My mom gave birth to my big brother, Christopher, in the summer of 1979. Unfortunately, my brother's father skipped out as soon as he found out my mom was pregnant. My mom & dad met on an autumn day in 1980. When my dad would tell me the story of the day he met "the love of his life", his eyes would sparkle and he'd grin from ear to ear. Love at first sight. Truly.
They were married in the traditional Roman Catholic way in April of 1981. Between April 1981 and June of 1982, they endored the loss of what would have been my older sister. She died in utero. My mom said they made her deliver the deceased baby. I cannot imagine the heartache they felt...
My dad told me that when they found out they were pregnant again he got to see what an amazing mother his wife was and would always be to their children. She rested and ate well and never did anything to compromise the pregnancy. Obviously, she never wanted to lose another child. And I am ever so grateful for her love and devotion to me.
I decided I wanted out of mom's belly in the early morning hours of May 2nd, 1983. My mom delivered both me and Christopher naturally. She honestly is one of the strongest women I've ever known. I arrived at 7:21am, weighing 8lbs 10oz, and measuring 22in long. Dad nicknamed me 'Dat Meat' because he said I looked like great hunk of meat when he saw me for the first time.
We lived on 2nd Street in Camden, right next to the Benjamin Franklin Bridge in a 3 story brick home. We had a black lab named 'Lady' and a fat cat named 'SweetPea'. Those years we lived there, I never noticed we were one of the only white families in the area. Chris & I still laugh at our class pictures from Holy Name School because in a sea of black & hispanic faces, we were the only 2 bright white kids. You could spot us instantly. A genuinely funny sight to see. I remember my mom chasing a few women down the street with a Lousiville Slugger [I'm sure she had good reason]. She earned the nickname 'the crazy white lady'. My dad, a community activist until the day he died, loved the city of Camden. The history, the culture and the people. However, he was forced to resort to less than civil measures when drug dealers tried to set up shop on our corner. He fired a warning shot from a 9mm and instructed the dope slingers that there would never be another warning. They never came back around our corner again. Another memory that stands out in my mind is when a man walked up our front path, entered our enclosed front porch and stole my 7 year old brother's bicycle. We jumped into our station wagon [a.k.a The Grocery Getter] and drove around until we spotted his bike. Then took it right the fuck back. We were fearless. Still are, actually. Still proud to have lived and learned in Camden.

I wrote. I hit save. Computer farted. So, I'll come back and rewrite everything in chap 2 when I am not feeling so homicidal.

My dad, God rest his soul, was alot of things to alot of people.
A devoted husband & constant companion to my mother, a great source of friendship to several lifelong buddies [men who aren't blood relation who I am proud to call 'Uncles'], and a son who was an immense source of pride to his parents.
However, of all the things he was, his greatest accomplishment in life was being our father. He was our teacher, our friend, our go-to-guy. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year [including the 2 years he spent in prison]. Legal advice, financial questions, or just listening to our tales of stress and strife; he knew everything about everything. And he always knew exactly how to help.
Regrettably, the one skill he couldn't seem to master was sobriety. He started drinking alcohol and smoking cigarettes at 14. He loved to relax and smoke a joint filled with 'primo' herb [no shame or blame in smoking weed, though]. During the 11 years my parents were married, he tried several times to sober up and stay clean. He knew it was destroying his relationship with his true love. She never let him get away with anything, either. Never let him forget he was fucking shit up. I don't mean to say she drove him to drink. On the contrary, I mean to say that she refused to sit back and watch him kill himself with booze. She needed him around. WE needed him around.
If I close my eyes, I can still see that red label. Up in the rafters of the garage, in the back of the cabinet hidden behind the pinesol, stashed on top of the highest bookshelf. Smirnoff. She threw a cast iron frying pan at his head. He ducked, but our dining room wall didn't. She threw a crystal sugar bowl at him, which he blocked with his elbow. Needed stitches that time. He locked himself in the bathroom to guzzle down a half gallon. So she kicked in the door. She was crazy, strong and acted out of love. But his demons were stronger, I suppose.
In the spring of 1992, my mom filed for divorce with the help of her cousin, Colleen, a lawyer [who is now a Superior Court Judge in S. Jersey].
Dad moved out one day while we were at school, I guess. Soon, there was a stranger sitting on my dad's couch. Holding my mom's hand. Mom told me his name was Rob and that they met when she was 17. They worked together at RCA [now SONY].
I remember feeling uneasy. Mom didn't explain anything. Just acted like everything was normal. Looking back, I think she was trying to protect me and Chris by not letting the divorce disrupt our normalcy.
What the fuck is 'normal' anyway?

The 11 years my mom spent in a relationship with Rob are best explained as a series of shit storms, with intermittant moments of severe emotional scarring.
After selling the house in Westville, we had to stay with Rob at his mom's place in Washington Twp. for a little while. They lived on the corner of Fish Pond Rd & Pitman-Downer Rd. It was still pretty rural then, with just a few of those hideous cookie cutter homes just starting to get framed out down the road. Rob's mom, Grams, stayed in 'the big house' at the front of the property, while we stayed in 'the little house'. The 'little house' was a one bedroom bungalow, built by Rob [a union carpenter]. There were several dogs, none of them friendly. There was a swingset, but it was a piece of shit. There was a tattoo artist named Danny living in a travel trailer in the side yard. There was makeshift treestand in the front yard I liked to climb up. I'd sit & watch the cars pass by, wondering where people were going & wishing I was going with them.
Rob had 5 kids with other women. Margie, Little Robby, Crystal, Chris [who would become Little Chris due to his stocky stature, and my brother Big Chris, due to his being 6'2], and Noel, who was just 3 months younger than me. Lil' Robby's best friends, Clint, Lee, Lil' Mike & Big Mike and were always around, too. I consider the four of them my big brothers, too. Along with Chris's best friend, Glenn. Christopher, Clint, Lee, Big Mike, Robby, and Glenn have always been my fiercest protectors. "The Phatguys", as their known, are the big, bad men in my life. I may not look intimidating, but I don't have to, god dammit. I have 6 big brothers and they are all over 6 foot tall, and all over 250lbs. I love them. Because they know everything about me, accept me for who I am & always have my back.

Life went from safe and average to frightening and ludicrous in the blink of an eye.
Rob liked to party, so he often had people over, which meant that I couldn't enter the house because they were 'talking'. Later, I learned they were getting high. Meth, crank, coke, and a couple of crazy crackhead bitches. Violence is a scary fucking thing to witness as a child. I never really witnessed my mom being violent toward my dad, I was told about the frying pan and sugar bowl incidents.
One night, as Noel and I were playing outside, Rob's friend "Big Jim" and his girlfriend, Seclinda (Suh-Linn-Duh) came blasting out of the little house. It was startling to hear them scream so loud. I don't know what the fight was about, and it doesn't matter. What matters is what Noel & I witnessed. Big Jim, an imposing black man who stands about 6'4, hauled back and unloaded a right cross rivaling that of "Smokin" Joe Frazier. It hit it's mark: Seclinda's face. She collapsed as if all her bones had turned to spaghetti. I don't remember much after that, though.
Rob was a well built guy. He started working out at a young age, and he was always employed as a laborer. He was very proud of his accomplished boxing career. He worked hard and competed as a Golden Glove boxer [other Golden Glove Champs: Joe Louis, Muhammad Ali, Sugar Ray Leonard, Mike Tyson, Evander Holyfield & Oscar De La Hoya]. He loved hunting, and riding his Harley.
He also enjoyed beating the shit out of my mom. And my brothers and sisters. And the family dog. I won't go into great detail, but I'll highlight a few things...
He once woke my mom up by punching her in the face.
I cried the first time I saw my mom's face all swollen, bloody & bruised.
Chris & I hated her for always going back to him.
When Chris was 16 or 17, Rob charged him as he lay on the top bunk of a set of bunkbeds. As Rob was making his rage filled approach, Christopher calmly turned toward him, drew his knee up to his chest, then let go with a kick to the chest that sent Rob sailing back 5 feet into a dresser. I don't think he ever tried to battle Chris again.
When I turned 15, I lost my mind. Decided I wasn't ever going to stand quietly by while this man punched and kicked my family whenever he felt they 'deserved' a good whoopin.
I felt I could, you see, because I was unique. My brothers & sisters, my mom, our pets, and various 'good-for-nothings' he 'took care of' over years all fell victim to his fists of fury. With one exception: ME. That motherfucker never laid a hand on me. Never. Maybe something in my eyes stopped him, maybe my dad threatened his life... I have no clue
Typically when things started getting tense between Rob and someone else in our house, I did my best to avoid conflict and lighten the mood. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it made shit worse.
Eventually, I just started jumping down his throat when he got all shitty. I could scream louder and longer than him. I could spit insults faster that cut deeper. I showed no fear. He was dumbfounded. Perhaps, just dumb.

Cheri's older brother, Justin, moved to Jersey from California in 1999. I knew Cheri's dad, Steve, had other kids, but I had never even heard Justin's name spoken. We were quiet and reserved around each other for a little while, but eventually we became very close. Our friendship meant so much to the both of us. We shared everything with each other &





After a violent fight with my mom & Rob in September of 2000, I vowed to never return to that the "shit shack" on Lake Rd. Mom's heroin use had escalated to a life threatening level & Rob was hellbent on making everyone as miserable as possible. I never went cold or hungry though, because of my best friend Cheri's parents, who I still call "mom" and "dad". I became best friends with Cheri around 8 or 9 years old & spent a majority of my youth/adolescence in their home. They even invited me to join them on every single summer vacation. They opened their hearts to me and their home was the only place I felt safe for a very long time.