"Be a Man", son!

"Be a man son". That is what my father always told me. Apparently it was important to my father that I act according to his standards and expectations. Being a man is what I set out to do; even though I was in essence, still very much a boy. I had some very big shoes to fill in my quest, especially since the destination was a place that even those who had already arrived there still seemed lost in their expedition. The roadmap I used to commence upon my journey was an arduous voyage. It was a passage into the unknown; a place where those who before me struggled immeasurably in many facets of their life.



Nature would see to it that I become a man, and yet I couldn’t understand why I needed guidance in that respect. I had to satisfy the critical likes of my older brothers as well as my father. They were the judge and jury. They would point me in the right direction. It was these men who I looked up to who would determine if I was worthy. Nature meant nothing to men who defined themselves not by the fabric of their heart, but by the expectation of others. They became men their way, and under their rules. I hadn't yet finished being a child when manhood was forced upon me like everything else in my life. There was a pre-determined outcome that was outlined for me by the men in my life who were the gate keepers of the club. There was no turning back. I remember being told, “A man makes his own way”. “No one gives it to you”. Well, “Why then did I have to prove I was a man”?



I had only been a student in life up to this point. The time of reckoning had come. I had long feared this imminent transition. I watched my older brothers evolve before me. I wanted to climb back into the womb, yet my destiny waited. Instead of forging my own path in life, I followed the alleyway often travelled by my father and brothers. Was I scared? “Absolutely”!



The story I would like to tell is not dissimilar from other families in my Brooklyn Neighborhood. Ours was the prototypical Irish Catholic family. We were both great in numbers as well as self perception. I once thought that my upbringing was pretty close to normal. There were so many other families in the neighborhood that were very similar to mine. The fathers all worked hard and felt entitled to reward themselves with a few drinks before they came home. My father was no different, except his idea of a few drinks would always result in serious problems in almost every aspect of his life. One drink for him was too many, and a thousand was not enough. I can now look back on what I thought was normal and realize that all along I had only guessed what normal was. Life is the greatest of all educators. Some read the signposts in the road of life, while others defy logical decision-making.



As in most families with an alcoholic parent, the children suffer the most. This was the case not just with me, but also with each of my siblings. I was one of the youngest of 10 children. We gravitated to alcohol at an early age. Drinking was what we needed to enter the fraternity of manhood. It was like we had arrived somewhere magical when we drank. The twisted thought process along with a genetic predisposition caused us to fit perfectly in that world. The last person to know he/she is an alcoholic is the alcoholic himself. My father died too early in life because of his abuse of alcohol.



Alcohol was once considered a wonder drug. If you had a stain on your rug you could easily remove it by dabbing it up with a cloth and some alcohol. I call alcohol, “The Great Remover”, as it has taught me that it can remove so very much from your life as well as the stain on your rug. If consumed in the human body in great enough quantities over a long period of time, alcohol will have the potential to remove your job, your marriage, your car, your house, your health, and eventually ....your life! My father experienced all of these.



“Big Ed”, as he was referred to by my mom, was a strapping man physically, but also a weakling that was sick from the drink he craved. Despite what we knew about the effects of alcohol, we all would follow the same path of destruction that led to our father’s demise. Once alcohol arrives in your life, it is like the greatest love you had ever known. It gave me the wings to fly; then it took away my sky.



I wanted so badly to be a part of the fraternity of manhood as I understood it. Unfortunately, my perception of manhood helped pave the way to the long and bumpy road of alcoholism. It was a self fulfilling prophecy. Along with the alcohol, my brothers and I also fell into an active search of ourselves as men. The alcohol was not enough to define our place in this world. A Man in my family was a warrior, drinker, fighter, and an athlete. Even our occupation choices became as much a part of our being men as the drinking did. One sibling after the other joined the Marines. If you were not a Marine and then a Policeman, or a similar manly job, then you were certainly less than a man.



The memories of our home life has been buried over the years by our selective thought process, most likely driven by our desire to push down all traumatic events in our life. We look back and reflect upon them now as if the circumstances were comical and harmless. I can say now that they were everything but funny and entertaining, and the effects are life long. Most kids run towards their father when he arrives home. We had genuine fear because we never knew who was coming home. Sometimes the fear of the unknown is greater given the potential repeat episodes of utter chaos. My mother was a saint who sheltered us the best she could. She was no match for “Godzilla”. I remember his shoes shuffling up the sidewalk. The erratic steps told me what was to soon occur. His pleather jacket scraping against the rough shingles on the outside of the house told me all I needed to know. He ushered in the cold night air and would pick us up with both hands, throwing us high into the air. His icy fingers tortured us, as his unshaved face ripped small microscopic knife-like fissures through our cheeks. The smell of alcohol on his breath, eyes that couldn’t focus, and slurred speech was only a precursor to the evening’s activities.



Once he settled in, my mother, the subservient one, would tiptoe around, being careful not to wake the sleeping giant. Within a few short minutes, we would all be in the attic in our pajamas, hands over our ears and humming to drown out the sounds of the dragon. We were like soldiers in a bomb shelter waiting and praying for the barrage to end. The beatings, abuse, and exposure to constant fear defined our being. Why would anyone join that which they know is wrong? I will never understand that for as long as I live.



I began drinking at an early teenage year. The disease of alcoholism had given root long before I picked up the first drink. I didn’t get in trouble every time I was drinking, but every time I got in trouble…..I was drinking! When I became sick and tired of being sick and tired, I made the conscious effort to stop drinking. With the intervention of an outpatient alcohol abuse organization, I was introduced to the possibility of life without alcohol. I gave sobriety a chance, but it was not without inner turmoil and controversy. I set out to prove them wrong…..That I was NOT an alcoholic. The director of the program queried me and gave me some professional advice that stays with me today. He told me, “You look like an alcoholic, sound like an alcoholic, and think like an alcoholic”. He proceeded to tell me that I was going to die! I figured I could always drop out and regain my position on the throne as an alcoholic. We were devout Catholics, yet the bar became our church, the bartender became our priest, and the offering was misery. Being in a system that doesn’t tolerate outside intervention created the dilemma I was soon to face.



My brother Robby had cerebral palsy. Robby was never allowed into our fraternity. Of course we loved him; after all he was our brother. He just didn’t fit the mold. Robby couldn’t be a star athlete, a Marine, or a cop. He couldn’t run for a touchdown or hit a homerun. Robby could never wear the uniform of the Marine Corps. He had to settle for being himself. Despite his handicap, Robby had a unique intellect that made him different than the rest of his brothers. He was smart and often looked at life a bit different than we did. Robby gravitated to school work and became an accountant. I used to pity him for his handicap, but later found out that it was me who was truly handicapped and needed to be pitied.



I thought I had known fear in my life. I have been fired upon by an enemy, and had come close to being killed by a fanatical terrorist. I watched in horror as the Marine Barracks that housed my unit, fell to the ground after a bomb laden truck detonated in the lobby. The building that once housed the greatest Marines I had ever known now stood before me, a crumpled pile of twisted steel and concrete. Above it, reaching far into the sky was a thick black mushroom cloud. The true meaning of fear had yet to enter my life.



One sunny afternoon while at a family barbeque, I was approached by my older brother Glenn. In his hands were two different brands of beer. He presented them before me and asked, “Which one”? I had come face to face with my greatest fear. I told him, “Neither”. He responded by saying, “You mean either”. “Which one”! This was the proverbial moment in my life that would later be defined as nothing short of divine intervention. That moment seemed to last an eternity. I looked for answers, but found none.



Across the picnic table was Robby. He looked at me with his beautiful eyes and quiet smile. Somehow I knew he wanted to speak, but instead he simply winked at me as if to say, “It’s ok”. Then, before me stood Glenn, still awaiting confirmation that I had not deserted the fraternity. I wanted to reach out and grab the beer, even if it meant that I live a miserable life, but that I am perceived at least as a man while on this side of the shamrocks. Glenn called me a faggot as he stared at me with his piercing blue eyes and walked away shaking his head. The fraternity I spent a lifetime trying to be accepted by left me in one swift minute. I no longer felt like a man. The option of continuing to drink and suffering a miserable fate was more desirable than having to leave the part of me behind that defined me as a man. I felt that perhaps my brother Glenn was right. Glenn was a highly regarded NYPD Bomb Squad detective and a Vietnam veteran in my beloved Corps. How could he possibly be wrong?



Some weeks later while driving in my car with Robby, he placed his hand on my shoulder and said that he was proud of me for having made the choice to stop drinking, and that he understood the loneliness I was feeling. I didn’t feel any better about it as I was new in my sobriety, and also that the approval came from Robby instead of Glenn or one of my other brothers. I appreciated his support, but Robby was never in the fraternity anyway. I joined him on the outskirts of manhood, and it was a cold and lonely place.



A month had passed and yet I still remained sober, despite the fact that I thought I was missing something by making that choice. While at work, I received a phone call that would change my life forever. My mother’s neighbor Jack called. He was incoherent and crying; something had happened to Robby. I couldn’t get any information, other than the firemen were working on him. I rushed home, all along thinking “what could be wrong with Robby”. Upon arrival home, I found my mother and sister Jane crying in the living room. Robby was taken to the hospital; my sister Susan was in the ambulance with him.



A short while later Susan called from the hospital. Her words struck me in the heart as she whispered, “He’s gone”. Robby was thirty six years old. He died from a rare genetic heart disorder that was silently inside of him all his life. He had been sweeping a neighbors sidewalk when he suffered a fatal arrhythmia. In a daze, I threw open the door and walked out front. The day was reminiscent of the fateful day when my unit suffered a terrible loss in Beirut. I had written God off in the aftermath of the attack. I even looked to the heavens and cursed him. I allowed Him back in my life, but with extreme caution. This event represented yet another time when He failed me. My hands were in fists. Then, in the grass I noticed Robby’s baseball cap. I picked it up and turned it around. It was the hat I gave him. It was black with red letters. On it was one simple word; “Marines”. He was proud of us and displayed it all the time. I raised it to my nose and smelled Robby. It was wet from his sweat. His cane was still on the fence. He had been sweeping a neighbors house who was recovering from a heart attack. I couldn’t believe that he was gone. There was a hole the size of the Grand Canyon in my soul.



Susan arrived home with a clear plastic bag containing Robby’s personal effects. I went through his pockets and what I found broke my heart. In his pocket were a grand total of 59 cents, a football card, and a set of keys. The football player was Vinny Testeverde; they had gone to school together. The set of keys were copies of all his siblings’ cars. When we would visit, Robby would always ask us if he could take the car for a spin. The 59 cents represented far greater than Robby’s financial status. Robby had quit his job as an accountant to take care of our aging mother. He gave of himself and was truly a man for taking care of her when no one else would. Where were the tough Marines when my mother needed support?



It was at that very moment when my life changed, and it wasn’t because Robby died. I finally realized what the true meaning of a man really was. A man was not a Marine, cop, athlete, fighter, or drinker. In fact, all our superficial efforts to become men were what kept us from actually becoming a man. Robby learned early in his life that he was not his body, and he had to be loved for who he was. Robby could not wear the uniform of a Marine or policeman. He could not hit a homerun or throw a touchdown pass. Robby never hurt another human in a fit of rage. He never let himself take a drink. We did all of these, and we also let a drink take us. The Marine Corps Hymn depicts the streets of heaven as being guarded by United States Marines. If this is true, then there is certainly a Marine walking his post at the pearly gates. He stands proud in his full dress blues, yet if you look closely, he will have a noticeable gait as he marches with a cane in his hand. Robby could not be a Marine in this world, but in God’s Kingdom he reigns as a protector of the streets of heaven. He needs not a rifle, but the loving spirit he possessed while on earth. When God’s Army weakened against the advances of the devil, he called upon a warrior; A simple man with uncommon strength. He had strength that was obscure, even to his own brothers.



Robby taught me so much when he died. I am eighteen years severed from the addiction to alcohol. I am gentler and kinder to those around me. My three children will never have to run to the attic when I come home. They will never have to see me in an altered state. Robby taught me perseverance and the desire to muster the intestinal fortitude to stay the course. I never have to prove my manhood again. I can push a baby carriage down the street, which requires the strength my other brothers never had. They are all good men, but the mistake of having to prove it was what kept them from reaching their potential as a man.



Maybe Robby did have an affect on me while he was here. How else could I have gotten past the ominous battle not just with alcohol but also from my inner self? I will take the lessons I learned from Robby with me through the years. Robby’s gentle and caring way lives on forever in my daily life. The Marine Corps gave me an image that is tough to shake, but it is the fabric of my heart that gets me through the difficult times. I thought I was an expert at life and how to be a man. The only expertise I really need is that of being myself.



Robby will always be the greatest man I have ever met. I wish to achieve a fraction of what Robby did by just being himself! The clarity in my life has sprung from the lessons of a skinny kid with a cane, who in his death left a legacy that could not be achieved while in our world. The nuns stopped by the house and they told us how Robby would light candles every day at the church. They loved speaking to him. They told me that when they spoke to Robby they felt like they were speaking to Jesus. They say that God presents himself in many ways. Perhaps Robby's purpose in life was to show me how to live. He did this by dying. God died for us, so that we may live. Robby exemplified all that I aspire to be today. To be the best man I can be today is to stop trying to be what others think is important. I live today to be none other than what I am supposed to be. Today I am grateful to have held onto that lump of coal long enough to find out it was truly a diamond. The greatest day in my life was the darkest one.



In our world we are always in search of something. Who we are is determined early in life. We augment our lives by learned character traits along the way. The good and the bad experiences encompass who we are as well. If there were only good, we would have nothing to compare it to, and we would ultimately not see any good in anything. The spiritual understanding I have achieved can not be learned at Harvard. It will certainly die inside of me if I keep it to myself. If I want to maintain and build upon my level of spirituality, then I must give it away to others. In the Western world we often live a material existence. (The one who dies with the most toys wins) If I can give away what Robby has given me, then I am keeping the greatest part of him alive, but also making my life more fruitful. In consideration for writing something like this, it is my understanding that a great many men will be able to benefit from Robby’s life, and death. It is only a blink of an eye that we spend here. How hard is this life? It is what we make it! One needs to ask themselves, “How do I want to be remembered”. There will be no plaque or monument, but in the hearts of those you have touched. The legacy you bestow is to but a few, but spreads exponentially like an upside down pyramid.