rut of being a dick, more out of boredom than my need to rage against the machine. My loving grandparents taken from me ten years before they died. This was also the beginning of my mother's plight. Her devotion to them caused her to break down, both physically and emotionally. I returned to school only to have my favorite activities taken from me. So here's my question. Is the test over? Do I get the go straight to heaven card? Will I win lotto? Marry a millionaire? Nope we're not done yet.
"She has six months to live." That's what the doctor nonchalantly said to us. This was my mother's second bout with cancer. She fought through though. She waited to see my brother finish college, even though she was too weak to see the graduation. I missed it to, to stay with her. She fought for a few years. even in her sickness she pushed my brother, provided for all of us and never showed any weakness. This was her most proud moment as a a parent and she couldn't be there for it. She and sat and she cried for him, I cried for her. She never stopped looking at the picture my father took of my brother in his cap and gown. She died two months later and at no point was she not suffering. She could have given in long before. She suffered for us, because, as she put it, it was selfish to give up. I'll never be as strong as my mother. No matter how hard I try. She was my rock. She was the family's rock. Not only my father and brother, but everyone. When she passed, we all went our separate ways, like the lights had been turned down in an old movie theater for the last time. I don't believe that every time times are tough, she's looking down. Why should she suffer more, to see me, or my family suffer. As much as I wish I could pretend she's with me, she's not. She's gone. So how could someone who suffered to prolong our peaceful lives, to take care of us, even in their sickly state be taken away in such an awful way? How could someone who did so much for others, but rarely saw it reciprocated be made to suffer? So whose test was this? Nobody benefited. Nobody learned anything. Nobody grew in any way from this. So who was tested? The only thing I learned is that, if you live long enough, everything will be taken away.
The things that have surrounded and affected my life have contributed to my inability to love and be loved fully. My arrogance and need to feel powerful cost me one relationship. My inability to commit due to exterior factors cost me another. My weakened heart, my self righteousness and my temper have also cost me dearly. Worst of all, my mistake of taking some for granted has cost me, because I tend to dwell on peoples' deficiencies and weakness rather than their strengths and positive attributes. I owe many for their understanding and continued friendship. Almost everyone I've scorned who has forgiven me has found happiness and peace in their lives and they do not know just how happy that makes me. Is that my test. To make people so unhappy, to feel so horrible, that once rid of me, they see the light? So is there a place for me?
Is this the story of a boy, now a man, who constantly takes the wrong road? Is it one of someone who is continually in the wrong place at the wrong time? Is this one ongoing test of faith? Could, or should I say, would any deity predestine someone to such hardships? I always tell myself it could be worse and I believe that. I couldn't imagine losing a loved one to an accident as many I've known have. Maybe my test is to be thankful for what I still have. Which I am with great sincerity. Maybe my test is to continue to bring others moments of levity and to push away my problems to help others with theirs. Maybe, just maybe, this isn't a test at all. There is no road, no wrong place or wrong time and there is no god in which to have faith in. Maybe this is merely life as we know it. A combination of choice and circumstances that isn't meant to be understood. Maybe the choices of others play a bigger role than those of ours. What if I wasn't adopted and I drowned at the beach in Florida. What if I didn't move and my young drinking turned into a live of drugs? Maybe if I'd have gone straight to college I would have done something reckless and ended up with HIV. Maybe if my sister had stayed, my brother's life would have been horrible. Maybe my grandparents did know who we were and I was wrong for not visiting. Maybe without my mother's suffering and her death, I'd never realize how precious life is. Maybe that is the test.
I have learned many things over the years. I've learned never to get too confident when things are good and not to cave in when the chips are down. I've learned that if you are inherently good, to never expect the same in return. Finally, I've learned there are only two constants in life, love and regret. I just hope that at the end of the day, the love outweighs the regret, because if it doesn't, the I believe I failed this test.
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