coming back to NYC
When I came back to NYC in 1993, the first words that came out of my paternal grandmother was why’d I returned. She didn’t even bother welcoming me back. I truly despised that bitch. Maybe I was just that part of the family that should’ve been forgotten, rejected and/or simply ignored. All the while, I was a 22-year-old man trying to make a better life for my two-year-old (firstborn), but she wanted to treat me as I were a child or at someone below her class (caste, if the word fits for a second-generation Italian old woman) as a pawn. At some point, my father (her own son) had to tell her to get off my case.
What seemed to be then a father caring for his own youngest child was to become a sham. All this was before she died in 1995, before I got blamed for her death when I hadn’t even around for several months, before my dad begged me to be by his side and most importantly before me taking his betrayal for a last time. This part of my life was like being stabbed in the back while me standing in front of the one driving the cleaver in my back as he’d smile at my face.
It does hurt to think that at some point I was glad that I didn’t have problems with my parents like some of my friends did then. Most importantly, my own father’s betrayal and rejection bothers me most.
Then again, as my friend Leia would say, I should stop living in the past. Nonetheless the constant stupidity from my own family made me callous and perhaps forged the so-called evil in me.
After all the damage and lies, I’m still here trying to be a good man and father to my three boys — rejecting the possibility of being a rat bastard like my own father.