CHAPTER 7.
“MY FIRST TRIP TO IRELAND….WHAT A TRIP!”
In August of 1972, Mom, Dad, Coley and I took a trip to Ireland. It was a very interesting 4 weeks. And it was such a shock to see it.
When we took off on Sunday July 30th.(I guess t hat was the night), we were going on a charter with the Irish Music Club. And I got scared as the plane took off. I’d never been on a plane before(well, I’d been on 2 planes before when I’d gone to League School, but this is the first time I was actually flying in one). And I was a nervous wreck.
I still am a nervous wreck every time I’m on a plane. When I made my 3rd. trip in 1996, I had a panic attack just before we took off. Earlier in the day, one of the staffers at Mullen & Company(the predecessor of McGladrey, where I still work today) asked me if I was flying on ValuJet. A ValuJet plane had crashed earlier in the month and that really got me upset.
Hey, I get upset easily when I get teased; being autistic makes me prone to teasing. I’ve never known whether one is kidding or deadly serious.
Well, we got over to Ireland early the next morning(their time) and we took a long 2 or 3 hours journey to Killarney. While everyone regards it as a tourist trap, it’s where my Dad came from in 1949. Growing up in Ireland was tough for him and his family. Most of the people lived in poverty back then while Europe was growing into a massive industrial and artistic machine. In the 1840s, the potato famine came to Ireland, killing over a million people and forcing another million to emigrate across the seas.
When many of these Irish immigrants arrived in Boston or New York, people would insult them and put up signs that said “No Irish Wanted Here!” They would be the ones doing the hard labor and long hours. But thanks to gentlemen like John Boyle O’Reilly and Richard Cardinal Cushing, the Irish would prosper and become an important force in American society. All this climaxed in the election of John F. Kennedy to the Presidency in the year 1960, months before I was born. Mom told me that she went to his JFK’s final campaign rally the night before the election…and I was developing in her belly.
In the 4 weeks I was over in Ireland, I can remember some fantastic times that defined my love for my Dad’s ancestral country: traveling the Ring of Kerry, driving cross country to Dublin, playing those one armed bandits-yes, I’m talking about slot machines-at the arcades in the Salthill section of Galway, having dinner at some of the country’s best restaurants at the time: the Colleen Bawn in Killarney, the Harp in Dublin, and some other great places I can’t recall at the top of my head.
For the first few days there, all I could eat was grilled cheese sandwiches(I was so homesick, since this was my first trip out of the USA). And my brother Coleman always says that there’s a statute of me having grilled cheese sandwiches in the centre of Killarney. I’ve yet to find it.
Traveling through Ireland was an experience altogether different: they drive on the left side of the road, they call soft drinks “minerals,” and, at the time, TV didn’t broadcast until the evening. Also, in many towns, there’s a singing pub that does business with talented musicians from around the areas they live in.
My brother once joked, “They sing from opening to closing and in the morning they wake up with laryngitis!” I don’t know if that’s true, but…
One of the highlights of my trip was going to Dublin where we walked down O’Connell Street and soaked in the city center of the Irish capital. On the Friday night, the whole family and I saw an Irish revue called “Gaels Of Laughter,” which starred comedian and actress Maureen Potter. What a fantastic experience that was with music, comedy and dance. I’ll never forget it as long as I live.
The next day, we went to Bray on the Northern edge of the city itself. And what was a big highlight was when Dad, Coley, Dicko and I climbed 1,000 feet up Mt. Brayhead. It was a very long and difficult climb; you have to be really fit and sturdy to climb up the mountain. Anyway, when we got up to the top, we had a spectacular view of the ocean and the surrounding area.
I remember bringing down some bushes to my mom as a birthday present. As I gave them to her, I said, “Happy Birthday from Mount Brayhead!” She was delighted with them. And then we went back into town to see a movie.
Several times while we were in Dublin, we went to the General Post Office where the Irish Rebellion started. It is a working post office, but it’s also the place where the Irish began their ill-fated campaign to drive the English out of Ireland. It was there that Padaric Pearse proclaimed Ireland as “a sovereign, Independent State.”
“The only thing that can stop Irish Independence,” he said that day, “is the destruction of the Irish race itself.” And thank God we haven’t been destroyed. We never will be. Like the Jews, the Irish have been persecuted for no reason whatsoever by the British. And still, Northern Ireland is under British control. I look forward to the day when they’ll head home from the North and let the two sides become one.
On our final day in Dublin, I went to Croke Park where we saw an All Ireland fooball playoff between the counties of Offaly and Donegal. Mom and I cheered for Offaly, while Dad, Coley and Dicko cheered for Donegal. I can’t believe how passionate the Irish are at their Gaelic sports. Like the Americans who love baseball and football, and the English who cheer at soccer matches, the GAA is the sporting force that binds the Irish together. It’s a combination of rugby, soccer and football, but it’s a style that’s altogether different from all the other sports in the world.
By the way, the match ended in a draw.
The night before I left for home, I shared with my cousins in Killarney a fantastic song called “Let There Be Peace On Earth.” This song was performed at a youth conference in 1955 when the attendees all walked arm in arm up a mountain in California and shared that song with each other.
The simple lyrics of peace on Earth beginning with each of us is fantastic. I first learned it the previous winter at St. Coletta’s and decided to share it with Uncle Dicko’s family. The song had only been 15 years old when we first learned it, but it had already made an impact around the world.
When we flew home the next morning, Dad said a tearful goodbye to his brother Dicko, not knowing it would be the last time he would see him again. He would see him many times when he came over to America in the intervening years, but he was always worried he’d never see him again. After all, when the Irish came over to America in the 19th. century, the families and friends of those who were leaving would send off with an American Wake party. Although those immigrants would probably never see their families again, it was clear that they were part of each other for all eternity.
Because I had a summer job in 1985 with the Massachusetts District Commission, I wasn’t able to go with my parents to Ireland that summer. It would be the last time that Dad would ever go over, since he’d been diagnosed with mesothelioma, an incurable cancer caused by exposure to asbestos. 3 years later, he’d die of the disease on July 23rd., 1988. Ironically, it would be less than 24 hours after I’d been fired from Putnam Investments, a world famous financial firm headquartered in Boston.
I won’t go into that part of it, or the MDC job I worked on for the 2 summers of 1984 and 1985, because those kids were spoiled brats who got their jobs as special favors by their friends in the government. No wonder the Commonwealth is so screwed up these days! And ever since Governor William Weld introduced “privatization” of State government in the 1990s, it’s only gone from bad to worse.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
MY HOME AWAY FROM HOME! MARSHFIELD!
CHAPTER 6
“MY HOME AWAY FROM HOME.”
Christy Moore once said that everybody deserves a break. And every summer, I’ve gone down to Marshfield. A small beach town with a big heart. Our first cottage was on Foster Avenue, which faces the beach. Every morning, the sun rises out of the Atlantic Ocean and brings another great summer day to our family. A few years later, we’d move to the cottage that we occupy today at 22 9th. Road, just a little ways from the beach.
And we still have a great view of the sunrise. Unless of course, there’s wind and rain on the beach. And then we see the waves whip up with the whitecaps ready to strike the sand. The summer is a short season down there. Although summer officially begins on Memorial Day, down in Marshfield, it doesn’t begin until the Night Before The Fourth. That’s the night when they set off firecrackers on the beach. The humidity and the cool of the night make for an explosive cocktail of color and patriotism.
Up until the mid-1980s, there would also be bonfires on our beach. All the trash and timber of the winter would be rushed up the beach and piled onto towering pyramids at each entrance to Sunrise Beach(where I’ve been living all through my now about 50 years). At sunset, lighter fluid would be doused on the piles and they would be set aflame! It was wonderful; combining bonfires with fireworks made it a fantastic night!
I remember that I would stay up late to enjoy the action(in 1976, I stayed up all night and was exhausted the next day, the Glorious Fourth). And in a few instances, I’d get up before sunrise and try to pick the beer bottles and cans that I treasured getting money for at the liquor store. (Unfortunately, I had to contend with those goddamned mosquitoes, who come out at dusk and dawn on the beach area. Ouch!)
Unfortunately, sometime in the 1980s, the bonfires were responsible for a number of house fires on the road. As a result, the Marshfield Town Meeting passed an ordinance saying that it was illegal to light fires on the beach without a special permit. And in 1988, the bonfires were cracked down and all but ended.
When my Dad was on his deathbed on his last Fourth of July in 1988, Mom went down to see what was going on there, and, to her shock, she caught the cops trying to arrest one of my cousins for setting up a bonfire on the beach. She nearly got arrested herself when she tried to intervene on his behalf, saying that her brother was a lawyer and would stop them in any possible way.
3 weeks later, when my Dad died, we had to come back up here for the funeral, and boy was it raining. I’ll get to that in a little while, though. But back to the bonfire habit, it attracted the wrong kind of people; folks who didn’t live in the beach area drove from miles to watch them. And they’d bring dozens of six packs of beer, wine and alcohol. There’d be fist fights and wild parties that went on until 2 or 3 in the morning(maybe later). No wonder there were a lot of arrests at that time.
Since the end of the bonfires, the celebrations have become more subdued, yet are still festive. It’s more than a family affair now, with everyone enjoying that special night when summer really comes alive. Of course, the cops are still patrolling the beach on the 3rd. and the 4th. to see that no one gets out of hand.
Still, I miss the bonfires. They were a very special part of the Night Before the Fourth.
(And you know what? I used to make about $50 to $60 picking up empties and brining them back to the liquor store. Now, I’m lucky to make $20 to $30 on the Fourth.)
You know, I enjoy the time I’m down at the Beach. From the Night before the Fourth to Labor Day Night, it’s one big party with beach time during the day and parties at night. But when the sun goes down on Labor Day night, everyone packs up and heads home. The rest of Marshfield continues in business during the winter, but the beach area becomes deserted and austere. After all, we never know on Labor Day night what will happen in the year to come…or whether we’ll see our friends or neighbors again.
I always say that during the last two weeks of summer, the long hot days and steamy nights become a precious commodity. So why can’t it be like summer all year ‘round? I had a dream one night that everybody was down the beach for New Year’s Eve shooting off fireworks and lighting bonfires. And the weather was that of a warm summer night….
Ah, Summer in New England. It’s such a fleeting time.
“MY HOME AWAY FROM HOME.”
Christy Moore once said that everybody deserves a break. And every summer, I’ve gone down to Marshfield. A small beach town with a big heart. Our first cottage was on Foster Avenue, which faces the beach. Every morning, the sun rises out of the Atlantic Ocean and brings another great summer day to our family. A few years later, we’d move to the cottage that we occupy today at 22 9th. Road, just a little ways from the beach.
And we still have a great view of the sunrise. Unless of course, there’s wind and rain on the beach. And then we see the waves whip up with the whitecaps ready to strike the sand. The summer is a short season down there. Although summer officially begins on Memorial Day, down in Marshfield, it doesn’t begin until the Night Before The Fourth. That’s the night when they set off firecrackers on the beach. The humidity and the cool of the night make for an explosive cocktail of color and patriotism.
Up until the mid-1980s, there would also be bonfires on our beach. All the trash and timber of the winter would be rushed up the beach and piled onto towering pyramids at each entrance to Sunrise Beach(where I’ve been living all through my now about 50 years). At sunset, lighter fluid would be doused on the piles and they would be set aflame! It was wonderful; combining bonfires with fireworks made it a fantastic night!
I remember that I would stay up late to enjoy the action(in 1976, I stayed up all night and was exhausted the next day, the Glorious Fourth). And in a few instances, I’d get up before sunrise and try to pick the beer bottles and cans that I treasured getting money for at the liquor store. (Unfortunately, I had to contend with those goddamned mosquitoes, who come out at dusk and dawn on the beach area. Ouch!)
Unfortunately, sometime in the 1980s, the bonfires were responsible for a number of house fires on the road. As a result, the Marshfield Town Meeting passed an ordinance saying that it was illegal to light fires on the beach without a special permit. And in 1988, the bonfires were cracked down and all but ended.
When my Dad was on his deathbed on his last Fourth of July in 1988, Mom went down to see what was going on there, and, to her shock, she caught the cops trying to arrest one of my cousins for setting up a bonfire on the beach. She nearly got arrested herself when she tried to intervene on his behalf, saying that her brother was a lawyer and would stop them in any possible way.
3 weeks later, when my Dad died, we had to come back up here for the funeral, and boy was it raining. I’ll get to that in a little while, though. But back to the bonfire habit, it attracted the wrong kind of people; folks who didn’t live in the beach area drove from miles to watch them. And they’d bring dozens of six packs of beer, wine and alcohol. There’d be fist fights and wild parties that went on until 2 or 3 in the morning(maybe later). No wonder there were a lot of arrests at that time.
Since the end of the bonfires, the celebrations have become more subdued, yet are still festive. It’s more than a family affair now, with everyone enjoying that special night when summer really comes alive. Of course, the cops are still patrolling the beach on the 3rd. and the 4th. to see that no one gets out of hand.
Still, I miss the bonfires. They were a very special part of the Night Before the Fourth.
(And you know what? I used to make about $50 to $60 picking up empties and brining them back to the liquor store. Now, I’m lucky to make $20 to $30 on the Fourth.)
You know, I enjoy the time I’m down at the Beach. From the Night before the Fourth to Labor Day Night, it’s one big party with beach time during the day and parties at night. But when the sun goes down on Labor Day night, everyone packs up and heads home. The rest of Marshfield continues in business during the winter, but the beach area becomes deserted and austere. After all, we never know on Labor Day night what will happen in the year to come…or whether we’ll see our friends or neighbors again.
I always say that during the last two weeks of summer, the long hot days and steamy nights become a precious commodity. So why can’t it be like summer all year ‘round? I had a dream one night that everybody was down the beach for New Year’s Eve shooting off fireworks and lighting bonfires. And the weather was that of a warm summer night….
Ah, Summer in New England. It’s such a fleeting time.
Monday, June 6, 2011
CAN'T FORGET DR. YERKES!
CHAPTER 5
“DOCTOR YERKES!”
My psychiatrist, Dr. Raymond Yerkes, has been more than a great psychologist. He’s been a great friend. Ever since I started seeing him in the Putnam Center in Roxbury when I was a kid, he’s helped me out through all the 4 decades he’s been my doctor.
I first met him at the Putnam Center and we’d get together for talks about how I was doing. I told him some of the juicy details of growing up and what was going on. And I found those days with him a blessing.
He was there when I had significant losses in my family: my Uncle Joe(who died after being hit by a car in 1973), my Dad(when he died of mesothelioma in 1988), my nephew Ryan(who died of meningitis in 1996) and my Mom(who died of congestive heart failure in 2008). He helped me deal with the loss of my closest friends. And he was always there to encourage me to continue moving forward.
From the Putnam Center, I followed him to Beacon Street in Brookline, then to Andover(where he had 2 different offices over the 20 years he was there), and finally up to Newburyport, where he lives now. And believe me when I tell you this, traveling to my appointments with him have given me opportunities to experience life around New England.
After our appointments in Andover, for example, Mom and I would go up to New Hampshire where we would shop at Kmart in Salem. I enjoyed buying stuff without any sales tax. After our Putnam Center visits, Mom and I would go over to a nearby shopping mall and have a hamburger at a place called Kemp’s. And after my appointments in Newburyport, on days when the weather is fine, I spend the afternoon walking around the town and seeing what’s up.
Getting back to the Putnam Center, when Dr. Yerkes told me “it’s time to stop,” I’d go ballistic and go running around all over the center. I’d throw tables and chairs down, mess up the books and magazines….and on one occasion, I even woke up all the kids in the nursery school who would take a nap there.
Yes sir, if there’s a man who’s got a seat of honor in the better world, it’s Dr. Raymond Yerkes.
“DOCTOR YERKES!”
My psychiatrist, Dr. Raymond Yerkes, has been more than a great psychologist. He’s been a great friend. Ever since I started seeing him in the Putnam Center in Roxbury when I was a kid, he’s helped me out through all the 4 decades he’s been my doctor.
I first met him at the Putnam Center and we’d get together for talks about how I was doing. I told him some of the juicy details of growing up and what was going on. And I found those days with him a blessing.
He was there when I had significant losses in my family: my Uncle Joe(who died after being hit by a car in 1973), my Dad(when he died of mesothelioma in 1988), my nephew Ryan(who died of meningitis in 1996) and my Mom(who died of congestive heart failure in 2008). He helped me deal with the loss of my closest friends. And he was always there to encourage me to continue moving forward.
From the Putnam Center, I followed him to Beacon Street in Brookline, then to Andover(where he had 2 different offices over the 20 years he was there), and finally up to Newburyport, where he lives now. And believe me when I tell you this, traveling to my appointments with him have given me opportunities to experience life around New England.
After our appointments in Andover, for example, Mom and I would go up to New Hampshire where we would shop at Kmart in Salem. I enjoyed buying stuff without any sales tax. After our Putnam Center visits, Mom and I would go over to a nearby shopping mall and have a hamburger at a place called Kemp’s. And after my appointments in Newburyport, on days when the weather is fine, I spend the afternoon walking around the town and seeing what’s up.
Getting back to the Putnam Center, when Dr. Yerkes told me “it’s time to stop,” I’d go ballistic and go running around all over the center. I’d throw tables and chairs down, mess up the books and magazines….and on one occasion, I even woke up all the kids in the nursery school who would take a nap there.
Yes sir, if there’s a man who’s got a seat of honor in the better world, it’s Dr. Raymond Yerkes.
MY EARLY YEARS OF SCHOOLING!
CHAPTER 4.
“I COULDN’T FIT INTO THE SCHOOL.”
My first memories of schooling was going to kindergarten at Patrick Ahern School, which was up the street from me on Dorchester Avenue. We’d mostly sing songs, do crafts, dance around the maypole, anything the teacher thought up.
After we pledged allegiance to the flag, we’d so some singing starting with the National Anthem. Then we’d move to “3 Cheers for the Red, White and Blue,” after which everybody would do “hip hip horray” 3 times. After that, my memory drifts…
Depending on what time we’d begin our class, we’d sing either:
“Good morning! Good morning!
And a cup of good cheer!
Good morning! Good morning!
And A Happy New Year!”
Or:
“Good afternoon! Good afternoon!
Good afternoon today!”
Well, there’s another memory committed to paper. After a while of singing, we’d do crafts of different sorts. And we went home to watch TV. Growing up in Dorchester, it meant “Ultraman,” “Astro Boy,” “The Mischief Makers,” “Prince Planet,” “Colonel Bleep, “Q.T. Hush,” or “Clutch Cargo.” It was an amazing time to be a kid, since the art of children’s TV was perfect before I grew up. I was born too late for “Howdy Doody” and “Super Circus,” and too early for “Sesame Street,” which premiered in November of 1970. During this time, Mom and Dad tried to find programs that would fit my needs.
And it was in 1968 or 1969 that they found one for me-The League School in Newton. It was located on a hillside overlooking the town. The classes were small and we were able to work on the basics or reading, math, writing, spelling and some science. We had music during lunch, including one songs named “Let Everyone Clap Hands Like Me,” which would make me cry a lot.
One of my teachers named Lynne was a very kind and gentle teacher, except when someone got a test on math wrong. Then she’d mark an X, tear the paper up, and tell the offending teacher to “put your head down.”
And then we had a lady from the Phillippines(whose name I can’t remember), but one who was very friendly and helped us do our lessons very well. And of course, I loved the recess periods where we could run around and play in the fresh air. Although there were times when the high winds around the Newton hills made me feel scared.
Another scary time I had was when I almost got hit by a car(not once, but twice!). As Lynne and my class were walking back to school from a field trip, a car screeched in front of me and I was pulled back by Lynne back onto the sidewalk. “Richard, you almost got hit by a car!” she screamed. “Yes,” I said helplessly.
“And she had to hold the breaks down….what does stop mean?”
As she chewed me out, everybody was watching helplessly. I believe that they were like a crowd witnessing the execution of an innocent man. Many times in my life this scene would be repeated. Whenever I did something wrong-walking home from the YMCA without permission, painting a sweat shirt, etc.-people would stand around watching me as I was being chewed out.
“I’m sorry,” I said, but Lynne rebuffed me.
“Being sorry is for doing stupid things…now you have to hold the grown-up’s hand! It’s over!”
I had to be walked up with my hand being held by her. And as we neared the school I asked what time it was.
“It’s time you considered yourself lucky you weren’t being hit by a car!” Lynne screamed.
And as I entered the school and Lynne let my hand go, I burst into tears. I was crying my eyes out without restraint. I had been scared into crying that day. And for countless times, whenever I did these wrong things, that’s how it would end up.
Years later, when I told Dr. Yerkes, whom I’ll talk about in the next chapter, about the incident that day, he told me that he’d talked with Lynne and she said that if I had been hit by the car, she’d never have forgiven herself. I believe that the reason she did this was out of fear that I’d lose my life before it’d even begun.
I think it’s because of these incidents that I would be punished. And when I woke up the next morning, I would feel regret and fear. Even though I’d learned my lesson, there would still be the fact that I’d missed out on what I loved-watching TV, listening to the radio, or anything else.
It sucks, but that’s the way it is. And the morning after I’d come off punishment was a time of pain. Even though it was a new day, I would be dwelling on what I’d done. On one occasion, the morning after I’d been punished for walking home from the YMCA instead of staying on the Camp bus, I’d ask my Dad, “Am I still on punishment?”
I wonder if we still are….
Anyhow, looking back on that incident, I believe that if I’d been hit by that car, I wouldn’t be telling you this story today.
I left League School in 1971 to go to St. Coletta’s in Braintree. It was a Catholic school for special needs children run by the Cardinal Cushing Center. And believe me, that was a new experience: dressing up in a suit and clean clothes, going to Mass on a Friday morning, participating in the Special Olympics, it was one of the most amazing schools in the South Shore.
Of course, I didn’t like going to Mass on Fridays, because the priests sang the Doxology at the end of the Eucharistic Prayer, which caused me to burst into tears. And I had a bad habit of putting my fingers in my ears when the priest sang. One of the nuns there at the time, Sister Mary Roger, told me that putting my fingers in my ears was “love of the devil.” Well, I hate the devil; I just didn’t want to cry when I heard the priest sing.
Of course, Sister Mary Roger is to be commended because she helped me make my first Holy Communion at the school! And it’s the faith of communion that has kept me faithful to the Catholic Church. Up until that time, I was too afraid to go to Mass on Sundays; I’d spend it watching cartoons on TV all morning, going only once at Easter.
I owe it to Sister, because as tough as she was, she really helped me discover something that I’d been living only casually in my early years: the faith that is the Roman Catholic Church. Another nun I had whose name escapes me at the moment was just as strict. When I was having a string of bad behavior while at St. Coletta, I had to be put on punishment for a time. And one of the things that I had to tackle on my own was a course on the Lexicon(what you and I know as a dictionary).
But in time, I’d get the hang of it and enjoy the school.
Among my favorite times was going to Rindge Arena on Tuesday mornings, where we would spend the morning skating and getting ready for an ice show that we would put on for our parents in May of that year. However, in one year, I suffered a stomach ache before the show and couldn’t go on. Sitting there watching the spectacle really put a bad taste in my mouth.
I would get to take part, however, the following year, and it was a doozy of a time. Playing hockey, learning some figure moves, and having a time on the ice was a great thing that I looked forward to each Tuesday during the fall and winter months.
I also remember going with the school to a matinee performance of the local production of “Godspell!” It was a very moving and fun-filled experience seeing the gospel of St. Matthew put to music with songs like “Day By Day,” “On The Willows,” “You Are The Light Of The World,” “We Beseech Thee,” and of course, “All Good Things.” It was a wonderful experience that brought the house down.
And of course, in May of 1972, our school participated in the Special Olympics for the South Shore. It was a great joy to be involved in competiton with athletes from all over the South Shore. I won a bronze medal in the 50 yard dash and I felt excited being on the podium.
You know, their oath seems to say it all: if we can’t win, we want to be brave in the attempt. It was a marvelous thing to participate that day.
“I COULDN’T FIT INTO THE SCHOOL.”
My first memories of schooling was going to kindergarten at Patrick Ahern School, which was up the street from me on Dorchester Avenue. We’d mostly sing songs, do crafts, dance around the maypole, anything the teacher thought up.
After we pledged allegiance to the flag, we’d so some singing starting with the National Anthem. Then we’d move to “3 Cheers for the Red, White and Blue,” after which everybody would do “hip hip horray” 3 times. After that, my memory drifts…
Depending on what time we’d begin our class, we’d sing either:
“Good morning! Good morning!
And a cup of good cheer!
Good morning! Good morning!
And A Happy New Year!”
Or:
“Good afternoon! Good afternoon!
Good afternoon today!”
Well, there’s another memory committed to paper. After a while of singing, we’d do crafts of different sorts. And we went home to watch TV. Growing up in Dorchester, it meant “Ultraman,” “Astro Boy,” “The Mischief Makers,” “Prince Planet,” “Colonel Bleep, “Q.T. Hush,” or “Clutch Cargo.” It was an amazing time to be a kid, since the art of children’s TV was perfect before I grew up. I was born too late for “Howdy Doody” and “Super Circus,” and too early for “Sesame Street,” which premiered in November of 1970. During this time, Mom and Dad tried to find programs that would fit my needs.
And it was in 1968 or 1969 that they found one for me-The League School in Newton. It was located on a hillside overlooking the town. The classes were small and we were able to work on the basics or reading, math, writing, spelling and some science. We had music during lunch, including one songs named “Let Everyone Clap Hands Like Me,” which would make me cry a lot.
One of my teachers named Lynne was a very kind and gentle teacher, except when someone got a test on math wrong. Then she’d mark an X, tear the paper up, and tell the offending teacher to “put your head down.”
And then we had a lady from the Phillippines(whose name I can’t remember), but one who was very friendly and helped us do our lessons very well. And of course, I loved the recess periods where we could run around and play in the fresh air. Although there were times when the high winds around the Newton hills made me feel scared.
Another scary time I had was when I almost got hit by a car(not once, but twice!). As Lynne and my class were walking back to school from a field trip, a car screeched in front of me and I was pulled back by Lynne back onto the sidewalk. “Richard, you almost got hit by a car!” she screamed. “Yes,” I said helplessly.
“And she had to hold the breaks down….what does stop mean?”
As she chewed me out, everybody was watching helplessly. I believe that they were like a crowd witnessing the execution of an innocent man. Many times in my life this scene would be repeated. Whenever I did something wrong-walking home from the YMCA without permission, painting a sweat shirt, etc.-people would stand around watching me as I was being chewed out.
“I’m sorry,” I said, but Lynne rebuffed me.
“Being sorry is for doing stupid things…now you have to hold the grown-up’s hand! It’s over!”
I had to be walked up with my hand being held by her. And as we neared the school I asked what time it was.
“It’s time you considered yourself lucky you weren’t being hit by a car!” Lynne screamed.
And as I entered the school and Lynne let my hand go, I burst into tears. I was crying my eyes out without restraint. I had been scared into crying that day. And for countless times, whenever I did these wrong things, that’s how it would end up.
Years later, when I told Dr. Yerkes, whom I’ll talk about in the next chapter, about the incident that day, he told me that he’d talked with Lynne and she said that if I had been hit by the car, she’d never have forgiven herself. I believe that the reason she did this was out of fear that I’d lose my life before it’d even begun.
I think it’s because of these incidents that I would be punished. And when I woke up the next morning, I would feel regret and fear. Even though I’d learned my lesson, there would still be the fact that I’d missed out on what I loved-watching TV, listening to the radio, or anything else.
It sucks, but that’s the way it is. And the morning after I’d come off punishment was a time of pain. Even though it was a new day, I would be dwelling on what I’d done. On one occasion, the morning after I’d been punished for walking home from the YMCA instead of staying on the Camp bus, I’d ask my Dad, “Am I still on punishment?”
I wonder if we still are….
Anyhow, looking back on that incident, I believe that if I’d been hit by that car, I wouldn’t be telling you this story today.
I left League School in 1971 to go to St. Coletta’s in Braintree. It was a Catholic school for special needs children run by the Cardinal Cushing Center. And believe me, that was a new experience: dressing up in a suit and clean clothes, going to Mass on a Friday morning, participating in the Special Olympics, it was one of the most amazing schools in the South Shore.
Of course, I didn’t like going to Mass on Fridays, because the priests sang the Doxology at the end of the Eucharistic Prayer, which caused me to burst into tears. And I had a bad habit of putting my fingers in my ears when the priest sang. One of the nuns there at the time, Sister Mary Roger, told me that putting my fingers in my ears was “love of the devil.” Well, I hate the devil; I just didn’t want to cry when I heard the priest sing.
Of course, Sister Mary Roger is to be commended because she helped me make my first Holy Communion at the school! And it’s the faith of communion that has kept me faithful to the Catholic Church. Up until that time, I was too afraid to go to Mass on Sundays; I’d spend it watching cartoons on TV all morning, going only once at Easter.
I owe it to Sister, because as tough as she was, she really helped me discover something that I’d been living only casually in my early years: the faith that is the Roman Catholic Church. Another nun I had whose name escapes me at the moment was just as strict. When I was having a string of bad behavior while at St. Coletta, I had to be put on punishment for a time. And one of the things that I had to tackle on my own was a course on the Lexicon(what you and I know as a dictionary).
But in time, I’d get the hang of it and enjoy the school.
Among my favorite times was going to Rindge Arena on Tuesday mornings, where we would spend the morning skating and getting ready for an ice show that we would put on for our parents in May of that year. However, in one year, I suffered a stomach ache before the show and couldn’t go on. Sitting there watching the spectacle really put a bad taste in my mouth.
I would get to take part, however, the following year, and it was a doozy of a time. Playing hockey, learning some figure moves, and having a time on the ice was a great thing that I looked forward to each Tuesday during the fall and winter months.
I also remember going with the school to a matinee performance of the local production of “Godspell!” It was a very moving and fun-filled experience seeing the gospel of St. Matthew put to music with songs like “Day By Day,” “On The Willows,” “You Are The Light Of The World,” “We Beseech Thee,” and of course, “All Good Things.” It was a wonderful experience that brought the house down.
And of course, in May of 1972, our school participated in the Special Olympics for the South Shore. It was a great joy to be involved in competiton with athletes from all over the South Shore. I won a bronze medal in the 50 yard dash and I felt excited being on the podium.
You know, their oath seems to say it all: if we can’t win, we want to be brave in the attempt. It was a marvelous thing to participate that day.
GROWING UP IN DORCHESTER!
CHAPTER 3.
“LIVING IN DORCHESTER WAS
EXTRA SPECIAL.”
You know, living in Dorchester(where I was born) was a very extra special part of the world. Most of Mom and Dad’s family lived either downstairs on the first floor or down the street on the corner of Centre Street and Adams Street. Up the street was Dorchester Avenue, that wonderful thoroughfare on which there were stores like Crawford Drug, Cumberland Farms, and Spiro’s Coffee Shop.
And of course, there was St. Mark’s Church, where the family went to Mass on Sundays and holydays. It was where most of the rest of my family were educated(except me, of course). It was the place where we’d go to for their bingo nights, dances, Christmas bazaars, and, of course, the St. Patrick’s Day Shows. All the kids would get together and dress up in Irish style costumes; they’d sing Irish and American songs, there’d be a couple of girls doing Irish step dancing, and there’d be a sing-along for the audience to take part in.
My earliest memory of that kind of show was when my sister Patrice sang “Tora Loora Loora” in a show sometime around the late 60s. And of course the choir of kids sang “It’s a Great Day For The Irish.” We were treated to a couple of Irish step dancers. And we enjoyed the Irish sing-alongs.
I pointed out that my Dad came from Killarney in 1949 and stayed here for the rest of his life(except when he and Mom went on vacation). When he was growing up in his hometown, the only time you heard Irish music was around St. Patrick’s Day; most of the rest of the time, it was American pop music. He was very ambivalent to all the “Irish” songs composed by Tin Pan Alley writers who didn’t have a drop of Irish in them.
“The Auld Come-All-Yes,” my Dad called them. He preferred the real Irish music performed by artists like Tommy Makem, Liam Clancy & The Clancy Brothers or the Irish showbands who played at the local clubs. And yes, he always had Irish music on the radio every weekend. John Latchford, who was a disc jockey on WRYT radio in Boston(now WROL), would spend hours on air playing the “latest songs from the Republic of Ireland, plus all the old Irish favorites.” Growing up on Centre Street in Dorchester, our weekends were filled with the sounds of Ireland.
For recreation, we’d go down to a park on Victory Road, where we’d play on the swings or seesaws or watch a Little League Baseball Game. We’d go over to a field on Dorchester Avenue in Fields Corner where we’d go skating in the winter or watch baseball games in the summer. During the holidays, I would go into town to see the Enchanted Village and sit on Santa’s lap at Jordan Marsh. Then we’d see all the beautiful lights at the Boston Common. And on St. Patrick’s Day, we’d go to South Boston to see the Parade with marching bands, floats and all kinds of politicians.
Yeah, our St. Patrick’s Day Parade is full of politicians, politicians and more politicians. Every year, the Senate President presides over that great corn beef and cabbage breakfast where all of them trade jabs with each other or try to say something that’ll get ‘em in trouble.
I remember, also, there was a truck that had a “whip” ride. Every time it would come around, we’d get on it and take an exciting ride around for 5 or 10 minutes. And what a ride it was. It was only the beginning of more exciting rides that I’d go on at amusement parks that no longer exist. And of course, there was Famous Pizza, where Dad would take me for a couple of pizza slices and a coke from time to time.
You know, my curiosity for the area around me had me wandering around in places like Codman Square or on Morrissey Boulevard. And of course, my parents would get angry at me for doing that.
“You’re on punishment until midnight!” they’d say when I’d done something wrong. Of course, even though that was the case, I’d actually be on punishment until I woke up the next morning. And you know me, crying the night away. But I was very interested in the world around me, especially outside my own neighborhood.
I know you want me to get into the gory details, but if I did, I’d have to put you on punishment until midnight, too.
And you know what that means? No TV tonight, buddy!
“LIVING IN DORCHESTER WAS
EXTRA SPECIAL.”
You know, living in Dorchester(where I was born) was a very extra special part of the world. Most of Mom and Dad’s family lived either downstairs on the first floor or down the street on the corner of Centre Street and Adams Street. Up the street was Dorchester Avenue, that wonderful thoroughfare on which there were stores like Crawford Drug, Cumberland Farms, and Spiro’s Coffee Shop.
And of course, there was St. Mark’s Church, where the family went to Mass on Sundays and holydays. It was where most of the rest of my family were educated(except me, of course). It was the place where we’d go to for their bingo nights, dances, Christmas bazaars, and, of course, the St. Patrick’s Day Shows. All the kids would get together and dress up in Irish style costumes; they’d sing Irish and American songs, there’d be a couple of girls doing Irish step dancing, and there’d be a sing-along for the audience to take part in.
My earliest memory of that kind of show was when my sister Patrice sang “Tora Loora Loora” in a show sometime around the late 60s. And of course the choir of kids sang “It’s a Great Day For The Irish.” We were treated to a couple of Irish step dancers. And we enjoyed the Irish sing-alongs.
I pointed out that my Dad came from Killarney in 1949 and stayed here for the rest of his life(except when he and Mom went on vacation). When he was growing up in his hometown, the only time you heard Irish music was around St. Patrick’s Day; most of the rest of the time, it was American pop music. He was very ambivalent to all the “Irish” songs composed by Tin Pan Alley writers who didn’t have a drop of Irish in them.
“The Auld Come-All-Yes,” my Dad called them. He preferred the real Irish music performed by artists like Tommy Makem, Liam Clancy & The Clancy Brothers or the Irish showbands who played at the local clubs. And yes, he always had Irish music on the radio every weekend. John Latchford, who was a disc jockey on WRYT radio in Boston(now WROL), would spend hours on air playing the “latest songs from the Republic of Ireland, plus all the old Irish favorites.” Growing up on Centre Street in Dorchester, our weekends were filled with the sounds of Ireland.
For recreation, we’d go down to a park on Victory Road, where we’d play on the swings or seesaws or watch a Little League Baseball Game. We’d go over to a field on Dorchester Avenue in Fields Corner where we’d go skating in the winter or watch baseball games in the summer. During the holidays, I would go into town to see the Enchanted Village and sit on Santa’s lap at Jordan Marsh. Then we’d see all the beautiful lights at the Boston Common. And on St. Patrick’s Day, we’d go to South Boston to see the Parade with marching bands, floats and all kinds of politicians.
Yeah, our St. Patrick’s Day Parade is full of politicians, politicians and more politicians. Every year, the Senate President presides over that great corn beef and cabbage breakfast where all of them trade jabs with each other or try to say something that’ll get ‘em in trouble.
I remember, also, there was a truck that had a “whip” ride. Every time it would come around, we’d get on it and take an exciting ride around for 5 or 10 minutes. And what a ride it was. It was only the beginning of more exciting rides that I’d go on at amusement parks that no longer exist. And of course, there was Famous Pizza, where Dad would take me for a couple of pizza slices and a coke from time to time.
You know, my curiosity for the area around me had me wandering around in places like Codman Square or on Morrissey Boulevard. And of course, my parents would get angry at me for doing that.
“You’re on punishment until midnight!” they’d say when I’d done something wrong. Of course, even though that was the case, I’d actually be on punishment until I woke up the next morning. And you know me, crying the night away. But I was very interested in the world around me, especially outside my own neighborhood.
I know you want me to get into the gory details, but if I did, I’d have to put you on punishment until midnight, too.
And you know what that means? No TV tonight, buddy!
MY PARENTS DIDN'T AGREE WITH THE DOCTORS! NOT AT ALL!
CHAPTER 2.
“WHAT THE DOCTORS THOUGHT…”
What the doctors at the time thought was that I wasn’t going to amount to much, and that I should be put into a mental institution. It was a hard thing to take for Mom and Dad after all the specialists that they’d contacted and the advice that they were seeking. That’s what happened to a disabled person in those dark days of the 1960s. Many of these would be put into state schools and institutions like Fernald & Wrentham. Or they were lobotomized, which was a worse fate!
Most parents then would have taken their advice, but not my parents. Absolutely not. They said that they would fight to get me educated, no matter what. They were looking around for schools that would help me get that chance. And they called people in the General Court to find programs for autistic children like myself.
In the meantime, I’d been going to kindergarten at the Ahern School, where we would mostly sing songs, do crafts and such. One afternoon, we were going to see a film at the school, but I got scared and ran away home. I lived in Dorchester at the time(I was born in St. Elizabeth’s hospital in Uphams Corner a few years back). My neighborhood was a cheerful Irish one with families whose parents came from Ireland(or Canada).
Near Savin Hill I had Doney and Aunt Dotty; down the street I had Uncle Jack and Marion Dalton and their brood; across the street, I had the Thurbide family(who were Scottish and came from Cape Breton in Canada), and downstairs I had Nana and Aunt Franny, who was a little wild. I also had an Uncle named Joe who was mentally handicapped as I was. He was a great man who worked at the City Incinerator and would sometimes bring me a Coke to drink on the way home. We enjoyed his company at the house on Centre Street, as well as at the cottage we had in Marshfield.
At the time he was growing up, Joe didn’t have much of the educational opportunities that my Mom and Dad looked for. It was a different time, as I already told you beforehand. But Joe did the best he could and helped me to enjoy life to its fullest.
Growing up in Dorchester was like being in Heaven. You knew everybody there, and they would help each other whenever they needed it the most. After all, most of the kids were educated at the parish school, went to Mass at the Church on Sundays, ran the Irish dances and always got away to the beaches during the summer.
We grew up in a time when nothing was open on Sunday, the TV was limited and people would sing and play music to pass the time away. I remember Mom telling me that the time he and Dad were dating, it was forbidden to have dances on Sundays. They’d go to a dance at a club, but if the cops were coming ‘round, someone would get up on a table and sing until they’d gone, then they’d be back up at it. Today, you can almost get away with anything; I won’t get into the gory details.
Mom and Dad were determined that they would get me a decent, quality education for me. Little did they imagine is that while they were trying to get help for me, other children like myself would benefit from their lobbying.
And that’s what gave me the inspiration to write this story, to tell you how anyone can beat the odds and make a life out for himself or herself. And if I can beat the odds, so can anyone.
“WHAT THE DOCTORS THOUGHT…”
What the doctors at the time thought was that I wasn’t going to amount to much, and that I should be put into a mental institution. It was a hard thing to take for Mom and Dad after all the specialists that they’d contacted and the advice that they were seeking. That’s what happened to a disabled person in those dark days of the 1960s. Many of these would be put into state schools and institutions like Fernald & Wrentham. Or they were lobotomized, which was a worse fate!
Most parents then would have taken their advice, but not my parents. Absolutely not. They said that they would fight to get me educated, no matter what. They were looking around for schools that would help me get that chance. And they called people in the General Court to find programs for autistic children like myself.
In the meantime, I’d been going to kindergarten at the Ahern School, where we would mostly sing songs, do crafts and such. One afternoon, we were going to see a film at the school, but I got scared and ran away home. I lived in Dorchester at the time(I was born in St. Elizabeth’s hospital in Uphams Corner a few years back). My neighborhood was a cheerful Irish one with families whose parents came from Ireland(or Canada).
Near Savin Hill I had Doney and Aunt Dotty; down the street I had Uncle Jack and Marion Dalton and their brood; across the street, I had the Thurbide family(who were Scottish and came from Cape Breton in Canada), and downstairs I had Nana and Aunt Franny, who was a little wild. I also had an Uncle named Joe who was mentally handicapped as I was. He was a great man who worked at the City Incinerator and would sometimes bring me a Coke to drink on the way home. We enjoyed his company at the house on Centre Street, as well as at the cottage we had in Marshfield.
At the time he was growing up, Joe didn’t have much of the educational opportunities that my Mom and Dad looked for. It was a different time, as I already told you beforehand. But Joe did the best he could and helped me to enjoy life to its fullest.
Growing up in Dorchester was like being in Heaven. You knew everybody there, and they would help each other whenever they needed it the most. After all, most of the kids were educated at the parish school, went to Mass at the Church on Sundays, ran the Irish dances and always got away to the beaches during the summer.
We grew up in a time when nothing was open on Sunday, the TV was limited and people would sing and play music to pass the time away. I remember Mom telling me that the time he and Dad were dating, it was forbidden to have dances on Sundays. They’d go to a dance at a club, but if the cops were coming ‘round, someone would get up on a table and sing until they’d gone, then they’d be back up at it. Today, you can almost get away with anything; I won’t get into the gory details.
Mom and Dad were determined that they would get me a decent, quality education for me. Little did they imagine is that while they were trying to get help for me, other children like myself would benefit from their lobbying.
And that’s what gave me the inspiration to write this story, to tell you how anyone can beat the odds and make a life out for himself or herself. And if I can beat the odds, so can anyone.
THIS IS MY LIFE STORY! I'M SURE YOU'LL BE AMAZED! PART 1!
Did you ever have a traumatic experience in your life that you can’t get out of your head? Well, I did!
My name’s Richard Clifford, an administrative assistant of Irish-American descent living in Boston’s beautiful South Shore and this is my story.
CHAPTER 1.
“WHERE THE TROUBLE
STARTED….”
I guess it has to start with the time that I went into the hospital when I was 2 for a hernia operation. When Mom and Dad checked me into Boston’s Floating Hospital that night, they reassured me that everything would be all right. So when I took to my bed that night, I saw the Boston skyline and holding my Bugs Bunny talking doll.
I pulled the talking cord that all kinds of pre-recorded sayings by Bugs including, “What’s Up, Doc?” Little did I know that it would be the start of a traumatic journey.
I woke up in the middle of the night scared as a dog. That’s all I remember. Mom was around that night and I told her how I scared I was. And I wondered if I would survive it.
Well, I don’t remember the surgery I had that morning. But I will say this…it shook me up a lot. I spent a few days in the hospital and played around with the other kids who were staying there. And a few days later, I headed home. I remember that Mom, Dad and I were riding on the MBTA home and I was crying all the way through the ride.
Anyway, the T would be a very special part of my life later on. After all, it’s our public transportation system here in Boston, one we love to hate a lot. The delays on the trains, the loud announcements of calling the T if you “See Something,” irate employees who get upset with you every time you have an emergency and rebuff your apologies with angry snarls of “Have A Nice Day,” the politics inside the management, well, you name it.
But when I got back home, something had happened to me. I was screaming all night and keeping my parents awake. I was withdrawn and acting like a nut. So they resolved to take me in and have me checked out.
I was too young at the time, but here I was wondering what was happening to me. Here I was having my brain scanned by neurologists, being interviewed by mental health specialists, having examinations by the doctors, and so much more while they were trying to find out what was wrong with me.
At the time I was growing up, in the 1960s, people like me were being put into mental hospitals(they would later be closed in the 80s and 90s, with their former patients ending up on the street). Educational systems frowned upon people like myself, thinking they’d never amount to much. The world was tailored for “normal” people, not people like me.
I was diagnosed as having autism, a learning disability where a child’s development is stymied by different factors. In my case, it was a case of having a medical procedure being performed. I was too young at the time, but I was wondering why I was having my brain and body being picked at.
It was simple; my Mom and Dad were concerned about me and wanted to plan for my future.
My Dad, Patrick Clifford, was born and raised in Killarney, Ireland and came over to America in 1949. He grew up in that town with several brothers and sisters who later would follow him over. My Uncle Dicko, who was one of his brothers, would later run a food shop on High Street. Another brother, Doney, would be diagnosed with a similar condition like my own. He had a learning disability that limited his options, as well.
My Mom, Catherine Walsh Clifford, was born here in the USA, but her Mother, who was my Grandmother, was born in County Mayo. She grew up at the time of the Irish Rebellion and was sick one night as British soldiers looked for a gun smuggler associated with the Irish Republican Army. In the end, they gave up and left her alone.
I shall share that story at another time when I get my facts on this straight.
Anyway, Mom and Dad married in 1956 and were married for 32 wonderful years until Dad died in July of 1988, only 24 hours after I’d been canned from a mailroom messenger job at Putnam Investments. The funeral that would follow later that week would be an epic event, one that I’ll return to later.
My sister Peggy was born on May 16th, 1959 and my brother Coleman was born on the day before New Year’s Eve 1959(December 30th., to be exact). I was born on June 19th., 1961(the day that black slaves in Galveston, Texas learned that they’d been freed by President Lincoln). My sister Patrice followed on the Fourth of July in 1963(several months before President Kennedy was assassinated), and my youngest sister Diane was born on Mom and Dad’s wedding anniversary of June 23rd., 1970.
And were it not for their support, I wouldn’t be the man I am today, let alone writing this autobiography.
My name’s Richard Clifford, an administrative assistant of Irish-American descent living in Boston’s beautiful South Shore and this is my story.
CHAPTER 1.
“WHERE THE TROUBLE
STARTED….”
I guess it has to start with the time that I went into the hospital when I was 2 for a hernia operation. When Mom and Dad checked me into Boston’s Floating Hospital that night, they reassured me that everything would be all right. So when I took to my bed that night, I saw the Boston skyline and holding my Bugs Bunny talking doll.
I pulled the talking cord that all kinds of pre-recorded sayings by Bugs including, “What’s Up, Doc?” Little did I know that it would be the start of a traumatic journey.
I woke up in the middle of the night scared as a dog. That’s all I remember. Mom was around that night and I told her how I scared I was. And I wondered if I would survive it.
Well, I don’t remember the surgery I had that morning. But I will say this…it shook me up a lot. I spent a few days in the hospital and played around with the other kids who were staying there. And a few days later, I headed home. I remember that Mom, Dad and I were riding on the MBTA home and I was crying all the way through the ride.
Anyway, the T would be a very special part of my life later on. After all, it’s our public transportation system here in Boston, one we love to hate a lot. The delays on the trains, the loud announcements of calling the T if you “See Something,” irate employees who get upset with you every time you have an emergency and rebuff your apologies with angry snarls of “Have A Nice Day,” the politics inside the management, well, you name it.
But when I got back home, something had happened to me. I was screaming all night and keeping my parents awake. I was withdrawn and acting like a nut. So they resolved to take me in and have me checked out.
I was too young at the time, but here I was wondering what was happening to me. Here I was having my brain scanned by neurologists, being interviewed by mental health specialists, having examinations by the doctors, and so much more while they were trying to find out what was wrong with me.
At the time I was growing up, in the 1960s, people like me were being put into mental hospitals(they would later be closed in the 80s and 90s, with their former patients ending up on the street). Educational systems frowned upon people like myself, thinking they’d never amount to much. The world was tailored for “normal” people, not people like me.
I was diagnosed as having autism, a learning disability where a child’s development is stymied by different factors. In my case, it was a case of having a medical procedure being performed. I was too young at the time, but I was wondering why I was having my brain and body being picked at.
It was simple; my Mom and Dad were concerned about me and wanted to plan for my future.
My Dad, Patrick Clifford, was born and raised in Killarney, Ireland and came over to America in 1949. He grew up in that town with several brothers and sisters who later would follow him over. My Uncle Dicko, who was one of his brothers, would later run a food shop on High Street. Another brother, Doney, would be diagnosed with a similar condition like my own. He had a learning disability that limited his options, as well.
My Mom, Catherine Walsh Clifford, was born here in the USA, but her Mother, who was my Grandmother, was born in County Mayo. She grew up at the time of the Irish Rebellion and was sick one night as British soldiers looked for a gun smuggler associated with the Irish Republican Army. In the end, they gave up and left her alone.
I shall share that story at another time when I get my facts on this straight.
Anyway, Mom and Dad married in 1956 and were married for 32 wonderful years until Dad died in July of 1988, only 24 hours after I’d been canned from a mailroom messenger job at Putnam Investments. The funeral that would follow later that week would be an epic event, one that I’ll return to later.
My sister Peggy was born on May 16th, 1959 and my brother Coleman was born on the day before New Year’s Eve 1959(December 30th., to be exact). I was born on June 19th., 1961(the day that black slaves in Galveston, Texas learned that they’d been freed by President Lincoln). My sister Patrice followed on the Fourth of July in 1963(several months before President Kennedy was assassinated), and my youngest sister Diane was born on Mom and Dad’s wedding anniversary of June 23rd., 1970.
And were it not for their support, I wouldn’t be the man I am today, let alone writing this autobiography.
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