Posts Tagged ‘criminals’

I thought a lot about fathers today, of course, and how important their presence can be in our lives.  A good father (or stepfather) can serve as a teacher, a guiding star, an inspiration, or simply a haven of love and support that you know will be there, for as long as life allows.  (The same is true of mothers, of course.)  If you have a father like that, don’t miss your chance today (and every other day) to show him your love and gratitude for the gift he has given you.

I wish (as I have my whole life) that I would have had that kind of father, so I could be typing his praises right now.  But nobody promised me a rose garden, and hey – we all have our cross to bear.  I hope you won’t mind if I share this particular one with you.

For my brothers and I, fathers were more like a game of musical chairs – every time the music stopped, another Dad had left.  My older brother Marty and I were left by our father when I was 2.  No visiting, no child support.  My mother married again in 2 years, and 9 months later my little brother Frankie was born.  Within 6 months of his birth, my mother had a nervous breakdown, and spent a few weeks in a mental ward.  While she was there, Frank’s father loaded up his things, and some furniture, and left.  Different father, same story:  no visiting, no child support.

According to our mother, the third game of musical chairs was the charm – when the music stopped this time, the new Dad stayed.  And for our mother, he was the charm.  He worshipped her and was a wonderful husband.  And by far the most wonderful thing he did, according to our mother, was when I was seven and Frankie was three.  It was then that our “three times the charm” stepfather legally adopted us.  Still, it was hard to be happy about it–for us, this was yet another paternal let down; our biological fathers had now both given up all rights to us forever. Adios, kiddos!  sSee ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya!  That’s not exactly inspiring to a child.  And the man our biological fathers gave us to?  Our mother saw him as our savior, our “real father”, the man who put a roof over our heads, the man who deserved to be called “Dad”.  We kids, on the other hand, soon began to see him for what he really was – a father imposter.

Oh, he played the game in front of our mother.  Or manipulated the facts, if need be.  But when she wasn’t around–which was often, as she became a hypochondriac and spent a lot of time in bed with a “sick headache”–he was not a father.  He was mean, and ignorant, devious and (for me) dangerous, but my mother was either completely fooled, or, more likely, simply refused to see.  He drove us all away, one by one.  My older brother joined the Marines; I was kicked out at 18 “because you can’t get along with your father”, and my little brother Frankie dropped out of high school, and was arrested for the first time at 17.

In the aftermath, our “family” was broken for good, though my mother’s marriage to the imposter lasted till death did they part.  He got her, and my brother Frank and I lost our mother.  Marty moved to Florida with them, a choice I could never understand, and stayed a part of their lives till their deaths – it was only after their death that I learned that “Mom’s favorite” had instead been mentally abused by them both for years.  He now lives on disability and suffers from scoliosis and severe panic attacks.

My brother Frank and I instead sought out father figures.  Frank’s father figure was a criminal, who led him into a variety of crime and drugs.  My first marriage was to a father figure – not because he was so much older, but because he was as stern and domineering as the “father” I’d grown up with.  I would eventually seek out my biological father, and reconcile with him, and leave the domineering husband.

I guess we all learn in our own way, our own time. There’s a saying, “All that water and not a drop to drink.”  For my brothers and I, it was “all those fathers, and yet no fathering”.  Without a proper guide, we each stumbled through parenthood in different ways.

Marty married a woman who couldn’t read or write, with three children.  He later adopted a baby (a child of one of her relatives who had severe mental/physical handicaps, and was unwanted).  When she died, her children took her insurance money and left my brother with the burial bill and his adopted, physically/mentally challenged son.  Marty had to move back in with my mother and stepfather, and there he remained till their death.  No wonder he suffers from mental disability now.

Frank married young, had a son, and then spent the rest of his years in and out of prison, committing crimes and doing drugs.  He didn’t pay support, though he did see his son when he could.  He was a loving but absent father, and a very poor role model.  His son became addicted to crystal meth, and now suffers from schizophrenia.

I divorced my first husband, who had fathered our two sons, and when I met the man who would eventually become my second husband, I was very, very wary of bringing a stepfather into their lives.  Their own father was still in their lives, and I wanted to be sure that anyone I married would treat them right.  But my sons loved him almost from the start, and I soon became convinced, and rightfully so, that he would be a good father – and he has never disappointed me, or our (now) four children.  I am grateful, every day, that he is a loving and good man, and has been a positive influence in all of their lives.

So what was different about the men my mother brought into my life?

Let’s start with my father.  He spent the ages of 8-15 in an orphanage and when his mother finally came back for him, he told her he no longer needed her.  I found that out years later, when he and I were on a road trip to Bellingham Washington to see my oldest son graduate.  My Dad was telling me how his mother gave him and another sibling up for adoption when times were hard, and how he couldn’t believe she’d expect him to just welcome her back into his life when she finally returned for him.  I looked at him then and said, “Did you ever think about the fact that you did the same thing to me?  Only you never came back – I found you.”  My Dad was silent.  I don’t think he had ever considered that.

As for my younger brother’s father, I don’t know his story.  We never saw him again, and our mother never provided any details (we weren’t encouraged to ask about them, since she insisted our stepfather was our “real father”.)  But I’d wager a guess that his father wasn’t such a great example either.

Finally, our stepfather, too, was an orphan.  So he married a ready-made family, one which he had no idea what to do with, and obviously didn’t really want once he got it.

Compare those three to my husband and one thing stands out:  he learned by example.  My husband’s father, rest in peace, was an exemplary father.  He was kind, hardworking, loving and endlessly patient, both as a father and a grandfather.  He had a heart of gold, and my husband has many of those qualities.  The men my mother brought into our lives, conversely lacked a father, and their own parenting suffered for it.  The lack of a good parent can cause a chain reaction that continues on for generations – unless someone breaks the link.

That’s where I was lucky.  I am so thankful, every day, that my children have all their links intact (and an extra one to boot).  My older two boys have both a loving father AND a loving stepfather, and my younger two children have both parents, still together.  My eldest son has two children, and I am so proud of the love, time and devotion he shows them every day.

One good man can make a difference that can leave its mark on generations.  As parents, we all need to remember that, and if you’re not a parent, you can still have a positive effect on children whose lives you touch.

Here’s to all the good men in the world, whether fathers or stepfathers or uncles or anyone who positively influences a child:  you make the world a better place, for now and in the future.  Thank you!

 

 

 

 

 

This is an excerpt from my soon-to-be-published memoir, “Relatively Criminal“.

I wept when the police called me.  Frank apparently didn’t want to speak to me, at least not until I had heard the bad news from someone else.

The call came nearly a year and a half from Frank’s first arrival at my apartment.  And it had been only three months since I had sent him off to a place of his own.  Fly away, little bird, I thought at the time.  Your wings are now strong enough to carry you wherever you want to go.

Or, what’s that other saying?  “If you love something, set it free…”

Too bad some birds have no sense of direction.  Frank certainly didn’t, or he wouldn’t have paraded himself for fifteen minutes in front of security cameras before walking out the door of  Sears, Roebuck and Company with a huge, expensive toolbox.

Worth, by the way, just over the limit for petty theft–which made it a felony.

As he told me a few years later:

“I went to that shopping mall, Golf Mill.  Ronnie was driving his blue Plymouth Road Runner.  I didn’t plan on “boosting” anything that day, or I wouldn’t have been wearing a bright red shirt.  Anyway, I ended up taking a toolbox from a big department store, just walking right out with it like I was a paying customer.

I was almost to Ronnie’s car when I heard footsteps behind me on the pavement.  I turn, and see this guy in a blue jogging suit, carrying a bag, running towards me.  When he gets closer, I realized he must be security or a cop.  The guy yells “Drop the toolbox and put your hands up”, so I threw the toolbox at his feet and took off running.

I must not have hurt him too much, cuz he keeps on coming at me, yelling “Stop” and I figured he could probably outrun me.  Suddenly the guy pulls a radio out of the bag, must not have had time to call it in before.  He catches up to me, and says “Stop and I won’t call the police.”  So I stopped, but then he whips out a pair of handcuffs!

So I’m like, no way, man, I’m gone, and I take off again.  I see this board on the ground and I grab it and start swinging at the guy and now I’m chasing him.  You know, I get scared, then I get all riled up and violent, too.   So he’s on the run and I take off the other way and use the board to hang underneath a van.  Just like one of them movie scenes, ya know?  I hear them come by, saying ‘he must have gone over the fence’ and they look around and then I hear them go back.  Must have given up, thought I was gone.

So I hung under there awhile, and then I get out and go back where the car was, and it’s gone!  And here I am in a fucking bright red shirt.  So I go back in the mall and switch it and called Ronnie’s sister to come and pick me up.  Guess he got scared that they’d connect us, and he just went in the mall for awhile like he’s shopping, then he left.”

Obviously, Frank didn’t make it out of the mall. And so it was back to jail.  Do not pass go.  Do not collect $200.  Break your sister’s heart.

me14_marty_frank_rev

Siblings

I remember seeing the movie “Boy’s Town” when I was a child, with Spencer Tracy as Father Flanagan, and Mickey Rooney as the “super bad boy” he was dealing with (obviously Father Flanagan hadn’t met Jeffrey Dahmer).  What sticks in my mind, to this day, is Father Flanagan’s (Spencer Tracy) belief that there is no such thing as a bad boy.  I would like to believe that, and I think it’s mostly true but, like everything else, I think some people are damaged beyond saving – what I’m not sure about is whether or not there is a moment in time, specific years perhaps, when they could be re-directed to a less turbulent and risky lifestyle.

I don’t believe my brother was damaged beyond saving, not as a child.  He certainly wasn’t evil nor even mean; although, like all older sisters, I did think he was a horrible pest and a spoiled brat who had usurped my position as the youngest in the family and, therefore, should never have been born.  But he was born, and all my thumb sucking couldn’t get rid of him.

There were three of us, my older brother Marty, myself (the middle child…sigh :-), and Frankie was the baby, born four years after me.  We loved each other and fought like many siblings.  I don’t remember any early behavior that pointed toward a future life of crime, at least not until grade school.  He did have an early career as a snitch, but in his adult years, he had no use for that sort of behavior.  He was a bedwetter until high school, though I found this to be criminal only when my mother put me in charge of washing his bedding, at the laundromat no less.  It may have been a sign, however, that something was not quite right.

My first true glimpse of Frankie’s future career choice occurred in my room.  Repeatedly.  Things began to disappear, usually things that had pictures of presidents on them.  I had a piggy bank that I would add to whenever I could, and count maybe once a week, no doubt hoping it had magically doubled.  One day, I realized that the piggy bank now held only pennies.  The more valuable change had disappeared.  I went straight to my mother.

“Frankie is stealing the change from my piggy bank!” I told her.

“Well, how do you know it was Frankie?  Maybe you just mis-counted.”  she replied.  This was typical for my mother.  It wasn’t because she thought the best of everyone, it was really that she preferred to avoid having to deal with a problem.  If Frankie took it, that would mean she would have to do something about it.

“Mom.  Who else would take it?  Marty?”

“Of course not!  Marty would never do anything like that.”  True.  He wouldn’t.  But Frankie?  Well, Frankie had been getting in trouble at school, hanging around with some poor choices for friends, and had even been suspected of involvement with a fire at the school.  He’d been sent to counseling, but because my mother didn’t like anyone to think our family was less than perfect, she didn’t pursue the counseling any further than the school required.

“I suppose it just magically disappeared?  Only the quarters, dimes and nickels are gone.”  I continued.

“Still, you don’t know he took it.”  That was it, discussion over.  She walked away.

If she wouldn’t help me catch him, then I knew I had to do it myself.  Next chance I got, I added more quarters, dimes and nickels.

Once again, they disappeared.  Once again, I told my mother.  Once again, she did nothing.

I began to sleep with my wallet under my pillow.  And Frank now had a theft under his belt that held no consequences.

Is that how it begins?  If my mother had done something about it, or about later incidents that grew in magnitude – would Frank have led a different life?

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For a more educational/theoretical look at this topic, take a peek at this blog post by a psychology student

To learn more about Boy’s Town