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My Stolen Diaries – Chapter 13: Is My Dad in the Mafia?

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CHAPTER 13

IS MY DAD IN THE MAFIA?

December 1963

Like any kid, I wish I knew more about my father and would like to see him again, but I know it’s not possible, especially now that Mom thinks he’s in the mafia.

Mom refuses to talk about him, so we never do. I can sometimes get Mem to talk about him, but not very often. She mostly tells me, “Go ask your mother.” When I do as Mem says, Mom gets ugly in the face and tells me to “Shut my trap.”

I know I’m French on Mom and Mem’s side, but I don’t know what I am on my father’s side. Before my Catholic baptism, I was Greek Orthodox, so maybe I’m Greek?

But when I ask Mem and Mom if I’m Greek, they both respond with, “Don’t start that up again.”

But I can’t help myself. I try not to start up or cause trouble, but every time I look in the mirror, I’m reminded over and over of all the things I don’t know about myself or my dad.

When Mom gets mad at me, she yells that I’m just like my father. I want to ask her why, but I don’t dare because I’m not an idiot.  And I sure hope I’m not just like my father because everyone in my family hates him.

I tried to ask Adam some more mafia questions, but he must have told Mem I was snooping around because he said he wasn’t allowed to talk about that with me anymore. When I asked him what could be worse than getting killed, he made believe he didn’t hear my question and changed the subject.

That made me angry at Adam, so to get back at him, I said that Steve was buying us a television set for Christmas, which I could see bothered him a lot.

Three days later, Adam had a television set delivered to our apartment, which made Steve furious, but he never said a word about how he felt to Mem. Steve asked me if I had anything to do with Adam buying us a television set, and I lied and said no.

I also lied and told Steve that Adam told me plenty about my dad and asked him what he knew. He said he knew nothing about my dad, but I could tell he was a liar, just like me. Plus, when I asked Steve if he thought I looked like my dad, he said “a little,” so he must know something about him.

Even though I tried, I couldn’t get Steve to say anything more except that kids are better seen than heard and that I should give up getting any family secrets from him.

So, I listened to Steve and gave up until the other night when I caught Mem and Mom whispering together about a newspaper article Mom had in her shaking hand.

They spoke French, but my understanding of the language is getting better by the day.

Whatever they were talking about, as far as I could figure, had something to do with my father running naked out of a swamp with his hands up over his head! His friend Anthony, who It sounded like Mom knew, was shot and killed, but the police couldn’t kill my dad because he wasn’t wearing any clothes and his hands were in the air.

Mom also told Mem that the article said my dad’s problems with the law had something to do with a bunch of arrests against some of the hitmen connected to the Gambino family.

Mem hugged Mom, who kept saying she was afraid someone in the mafia would try to hurt me to get back at my dad.

Why would anyone want to hurt me? And who was the Gambino family?

Then she hid the newspaper article on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet over the sink.

In the middle of the night, while everyone was asleep, I snuck out of bed and tiptoed to the kitchen even though I was scared to death of the cockroaches and rats. But I had to read the newspaper for myself, so I took my chances.

I didn’t turn on the light, so the cockroaches on the wall didn’t move much.

I dragged a kitchen chair to the sink, climbed up to the cabinet, and discovered a pile of newspapers, so I pulled them all down.

The article on the top said: BRIDGEPORT MAN ARRESTED IN SHOOTOUT

And there in the newspaper was my dad’s name and address. It said that investigators from the State Organized Crime Task Force arrested Mick Michaels for assaulting a State Trooper. The guy Anthony, who was with my dad, got shot in the head. The police said Anthony, who had ties to Billy Batts and the Gambino Family, committed suicide. My dad was charged with assault and carrying a dangerous weapon, which I’m sure had to be a gun. They also charged him with violating probation, whatever that is. And he paid $25,000 to stay out of jail until his court date.

My heart was pounding as I read through the newspaper articles and wrote down as many headings as possible so I could read them later.

ORGANIZED CRIME INVESTIGATORS ARREST GAMBLING CLUB OWNER * BRIDGEPORT MAN CHARGED WITH ASSAULT * JAIL TERM GIVEN IN GAMING CASE * U.S. PRISON TERMS GIVEN TO TWO IN AREA * DRIVER IS JAILED IN CAR GUN CASE * COURT CHARGES TWO IN STOLEN GOODS * THREE FROM CITY INDICTED ON FEDERAL CHARGES * JAIL TERM GIVEN TO BRIDGEPORT MAN IN GAMBLING RAID * MAN ARRESTED IN LIQUOR AND MAIL THEFTS * TWO MEN JAILED IN AFTERMATH OF NEWSROOM RAID * TWO NABBED IN GAMING RAID * BRIDGEPORT MAN HELD FOR GUN FOUND IN AUTO * FIVE IN BOOKIE RING GIVEN JAIL * MAN ARRESTED AFTER GANG FIGHT ON BEACH * DIVORCE GRANTED BASED ON INTOLERABLE CRUELTY * 34 ARE CHARGED ON AUTO TAG LIST * RAID ON BRIDGEPORT HOUSE RIPS BIG BET BUSINESS * CLOVER CLUB OWNER CHARGED ON INCOME TAX VIOLATION * LOCAL MAN INDICTED FOR DISTRIBUTING HEROIN AND COCAINE *

I went back to bed but couldn’t sleep. All I could think about was that my dad was a thief, a thug, a criminal, a dangerous man, and probably in the mafia.

The next day I asked Sister Regina Mary if $25,000 was a lot of money, and she told me it was almost one-quarter of a million dollars! I also asked her if she knew anything about the Gambino family, and she said they were mafia murderers.

Now I know that Mom is right, and my dad is in the mafia, but at least he’s not in jail. Not yet, anyway. And I pray he’s not a hitman.

So now, like Mom, I’m worried that the mafia might be coming for me, which makes me really angry at my dad. Doesn’t he know I could get killed or worse? Doesn’t he know I’m already living a scary life?

And since he came up with so much money, my dad must be rich, so why are we so poor?

Click here for Chapter 14: Almost in the Nick of Time

My Stolen Diaries – Chapter 12: JFK’s Assassination

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CHAPTER 12

JFK’S ASSASSINATION

November 29, 1963

Last Friday, November 22, Mother Superior came into our classroom sobbing — and whispered something in Sister Regina Mary’s ear.

When the two of them fell into each other’s arms, bawling their eyes out, I knew something terrible must have happened.

That’s when Mother Superior told us that President Kennedy was “with God,” which everybody knows means dead.

Both Sisters left the class, so we all left, too, although nobody bothered to tell us what to do. As I walked home along Boston Avenue, all the cars were pulled over on both sides of the usually busy two-lane street. People were out of their cars, looking like ghosts, crying out, “Kennedy is dead,” to no one in particular.

Two days later, we were all at church for Sunday services when we got the whispered news that Lee Harvey Oswald, the man who killed Kennedy, was shot in the stomach and killed by some guy on television for everyone to see. We hurried home from church as soon as services were over to listen to the news on the radio.

The next day was Monday, November 25, and President Kennedy’s funeral was on television, except we still didn’t have one, so we walked over to Mom’s friend Edie’s house to watch it with her family.

Our new President, Lyndon Johnson, made it a National Day of Mourning, so the whole country had the day off.

At school on Tuesday, Sister Regina Mary spent most of the class time talking to us about the funeral and Oswald’s murderer. Even the nuns had a television set, which made me want one even more than before. Plus, we were missing out on everything, including the news about Jack Ruby, the man who Sister Regina Mary said killed Oswald.

That night, Mom spoke in French to Mem and Mere Germaine about Jack Ruby. “Il est dans la mafia comme Tony’s père,” which means he’s in the mafia, like Tony’s father, which scared the heck out of me.

The next day I asked Adam about the mafia, and he told me they were a bunch of criminals who kill people — or worse. Then I asked Adam if people in the mafia assassinate people, and he said, “absolutely.”

And if what Adam says about the mafia is true, what could be worse than getting killed?

Could it be possible that my father is in the mafia, or is Mom just saying that because she hates him? Since Uncle Luke was the one with the gun, I think that maybe Mom got it wrong, and he’s the one in the mafia and not my dad.

Everyone I know is horribly upset about Kennedy, and Mem says no one will ever forget his assassination. I’m upset, but not because of Kennedy.

I’m upset because whenever I think about Kennedy, I will never forget that’s when I found out my dad is a criminal who probably assassinates people.

Or worse.

Click here for Chapter 13: Is My Dad in the Mafia?

My Stolen Diaries – Chapter 11: Mem’s Boss at Remington Arms

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CHAPTER 11

MEM’S BOSS AT REMINGTON ARMS

February 1963

Mem has been desperately trying to get off the 3-11 pm shift at Remington Arms. Mem’s boss Adam has been trying to switch her to the 7 am to 3 pm shift for over six months, but so far, he hasn’t been able to pull it off.

Both Mem and Mom are saving every penny they can, working five jobs between them so they can get us a better place to live and move Mere Germaine back in.

Mem says that Adam has been awfully good to her and gives her extra shifts whenever possible. He also taught Mem the value of money and helped her to open her first bank account many years ago.

Adam appreciates how hard Mem works, and according to Mem, he agrees with her that we need to move off White Street because it’s getting more dangerous by the day. Mem says that’s why Adam gives her so many extra shifts.  Mom says it’s because Adam has a crush on Mem.

Last month Adam called Mem and asked her to stop by his office the next day after church. Mom raised an eyebrow at that. Mem was up the whole night, tossing and turning, convinced that Adam was going to fire her. Mom was convinced Adam was going to ask her out on a date because he found out about her butcher boyfriend.

The Sunday after Adam’s call to Mem and after church services, I walked home with Mom and Mere Germaine while Mem hurried over to the factory.

Mem came home crying, which was a big deal because Mem never cries. I was praying she didn’t lose her job. Mem said that when she walked into Adam’s office, he told her he had good news and bad news.

The good news was that Adam pulled some strings and got Mem the 7 am to 3 pm shift, which was the shift she’s been wanting for years, so I wondered why she was crying.

The bad news — the horrible news — was that Adam was leaving Remington Arms. He had bad lungs, he told her – from working with all the gunpowder at the factory, and the doctor told him he didn’t have long to live.

Through her tears, Mem told us that Adam’s parents are both dead, and since he was never married, he’s all alone, and she’s worried about who is going to take care of him when things get bad. Mom told Mem that Adam shouldn’t be her concern, but Mem replied that all of God’s souls should be our concern.

Soon after Mem started working the day shift, Adam left Remington Arms. His house is on Barnum Avenue, right across the street from the factory, so with Mem’s new work schedule, she was stopping by during her lunch break to keep him company and make him something to eat.

He’s been getting weaker by the day, so in addition to going there for lunch, she’s also been going back to Adam’s house after her shift is over at 3 pm to clean his house and make dinner.

Last week, Adam insisted on paying Mem a very generous salary, even though she told him she would be happy to do it for free. Mem told me that she reminded Adam if it wasn’t for him, she would have never gotten the factory job in the first place or the extra shifts.

The salary Adam is giving her is so generous that Mem will be able to quit her waitress job at Woolworths in a few weeks. The only thing I like about Mem working at Woolworths is that she gets a discount and has been buying me the Nancy Drew mysteries — one book a week. I have 1-36, so I hope before Mem quits Woolworths, I get the 37-40 that Carolyn Keene has written so far.

The best part about the books is that I have been reading them to Mere Germaine and Mem. Mere Germaine is a lost cause and barely understands what I’m reading, but I’ve been pointing out the easy words to Mem, and she’s been trying to read them along with me. Since Mem can’t read or write English, the books are helping Mem to learn how to read, although I don’t think Mem will ever be able to write more than her name and address and maybe a few words and phrases.

Until last week, I was still hanging out at Steve’s Market with Rib and Yolanda every day after school, and it was obvious to me that Steve was not happy about Mem working for Adam.

“Adam, Adam, Adam. Your grandmother is always talking about Adam.” I wanted to remind Steve that Adam was half dead, but I decided to keep my mouth shut.

Adam is getting sicker and weaker, so now every day after school, I walk home, pick up Rib, and then walk to Adam’s house, where I meet Mem after her shift is over. Adam helps me with my homework while Mem cooks and cleans, and then helps him with his bath.

Steve is very upset that I’m not coming by his store after school anymore and told Mem the same. Mem got all nerved up by Steve’s stupid behavior, and she warned him not to boss her around — or else.  I feel bad about Steve, but I also like spending time with Adam, so I don’t feel that bad. But Mem telling Steve “or else” makes me nervous because Steve means a lot to me; plus, we’ve never eaten better.

Even though Mem warned Steve, he’s still upset about Mem working for Adam, so yesterday, when Steve surprised Mem with a stereo console radio and record player, she was suspicious. I think Mem loved it, but she warned Steve if his gift had anything to do with Adam, she didn’t want any part of it.

♪ It was an itsy-bitsy teeny weenie yellow polka dot bikini ♪ was blaring on the radio, and Mem kept yelling at Mom to lower the sound. But Mom ignored her and grabbed Mere Germaine and me off the couch to dance with her, so Mem let us have our fun until supper time.

Jack Kennedy is President, and while we were eating, Mem told Steve that Kennedy is a sign from God, “him being an Irish Catholic and all.”  But then Mere Germaine reminded Mem that Pere Germaine’s accident was all because of Kennedy’s bootlegging father. I wanted to ask what a bootleg was and also get the details of my great-grandfather’s accident, but the sadness on Mere’s face kept me quiet.

After supper, Steve showed Mem an ad for a GE Daylight Blue Television set. He was telling Mem how he wanted to buy her one for Christmas. Mem scolded Steve, saying, “You can’t afford no television, so don’t put crazy thoughts in the girls’ heads.”

Plus, Christmas is ten months away, and Mem says that the expensive gift Steve is promising us is because of Adam. Mem doesn’t think Adam will make it to Christmas, and once Adam is dead, she says Steve won’t have to buy us a television because that’s the way men are. Mem sure has a lot of bad things to say about men, but never Adam.

I’m going to pray to God tonight that Adam lasts way past Christmas because I don’t want him to die. I’m also going to pray that Steve isn’t like other men because I really want a television set.

Click here for Chapter 12: JFK’s Assassination

My Stolen Diaries – Chapter 10: Steve the Butcher

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CHAPTER 10

STEVE THE BUTCHER

July 1962

After that day in the Panik, I stayed away from the project, the lot, and my so-called friends, but not Steve’s Market. I’d walk with Rib to see Steve and Yolanda almost every day. Steve would give Rib a treat, grab some candy and sodas, and the four of us would sit out in front of his store.

Steve was from Hungary — and despite what Mem said about men, I trusted him, and so did Yolanda. Steve had some weird numbers on his left arm, and when I asked him about it, he said that the numbers were branded on him by some evil and wicked men. When I asked him if it hurt when he got branded, he said it hurt more mentally than physically.

He told Yolanda and me that he was sent to a camp in Poland with his baby brother. Yolanda asked him if his brother also got branded by the bad guys, but he sadly shook his head no. I could see that all the branding and brother talk was too much for him, so I asked Steve how he got into the meat business, which seemed to perk him up.

Two Saturdays ago, after working at Woolworths, Mem got ready to go to Steve’s Market, and I jumped at the chance to go with her — something that puzzled her since I wasn’t big on grocery shopping. But she welcomed the company, so I tagged along while Steve showed her the specials.

He went into a freezer behind the meat case and brought out a huge steak he wanted to show Mem. She was impressed but told Steve she couldn’t afford no steak and bought her usual chopped meat, liver, and hot dogs.

Steve offered her a free Hurka sausage, but she refused and said her usual about not taking charity. He insisted and said the sausage would have to be thrown out if it wasn’t cooked right away. So, Mem, who never threw food out, agreed to take it off his hands, and we had a feast of sausage and onions that night.

Every week is the same old food — hot dogs with baked beans on Monday and Tuesday and liver and onions on Wednesday and Thursday.  Mem has a rule that whatever she cooks has to last us two nights, which is tricky because there is barely enough food for one night.

On Fridays, we eat fish. No meat is allowed on Friday nights because it’s against our religion. When I asked Mem why she explained that Jesus sacrificed his flesh for us. I don’t know what His flesh has to do with fish, but every Friday night, we walk over to Joseph and Mary’s on Seaview Avenue and pick up fish and chips. And every single Saturday and Sunday night, we eat hamburger casserole, so Steve, the butcher’s sausage, was a delicious change and a special Saturday night treat.

Last Saturday, after working at Woolworths, Mem did her usual shopping at Steve’s, and I was right there beside her. Steve was helping another customer, but I could see that he was excited to see us.

When it was our turn, he asked Mem if everything was okay with the Hurka sausage.  Mem told Steve the sausage was delicious and that she fried it up with some onions. Then Mem turned to me and asked if I thought the sausage was delicious, and I nodded my head yes while wondering where all this sausage talk was going.

“And the hot dogs? How were they?” Steve asked. “Oh, they were good. We had them Monday and Tuesday,” Mem answered.  Steve smiled from ear to ear. “And the liver?” “The liver was good too; I cooked it in bacon grease,” she replied. And then Steve said, “Bacon grease gives the liver a real good flavor.”

I thought their conversation about meat and bacon grease was weird, but who cared? Because Mem was talking to a man! That was a first for me, and anyway, Steve is a good guy and knows his meat. My neck was twisting back and forth between the two of them as they yacked away about hot dogs, liver, and Hurka sausage.

“Maybe I could suggest something for tonight?” Steve asked, and Mem replied, “We always eat hamburger casserole on Saturday night.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Steve said to Mem. “I got no family — I eat alone every night. How ‘bout if I bring you over this steak tonight, and I’ll show you how to cook it?” He presented the slab of beef he pulled out of the meat case like it was gold.

My mouth hung wide open, and I whispered, “Mem, please say yes,” while tugging on her dress. Steve was nice, but that steak was something else.

I couldn’t help but notice Steve rubbing the numbers on his branded arm.  “I hate to waste a good steak on just me, and I hate eating alone.”

Mem stood there for what seemed like forever. I was still tugging on her dress when she finally said, “Well, okay, but it’s not charity, right?  Because Mon Dieu, we won’t take the charity.” Steve assured her that it wasn’t charity, and they made plans for him to come over after he closed up shop.

We hurried home, cleaned up the apartment, sprayed Raid all around the kitchen, baked some potatoes, and steamed the broccoli. Mom was working and always came home late on Saturday nights, so it was just going to be the three of us, which was fine with me because Mom would have made a whole stink about Steve, and I don’t think Mem would have ever had him over if she knew Mom would be home.

Mem didn’t say anything to me, but I could see that she was nervous. I never saw Mem with a man before, so I was happy for her. Mem kept checking herself out in the bedroom mirror and even put on lipstick and rouge! It occurred to me that she probably only had the one boyfriend, who ended up being her jerk of a husband, so I was hoping this would be a good night.

Steve came right on time, and Mem jumped up when he knocked. She straightened her hair, adjusted her false teeth, and smiled the most beautiful smile at me before opening the door.

Without his white butcher jacket with blood stains all over it, Steve fixed up pretty good. And that steak, oh boy!

Mem lit a fire in the broiler at the bottom of the stove, and the two of them talked nonstop about — you guessed it — meat.  I didn’t even know we had a broiler!

By the time we all sat down for dinner, they were like old buddies, laughing and gossiping about the local people. Steve warned us to be careful going out at night because the neighborhood was going bad.

Mem replied that the neighborhood was already bad but that we were getting out soon and that she was saving her money for a decent place with a yard. I didn’t care if we had a yard or not, just no bugs and rodents.

After we ate, Steve helped Mem clean up, and when he asked her if he could come back for supper another time, Mem said she would like that. I was wondering what Mom was going to think about all this Steve stuff.

Then he asked her what we were doing on Friday night, and Mem told him we always order fish and chips from Joseph and Mary’s. He asked if it was okay to join us — but only if he could make his famous fish and chips. He told Mem he doesn’t do anything on Friday nights, and in his humble opinion, his fish and chips are way better than Joseph and Mary’s.

Mem reminded him again that “we don’t take the charity from nobody,” and he assured Mem that she was doing him a favor by getting him out of his house. They shook hands and said goodbye.

After that steak dinner, Steve became a big part of our lives, and our meals of chopped meat, hot dogs, and liver were pretty much over.

And Steve was right when he said he made the best fish and chips, so our Friday night pickup from Mary and Joseph’s was also over.

Now, all we had to do was get rid of the snapping traps and shoeboxes, move Mere Germaine back in, and our lives would be perfect.

Click here for Chapter 11: Mem’s Boss at Remington Arms

My Stolen Diaries – Chapter 9: Father Panik Village

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CHAPTER 9

FATHER PANIK VILLAGE

June 1962

Past the elevated train tracks near White Street is a housing project called Father Panik Village, which makes our tenement look like a palace.

Mem forbids me to cross over to the other side of the tracks. When I ask her why, she explains that “On this side, there’s still hope, but on that side, ils sont finis,” meaning they’re finished.

“Crackers who go to the Panik get shot up with a semi-automatic,” my friends would say, so I never went anywhere near the place.

There was a rumor going around that Father Panik, a Catholic priest, was shot and killed when he got caught up in a gang crossfire there, so they named the project after him. Mem doesn’t believe a word of it, but if a man of the cloth couldn’t survive in there, I certainly couldn’t. When my friends would make bets and offer money for someone to run through the Panik, I always bowed out. It was a great way to make some quick cash, but not for me.

That was until last week when Mom gave me a dollar and told me to go to Steve’s Market for cigarettes and milk. On my way to the store, I saw some friends playing marbles in the old abandoned parking lot in between the train viaduct and Father Panik. The lot is full of wrecked cars, refrigerators, and other junk, so it’s a great place to hang out and hide out.

I stopped to play a quick game of Shooter with them. My friend Trish let me borrow her marbles, and using her prize largest one — the Big Kahuna — I beat them all. When I got to the market, I grabbed the milk, and Steve, the butcher and owner of the place pulled me a pack of cigarettes from behind the counter and rang me up.

I dug into my pocket to pay, and to my horror, the dollar was gone. I told Steve I’d be right back and ran to the lot, my heart pounding out of my chest. We all looked for the money, but nobody found it. Or at least that’s what they all said. I was certain that Mom was going to beat me with her strap, and I started to cry.

“Okay, okay,” said Roland, a chubby kid who lived in my building. “I’ll tell you what — you run through the Panik, and when you get back, we’ll give you enough cash for cigarettes and milk.  I looked in terror at my friends. They all pulled coins out of their pockets and threw them into a pile on the hood of a burned-out Chevy.

“She’s a chicken,” Roland said, waving his hand in my direction. Then he pointed toward the Panik, so I felt like I had no choice. It was Father Panik or the strap. As I reluctantly walked under the stone viaduct, the other kids stayed at the corner watching me.

The girls were yelling for me not to do it, and the boys were making squawking chicken noises.

I stood facing the Panik, watching some black kids standing around a bus stop smoking and laughing. I wasn’t prejudiced — just scared. I wasn’t taught to hate — just not to trust.

Before I could chicken out, I raced full force across the street and into the Panik, whipping past the kids hanging at the bus stop. “You crazy girl?” this one black kid cried out as I sped past him. While running at full speed, I looked back to see if my friends were still at the corner and crashed into a black girl a couple of years older than me. She got into my face and asked, “You lost?” It was just this black girl and me, and I was lost all right.

Then she yelled to someone across the street, and a man yelled back at her. When I turned around, Steve the butcher ran over to where we were standing, put his arm around my shoulder, and led me toward his store.

He turned to the black girl and said, “Thanks, Yolanda. Stop by tomorrow for a soda and chips.” “Arright,” Yolanda answered and gave us a wave. I was too shocked even to respond.

Steve scolded me when we got to the front of his market. “Father Panik is no place for you, young lady. What the heck were you doing in there? I saw you leave my store upset, then watched you run across the street, and I knew no good would come from that. You’re lucky Yolanda was there and not someone else.”

I tearfully told Steve I didn’t want to go home so fast and about the bet and how Mom was going to give me the strap, and I couldn’t stop shaking. “Now, now,” he said.  “Stop that blubbering.”  He took me into his store and bagged up some milk and a pack of Marlboro’s. Then he placed a candy necklace around my neck and gave me a handful of Pixy Stixs and Flying Saucers. “Now go home, and don’t ever try that again. Next time you go in there, you might not be so lucky.”

On my way home, I thought about all the times I had gone into Steve’s Market with Mem and how he would always give Rib treats and offer Mem free samples to try out. She always refused, telling him that she didn’t take handouts.

Every Saturday after working at Woolworths, Mem would go to Steve’s and buy chopped meat, liver, and hot dogs. And he always gave us way more than we paid for. Even Mem agreed with me about that.

I always thought Steve liked Mem, but the one time I brought it up to her, she got all red and told me to hush. “Men can’t be trusted. They always let you down.  And they’re only after one thing. You’ll see when you get older.” I always wondered what the one thing was, but I figured it must have been bad.

Mem had a real problem with men and always had something negative to say about them. When she would tell me stories about my grandfather, she never said anything nice. She would go on and on about how he deserted and humiliated her — and Mom. The only positive thing she ever said about him was he was tall and that I got my height from him.

The next day at the lot, I told my friends how a gang had stopped me and shoved me and how I had punched one girl in the face and how she ran off crying like a baby, and then the rest of the gang ran off too. I put my right fist in Roland’s face and warned him that if he didn’t give me my money, I would do the same thing to him that I did to Tit and the Panik girl. You bet he gave me the money, and I ran right to Steve’s and spent every penny of it. Yolanda was there, and Steve treated us to Twinkies and cream soda.

Yolanda lived with her grandmother, MawMaw, and the more we talked about our lives, the more we realized how similar we were. Well, except she was black and I was white, which made all the difference in the world.

According to Yolanda, Father Stephen Panik, MawMaw’s hero and a priest for the poor, wasn’t murdered at all. After he died in 1954, the 14-year-old “Yellow Mill Village” was renamed in his honor because, without Father Panik, public housing projects in Bridgeport would never have existed.

And now I know that Father Panik Village isn’t so scary, although Yolanda agrees that at the Panik, people can sometimes get shot up with a semi-automatic.

Three things happened after running through the Panik that day. The first thing was that I became the Big Kahuna to my friends, and the second thing was that Steve the butcher became the Big Kahuna to me — even though Mem told me never to trust a man.

But the third thing was the best of all because Yolanda became one of my closest friends.

Click here for Chapter 10: Steve the Butcher

My Stolen Diaries – Chapter 8: What a Difference a Mother’s Day Makes

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CHAPTER 8

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A MOTHER’S DAY MAKES

May 1961

Ever since my birds croaked on the rat poison, Mem and Mom have been worried sick about me. They sat me down a bunch of times to talk about my acting out.

I told them that the lie they forced me tell at St. Ambrose started the whole thing, making it easy to make up stories about my life instead of telling the truth about the sucky one I was living. So now, I pretty much lie about everything. My lying is a big worry for them, but their biggest worry is that I’ve been peeing on the rat poison in the corner of our porch.

I told them there was a double reason for that. First off, I hate the pitch-black hallway where the bathroom is, and second off, I want those stupid rats to drink my pee.

Mem cried out “heavens to Betsy” and then took her rosary beads from her housecoat pocket to pray for me. Mom grabbed my ear and twisted it around while yelling that I sounded like a retard. I gave Mom the rat face, combined with hissing sounds until she threw her hands up and walked away.

Mem and Mom both have it in their heads that I’m a tough nut to crack, but I’m a scaredy-cat. They don’t know it, but I’m afraid of everything. And the scariest of all is coming home to that empty apartment.

With Mem working the 3-11 shift, she’s gone by the time I get home. Every day after school, I force myself to climb the four flights of stairs in the back of our building and then sit at the kitchen table until Mom shows up for supper.

I check the clock in the kitchen and then run as fast as I can from one end of the apartment to the other to press my face against Mem’s bedroom window, hoping to see Mom walking down the street. Then I run even faster back to the kitchen, convinced that the rats are waiting for me in the hallway.

I rock myself on a kitchen chair, willing my bladder to cooperate, so I don’t need to go to the bathroom by way of the dreaded scary hallway. If I can’t hold in my pee, I pee outside in the bowl of rat poison — way better than on the porch floor.

“The poor dear is lonely,” Mem told Mom in French a few days after the ear twisting while I colored at the kitchen table and pretended not to understand. Lonely wasn’t the half of it.

A couple of weeks later, Mom promised to take us all out to an expensive restaurant for a Mother’s Day lunch in New London.

The Lighthouse Inn was surrounded by water and was the fanciest place I had ever been. There was a path leading up to the front door with the most beautiful flowers, and on the front lawn, kids threw coins into a giant stone fountain.

I stuffed my face with eggs benedict and crispy bacon and washed everything down with my Shirley Temple cocktail. After brunch, I convinced Mom to let me throw a penny into the fountain and make a wish. The fountain area was filled with families who all had the same idea, and as we squeezed in and out of the crowds toward the fountain, Mem threw up everywhere.

Well, the crowd emptied out quick enough, and to their horror — and ours, Mem’s top false teeth flew out of her mouth and plopped right into the fountain.

Mere Germaine and Mom looked at Mem in shock as she bent over, fished her teeth out of the water, shook them off, and popped them back into her mouth. Then she turned to us and said, “la nourriture était trop riche,” which means the food was too rich.

Mom said she wanted to get the hell out of there. I was in no rush because I still never got to throw a penny in the fountain. She dragged me to the car, all the while talking under her breath about how embarrassed she was and how she couldn’t take us anywhere without us causing some kind of a ruckus. Mere Germaine was holding onto poor Mem, who was nauseous as all get out.

We got into the rickety old car Mom borrowed from a friend, and it took a few tries before the engine turned over. Mom was super unhappy, and I figured our Mother’s Day fun was over — ruined by Mem’s teeth flying out of her mouth.

We drove for a while and came to a white house with a large red barn. Mem, burping, and gagging, stayed in the car with Mere Germaine. Mom took my hand, and together we walked up to the house, where she rang the doorbell. An old lady answered the door and walked us to the barn.

When she opened the latch to the barn, there was a pile of tiny black puppies! I was happy to be playing with the baby fluffballs but ran back to the car to get Mem and Mere Germaine so they wouldn’t miss out on the fun.

When we got back to the barn, the dog lady handed me what she called the runt of the litter. “He’s a Pomeranian, and he’s got papers,” Mom told me proudly as he licked my face with his teensy red tongue. I was confused as to why I was there and what a puppy would need with papers.

“He’s yours,” Mem said lovingly. “Someone to keep you company,” Mere Germaine added. The old lady pulled out a folded paper from an envelope as I smooshed the little black snowball against my chest.

She proudly presented Mom with some papers and said, “His mother’s name is Lady Marlene, and his name is Marlene’s Onyx Jet.” “His name is Jet,” Mom told me.

Jet? I didn’t like that name. It didn’t fit my puppy at all.

“What’s his father’s name?” I asked. “Who cares about his father?” Mom responded, annoyed. The old lady pointed out a line on the paper and said, “His father’s name is Captain Jean Ribault.”

Mem yelled out “il est français!” Mere Germaine clapped her hands in delight.

“I’m calling him Rib,” I told everyone, even though they thought it was a stupid name. On the way home, all three of them tried to talk me out of calling him Rib, but my mind was made up.

It was a Mother’s Day I will never forget. Poor Mem asked Mom to pull off the side of the road so she could throw up again, and right before we got to White Street, Rib puked all over my new dress. All Mom cared about was that we didn’t get throw up all over her friend’s car.

Now with Rib in the picture, when the school bell rings, I race back to our apartment, fly up the stairs, and burst into the kitchen where my little man is always patiently waiting for me.

The bathroom? The hallway? No problem. Rib leads the way and stands guard at the bathroom door, growling and barking. He’s a tiny thing, but Mom says he thinks he’s a Great Dane, and I guess whatever is in the hallway thinks so, too, because nothing scary ever shows itself when Rib is around.

And best of all, there’s no more peeing on the poison even though the rats deserve it, and not too much lying, except for making sure I don’t forget to tell everyone at school that my Mem is my mom and my Mom is my sister.

Now instead of sitting in the kitchen, willing myself not to pee, I can dress Rib up in his pink tutu and whip him around the kitchen with his tiny front legs. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt him, because he likes it.

The two of us swirl and spin in circles until I fall, and he jumps all over me. I laugh, and he barks, and then we both try to walk our dizzy selves straight.

Hooray for Mother’s Day because now it’s Rib and me — my best friend, my guardian angel, my hallway guard, and the one and only man in my life.

Click here for Chapter 9: Father Panik Village

My Stolen Diaries – Chapter 7: A New School with a Side of Baptism

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CHAPTER 7

A NEW SCHOOL WITH A SIDE OF BAPTISM

January 1961

Mem, Mom, and Mere Germaine huddled around the kitchen table, whispering to each other. I was supposed to be asleep, but I snuck out of bed to try to hear what they were saying. Mom was doing all the talking, and it was mainly in French. I tried my best to figure out what was going on, but I was confused.

Mom was telling Mem and Mere that for me to go to St. Ambrose Elementary School after Easter break, I needed to get baptized.

Wait. Was I going to a new school? Nobody told me that. And I had no idea what a baptized was.

Mom went on to tell Mem that she would have to pretend to be my mother because the Catholic school wouldn’t accept anyone from an excommunicated family. Mere said that she didn’t want Mem to lie, but she had to agree with Mom that the only way I would get into St. Ambrose was if they pretended that I was Mem’s daughter and Mom was my sister!

Then Mem piped in that it was about time they baptized me Catholic anyway and that there was no reason I should be Greek Orthodox and risk going to Limbo. She blamed my dad for that.

Wherever Limbo was, it didn’t sound like a place I wanted to go. And no way did I want to go there with my father.

Then Mom said that if anyone at St. Ambrose asked, she would tell them that she was married to an oil rig worker stationed out of state and that Mem and Mere were widows. Mem and Mere bobbed their heads up and down like Mom was the boss of both of them.

They had always taught me that lying was a sin, so why was it okay for them?

The next day Mom sat me down and told me that because of Barbara Titone, I was going to a new school.

I was thinking about all the ways I could punch Tit out for causing me so much trouble. Mom scolded me for not paying attention.

Then Mom said that I had to tell everyone at St. Ambrose that I was Mem’s daughter. When I reminded Mom that lying was a sin, she told me to “shut it.”

It was Mem who told me that right before Easter, I was getting baptized. I wasn’t crazy about getting a pile of water dumped on my head, but what could I do? Mem promised me that she would take me to Howard Johnson’s for a banana split afterward, so I was excited.

Every time I saw Tit at school, I gave her the rat face, so she stayed far away from me, but so did everyone else because they thought I wasn’t right in my head.

While I waited to get baptized, I focused my attention on the top outside corner of our back porch, where two small birds were busily making a nest using dried leaves and twigs.

Soon, the birds had a baby! Mem called them Oiseaux, which means birds in French. The mommy bird peeked her head out of the nest while the daddy bird watched their wobbly baby hop around on our rotting rail. I knew which one was the mom because she was smaller than the dad. I asked Mem if she thought their tummies growled like mine when they were hungry. She said she didn’t know. My belly was always growling from hunger, and I was afraid that they were hungry too.

But mostly, I was afraid the hungry rats would eat my new friends. I asked Mem if rats ate birds, but she didn’t know that either.

There was a window in our kitchen, close enough to the nest for me to watch them. I put a small pot of water on the rail and laughed with delight when the birds took turns dunking their tiny heads in it. But Mem took the water away, explaining that it would bring other things, and I knew exactly what she meant by that. Every time I pressed my face against the windowpane, I prayed to God to make sure the rats didn’t eat my birds.

On the day of my baptism, Mem dressed me in all white. Mom couldn’t come because she had to work, so she sent one of her friends who came as my godparent, and Mere was a witness. Mem lied to the priest and told him she was my mother. Mere kept quiet and didn’t say one word. The priest was rough, and the water he poured all over my head and face was ice cold. Some of the water went up through my nose, and I started to choke. The priest forced me to keep my head back even though I was having trouble breathing. He told me to be strong for Jesus and that the Holy water would save me.

On the bus to Howard Johnson’s, Mem told me that Catholics were against divorced people. She explained that both she and Mom were divorced because they both married bad men. She made me promise not to tell anyone about their divorces, or I would have to go back to school with Barbara Titone. I told Mem I never wanted to see Tit again, but I also didn’t want to lie. She responded that I shouldn’t give her any trouble and just do what I was told.

On the first day of school at St. Ambrose, the kids were friendly, but the nuns were strict and grumpy. I made it my business to lie, lie, lie, and told everyone I met that my dad was a famous oil rig worker who worked far away and that I lived with my mom and older sister, even though nobody asked.

When I got home that day, daddy bird was lying limp on the porch. I poked him, but he didn’t move. Then I noticed the empty bowl of rat poison in the corner. I dragged a kitchen chair outside and climbed up to the nest, where I found the baby and mommy dead.

I took them out and laid them next to the dad. Then I poured water on their heads to baptize and save them, but it didn’t work. I gently placed my bird family into the bowl of poison, hid them underneath the bottom level of the porch, and prayed to God for Him to make the rats eat them and croak.

Click here for Chapter 8: What a Difference a Mother’s Day Makes

A Novel on a Blog

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I had all but given up on my unfinished novel titled My Stolen Diaries, which I began writing in 1992.

In early 2015, my book had 168 pages and 117,653 words, and I wasn’t even close to finishing it, so I decided to put my novel on hold and instead concentrated on creating a blog.

In March 2015, I launched my blog, The Teri Tome.

In April 2015, I only had 328 visits to the blog, but by March of 2019, The Teri Tome had over 27,000 monthly visits.

With that kind of monthly traffic, it seemed like a no-brainer to revisit My Stolen Diaries and analyze whether or not it made sense to add chapters from my book onto my blog.

In July 2019, I wrote an article about the pros and cons, and shockingly, the post has to date been viewed over 10,000 times. [You can read To Blog or Not to Blog My Novel here.]

Writing the blog post was incredibly useful in that it helped me figure out a format for excerpting from my decades-old unfinished book. And the many thousands of page views I received from my post solidified my decision to add chapters of my novel to my blog.

After much thought, I decided my novel-on-a-blog should be called a Novelog. In January 2020, I posted a Disclaimer and the first six chapters of my novel.

I was reasonably sure the chapters would bomb, so the thousands of hits the posts garnered made my heart happy.

My blog traffic immediately increased by almost 50%, primarily due to the My Stolen Diaries chapters.

Of my 32 total posts in 2020, seven of them were chapters pulled from the novel.

And shocking to me was that when I calculated the traffic numbers for my top five blog posts in 2020, four of them were from my ancient rough draft novel!

It turned out my most popular blog posts were less of a post-mortem on what Teri was writing in 2020 and more about what Teri was writing in the 90s.

The Teri Tome generated over 300,000 page views in 2020, a whopping 47% increase from 2019, primarily due to the page views for my novel My Stolen Diaries.

The thousands of people who have been reading chapter after chapter has given me new resolve to pull out my book and take a fresh look at it.

Maybe, just maybe, my languishing novel has legs.

And 2021 might even be the year I finish it. In the meantime, keep a lookout for more chapters coming to The Teri Tome soon!

The Teri Tome–My 2020 Hits and Misses

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I can’t believe my blog, The Teri Tome, is five years old already. Wow, those years flew by way too fast.

Sitting here writing this blog post, I’m trying to remember back to 2015, and sadly, nothing earth-shattering is coming to mind.

Maybe it’s because my memory is shot, or maybe it’s because, in 2020, life interrupted my recollection of anything pre-covid.

And okay, maybe I sound like Trump when I say: Covid, covid, covid. Covid, covid, covid.

Stick me in the arm with the vaccine already!

I’m sure you would all agree that 2020 was a lot to deal with. Okay, it was a dystopic sh**storm. And I’m happy to say buh-bye to all 366 days of it. (2020 was a leap year, remember?)

But, to be fair, it hasn’t been all bad. Forty-three long weeks in quarantine has taught me a lot about myself and my definition of essential.

In the early months of 2020, I considered it my lost year.

Until I realized that 2020 was the year I found myself. I’m a changed and hopefully better person than when I naively rang in 2020.

I’ve questioned the fundamentals of “normal,” and going back to my pre-covid life as my pre-covid self isn’t an option.

Just to be clear, I haven’t locked myself down for the past ten months because I’m afraid covid’s gonna get me.

My reason for living like a hermit all these months is simple. Without my family and close friends, I have no reason to venture out.

Let me break down my pre-covid routine for you:

My standing nail salon appointment: I’ve perfected my mani-pedi skills, and my nails have never been healthier.

My monthly haircut and color: I’ve become adept at trimming my hair, and I’m okay with going grey.

Grocery shopping: I always despised shopping for groceries, so having them delivered works for me.

Clothes and shoe shopping: 2020 was the year I wore schlumpf clothes 24/7. Schlumpf is a thing. Look it up in the Urban Dictionary.

Going out to restaurants: Sitting outside in the brutal heat or the freezing cold is not my idea of fine dining. If I can’t go to Peter Lugar’s in style, I’ll wait until I can.

The last time I filled my car with gas was early February 2020, and March 7 was the last time I left my house. (Except for my flu shot and three doctor visits.)

March quickly morphed into July, then September, followed by non-Thanksgiving, non-Chanukah, non-Christmas, and non-New Year’s Eve.

And please don’t judge me, but during my endless months in quarantine, I found solace in all things 1:12 scale. Okay, I’m more like obsessed.

There were too many 2020 days when I wanted to miniature myself small enough to move into my newly renovated dollhouse.

When my head wasn’t stuck in a dollhouse, I baked some killer bread, grew potted veggies and herbs on my patio, spic-and-spanned my house, socially distanced in my frosty garage, and created some awesomely impressive meals.

And my fingers to elbows have never been cleaner! I’ve been singing the ABCs and Happy Birthday in my inside voice at least fifty times per day.

In 2020 I binged on mindless reality shows I would never have otherwise wasted my time on. Awful shows like 90-Day Fiancé (so creepy) and Married at First Sight (so desperate).

2020 was also the year I could barely string together a sentence because I developed a severe case of writer’s block!

And whenever I wrote, it was forced and mostly dark, which is why I’m only going to bore you with my Top Five blog posts instead of my Top Ten.

And okay, I’ll throw in the worst blog post of 2020 as well as the best of all time (2015-2020).

I do owe you full disclosure: Of my 32 total posts in 2020, I wrote seven of them eons ago—pulled from a novel titled My Stolen Diaries that I’ve been writing since 1992.

And shocking to me was that when I calculated the traffic numbers for my 2020 Top Five blog posts, four of them were from that ancient rough draft novel.

It turned out my most popular blog posts were less of a post-mortem on what Teri was writing in 2020 and more about what Teri was writing in the 90s.

The Teri Tome generated over 300,000 page views in 2020, a whopping 47% increase from 2019, primarily due to my novelog My Stolen Diaries, so I’m pleased.

I’ll start with the worst blog post of 2020:

#1 WORST IN 2020 

I Tried to Save a Cat’s Life Yesterday: I was sorry to see that this blog post was a loser. I still haven’t gotten over that poor pregnant cat. And I’m not sure that anything can be done about it, but we have way too many feral cats in my North Woodmere, New York neighborhood.      

And now for my Top Five 2020 posts:

#1 HIT IN 2020

My Stolen Diaries – Chapter Two: To Know Yourself Is to Know Your Family : I was dumbfounded to see that a chapter from my rough draft novel was numero uno. It took me a while to figure out a format for excerpting from my decades-old unfinished book. When I finally settled on calling it a Novelog (novel-in-a-blog), I put up a Disclaimer and six chapters. I was reasonably sure they would all bomb. The thousands of hits that this 28-year-old Chapter Two garnered made my heart happy.

#2 HIT IN 2020

My Stolen Diaries – Chapter Four: The Yellow Kitchen Table: Wow, so this was also a thrill for me! Another chapter of my dusty old novel? To be honest,  I almost didn’t post this chapter for reasons I won’t disclose. But I have no regrets.

#3 HIT IN 2020

2020 Cedarhurst Sidewalk Sale: I Was Fired for Seeking the Truth: Getting fired from my job as Executive Director of the Cedarhurst Business Improvement District for refusing to put people’s lives at risk during a pandemic was devastating. But I’m glad my post reached thousands of visitors, and I hope it continues to attract tons of traffic. I miss my job, but I don’t miss the Village of Cedarhurst’s political posturing, the lies, the misinformation, or the bullying. And I’m still weighing whether or not to sue the Deputy Mayor of Cedarhurst for defamation.

#4 HIT IN 2020

My Stolen Diaries – Chapter Five: My First Diary: The first thing I thought when I added up the numbers and saw that the #4 spot was yet another chapter of my book—was that maybe, just maybe, my languishing novel has legs!

#5 HIT IN 2020

My Stolen Diaries – Chapter Six: Tit: Another chapter of my book! And BTW, Tit is the nickname for a bully character in my novel. And the thousands of people this chapter reached gave me new resolve to pull out that book and take a fresh look at it.

#1 HIT OF ALL TERI TOME TIME (2015-2020)

Bullies Are Cowards and Why I Refuse To Turn the Other Cheek: I have a lot to say about this one. Year after year, this post, written in 2015, continues to outperform all the others, and to date, has garnered almost 550,000 page views. And year after year, I’m thankful for the blog traffic, but the fact that “bullies” is my number one keyword says volumes about our world’s character. And as history has shown us, there are way too many psychopathic bullies out there. And from my personal experience, someone with a psychopathic personality disorder will almost always display some sort of mental illness and or narcissistic derangement. As far as I’m concerned, all three conditions are little more than a convenient label for crackpots and social deviants who over-estimate and exaggerate their abilities, status, intelligence, and looks.

In reviewing my 2020 hits and misses, as well as my top post of all Teri Tome time, I’m excited about highlighting more chapters of my novel on my blog.

And 2021 might even be the year I finish it!

I want to wish my loyal readers a Happy New Year. I hope that 2021 brings you wellness and equality, plus all the hopes and dreams you thought would happen in 2020.

And I can’t wait to see what 2021 holds for the new and improved Teri.

Stay tuned!

My Stolen Diaries – Chapter 6: Tit

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CHAPTER 6

TIT

August 1960

It was in the middle of August, and I was getting ready for first grade.

I was excited but also nervous. Mem was even more nervous than me because I was going to be walking to school by myself. The walk wasn’t a long one, but I still had to do it alone.

Mom worked from 7 am-3 pm, and Mem worked a factory 3-11 pm shift and was a seamstress during the day. Because we didn’t have a car, they both had to either walk or take buses everywhere, which took a lot of time. Mere Germaine was living too far away to help out, so I was pretty much on my own day and night.

Mom said that moving Mere Germaine back in with us so she could help out was yet another reason why we had to get out of our White Street apartment.

After church, for three Sundays straight, Mem walked with me to the school, warning me about cars, strangers, and stray dogs.

The walk was pretty straightforward. From White Street, we made a right at the corner, then walked up a long hill, and then made another right, and then down a steep hill, where the school was at the bottom, and across the street on the left.

On day one, Mem packed me a paper bag with a jelly sandwich, and a chocolate doughnut from the batch she had made fresh the day before.  She wrote “RR” for right, right, on my right hand in pen so I wouldn’t get lost.

My walk was uneventful until I started down the second hill. There was a group of girls slightly ahead of me. The biggest one turned around and yelled: “Whatchu lookin at?”

I looked behind me to see who she was speaking to, but there wasn’t anyone else there but me. When I turned back around, she was in my face. “I aksed chu a question.”

I looked down at my lunch bag, too afraid to answer. “Watchu got in the bag?” She grabbed my lunch and ran off to catch up with her friends.

Later that day in the playground, I was hungry and didn’t feel much like playing. Plus, every time I looked over at the mean girl, she gave me the finger. When I asked some of the other kids who she was, one girl told me that her name was Tit.

“Who would name a kid, Tit?” I asked, and the girl told me that her real name was Barbara Titone, and she was a bully to everyone, even her friends.

Oh, she was a bully, all right. And husky. And since she was in the third grade, she towered over scrawny me.

After school, I ran all the way home, terrified that Tit was going to come after me.  And those hills were a killer.

When I got to the apartment, it was empty. Mem left for her shift way before I got home, and Mom’s shift was over at 3 pm, but after work, she had a second job as a dance instructor for a local Arthur Murray Dance Studio, so it was me myself and I, until at least 6 or 7 pm.

Between being afraid of the refrigerator, the scary hallway, the shoebox cabinet, and the rodents, I sat at the table in the kitchen until Mom got home, even though I had to pee.

Since the only way to get to the bathroom was through the hallway, there was no chance I was doing that, so the only choice I had was to hold it in or pee on the back porch.

I didn’t mention anything to Mem about Tit, but the next morning I told her I had a stomach ache and didn’t want to go to school. Mem told me she wasn’t having any of my nonsense and to pack up.

For the next few months, Tit made my life miserable. Back then, I didn’t know what a butch was, but if ever there was a butch, Tit was it.

And her name might make you laugh, but there was nothing funny about being taunted day in and day out.

In the morning, she would torture me and take my lunch, and in the afternoon, she would just torture me.

One day on my way to school, Tit was particularly aggressive and shoved me so hard that when I fell, I hit my head on the pavement and wet myself.

As I sat in a puddle of urine, Tit laughed with her friends, singing ♪ Tony needs a diaper, Tony needs a diaper ♪.

I didn’t want to say anything to my teacher about what happened, so I had to stay wet until my clothes air-dried. Tit told everyone at school I pissed myself, and I was humiliated. Plus, my clothes dried all smelly and crusty, and the back of my head was throbbing. That’s when I started to fantasize about how I was going to get back at Tit.

Even though I knew it was hopeless, I needed to take some kind of action because running away from Tit every day was both mentally and physically killing me.

The next day, on what I knew was going to be yet another torturous walk to school, I was feeling brave.

That was until I caught sight of Tit. And like a coward, and before Tit could even grab it, I handed her my lunch. So much for bravery.

But when Tit turned her back to me and began singing, ♪ Tony needs a diaper; Tony needs a diaper ♪, an uncontrollable storm of fury invaded my body.

I let out a roar, and in a fit of rage, I pounced on Tit from behind.  Tit fell on her knees, and when she rolled over, writhing in pain, I jumped on her stomach and straddled her. Then I punched Tit hard in the face, once with my right fist and then with my left. Tit was holding her hands up to her face and crying. I yanked her hands away and slapped her in the face a couple of times while repeatedly calling her shitty titty.

Then I grabbed my lunch bag, winked at Tit, gave her friends an evil grin, and asked if anybody else wanted what Tit got. While they all looked down at the sidewalk, I roughly elbowed my way through the girls and strutted the rest of the way to school.

We both got called into the principal’s office, and when nobody but Tit was looking, I imitated one of those nasty rats from our shoebox, and put my two hands up like claws, and gave her a creepy bucktooth face. And from what I could tell, Tit was scared titless.

When Mem came to get me at school, she wanted an explanation for why I beat up “Barbara.” I told her all about the Tit taunts, and how I was going to shove her tits down her titty mouth. My dirty words mortified Mem, so we stopped at the church on the way home, where she ordered me to recite the Lord’s Prayer five times. I knew Mem was more worried than mad, though, because she didn’t threaten to wash my mouth out with soap.

That night Mem and Mom spoke together in French to figure out what the hell they were going to do. I knew they used the swear word because Mem said in French, “enfer.”

Mem told Mom she was horrified at my violent actions and words. And Mom told Mem she was worried I was going to take after my father’s side of the family, and that was yet another reason why we had to get Mere Germaine back.

That night, as I laid in Mem’s bed, I wasn’t obsessing about the rats, the mice, the poison, or the cockroaches. I was happily and busily conjuring up all sorts of ideas for how I was going to torture Tit.

Click here for Chapter 7: A New School With a Side of Baptism