My mom made me a storyteller. My dad fixed/forced me out of any comfort zone.

My mother said I had the gift of gab. I was a chatty child, and in a large family getting a word in edge-wise was hard. Somewhere back there it began. In fights, I would try and talk my way out rather than just fighting it out. Girls, if they even paid a little attention, rather than making out, I would nervously talk them to death. More out of all other things I can recall these are where my storytelling roots began to slowly grow.

From a very early age, I was surrounded by articulate and intelligent individuals. These included my siblings, extended family, neighbors, teachers, and mom and dad.

Siblings, those people you didn’t pick to be on earth with but without them I’d be lost. They played a key role in shaping my storytelling skills in me. When on a family trip in the Poconos with another family I claimed to encounter a bear and wrestled or fought him off. A tall tale for sure. My brothers verbally bludgeoned me for that then and jabbed me on it today. I got some attention, albeit not the kind I thought I would get.

Bears hibernate.

I was making it up for the attention. I think the reason was I felt left out most of the time. Being a storyteller means you could be let in, if only briefly. Tell your story and keep moving. I wanted to be part of the story.

My place in the family. My experience in storytelling was and is an evolving thing in my life and career. More on this in some later posts.

I initially began this chapter to explain some of the core origins. I wanted to express as much as I could understand them. Through all the examinations of my past, I have identified some core elements of my upbringing. These elements are important as ingredients in my place among family. They are also immutable characteristics.

I don’t have a great backstory, like Deadpool or Wolverine. No adamantium or regen capabilities. I had a pretty “normal” early childhood.

4th son of 6 children a set of twins and three brothers on the planned kids side of the Sears’ portrait balance sheet. Myself and oops baby as well as my sisters (twins). The maths work out like this:

Frank/Frankie- the lord Fauntleroy of the manor, Frank Jr. btw. Could do little wrong, was nearly ten years my senior. Also the last of the boomers. He became a man of letters, erudite, well-written well read, and a bit of a bon viv von. He danced in front of the mirror to Peter Frampton. Our shared room in the basement was filled with loads of Polo and Drakar. Frankie passed away on February 22, 2022.

Tom/Tommy— Number 2, close in age the next in the planned set of kids. Brilliant, an athletic STEM kid, he was/is extremely intelligent, analytical, and focused on engineering science and experimental criming. You know setting fires, blowing stuff up, a little B&E, and quite a ladies’ man. Adventures with Tom could end in handcuffs or fire damage. He had little fear and less memory of trauma. A gift some would lament. This brother has ‘Cant Remember Shit’ syndrome. To this day he does not recollect a significant amount of what happened back then.

Patrick/Murph – Number 3, of the Sears portrait kids, Murph as Frank named him cause he was a klepto with loads of stuff found in the crib. Patrick was a remarkable hustler. He was a collector of sorts. He excelled at selling, persuading, and making deals of all kinds. He developed a sixth sense of how to persuade, engage, and run the tables at any table he was at. We used to play Stratego. I would have my back and board pieces to the window. Later, he admitted that the backlighting would let him see my pieces. This brother could sell a polar bear ice cube handcuffs in a blizzard.

Then 4+ years later, I am accidentally born. I am now in the mix as the baby boy number 4 of 6. The three older boys are reasonably close in age. They operated as their unit. As the 4th kid, I faced many disadvantages. Being separated by nearly 4 years imposed limits. It also created lifetime segment disadvantages. But there was one key advantage. My relationship with my mom and dad was markedly different. I was the ‘baby’ for at least six years until my sisters were born. I was my mom’s sidekick. Also when I was 3 ish she got her license to drive.

Now we only had one car at the time. But still, it was freedom for my mom. She could go places and do things. My dad would drive an unmarked squad car. It was a Plymouth Grand Fury, brown with vinyl seats and a three-speed on the column.

She took me everywhere. We did all the things, like Pathmark with two carts. Everywhere we went there was female talking’ness, conversation, and connection. I was exposed early to my brother’s smartness and protection. We all experienced the normal abuse under my dad’s iron fist rule and his budding alcoholic regime.

This semi-not-great stew was great. Between the ages of 9 and 11 years, I developed agoraphobia. I demonstrated an early ‘gift-of-gab’. Again, I was mainly a voice in the wilderness of these half dozen kids. We lived in a one-bathroom house led by a homicide detective and a stay-at-home mom.

Put aside for a moment all the dysfunctional shit, I’m Generation X, and no one cared or cares. What did I make of myself? Well, it turns out that when 6 years later another oops pregnancy turned into twins. The world abruptly changed. I was no longer the youngest and no longer a focus of my mom. Two more siblings, twins, were a shock to the system. 1. two, 2. girls, and I was going to first grade.

Deep end, the rest of my childhood played out like you’d expect. Mom was incredibly busy with the girls. She managed a 3-bedroom home with one bathroom, alongside caring for 6 children and 2 parents. The Sears portrait kids were off to sports, and extracurriculars, then homework and projects, and all the things.

I can not remember much from 6-11. The memories include unforgiving nuns with soul-crushing discipline. There was blurry attention at home, and both parents smoked and drank indoors. Discipline was meaded out in the wait til your father comes home style. I was told to get out of their hair. I was expected to play and come home when I heard the whistle.

You figure out quickly how to navigate or not then get disciplined into line.

Today being in my comfort zone makes me physically ill, proving ppl wrong is gleeful. I have forgiven my parents, the sibs, and the circumstances. This forgiveness has allowed me to get past most of the FU in my dysfunction.

Learnings:

1. I am my mother’s son. I was her favorite. She taught me to harness that gift.
2. My home life was great, despite obvious bad sht. It was the only experience I had. My bros got beat way worse than me.
3. I was a ‘two burner mike’ according to my mother’s assessment of my potential. I operate at least three today, fueled by harnessed hate fire for a world that assumed I wouldn’t amount to a ‘hill of beans’
4. I have been underestimated most of my life. Proving people wrong has been a joy spark for most of my last two decades.
5. Forgiveness is for me. I forgive all those who’ve tried to hurt me, stop me.
6. You may not relate, be off-put, or laugh a solid amount. Today 12/10/24. I am just glad you made it down here.
7. My sibs are the best humans I got picked to be with.

Post Script: I did not include descriptions and a vignette(s) about my sisters, ’cause y’all know I would be killed immediately I am not dumb. But I love them more every time they save me. Call your siblings, or the adopted ones, or the ones you picked. Those we associate with are a reflection of what and who we are. As my dad would say, ‘Show me your friends, and I’ll show you who you are’