Relationships over Rules (eBook)

GOD MUST BE A METS FAN

In November of 1979, my time had come to enter the world. Just as the doctors had warned, after I was born, my mom fell into a brief coma. But after returning to consciousness, she appeared to be fine. With me being perfectly healthy, we were soon released to go home.

Eight months later, in some sort of delayed trauma from the pregnancy and delivery, Mom’s condition accelerated, and she became paralyzed from the waist down. When I was barely two years old, my dad made the horrible decision to leave her and take me with him. His selfish choice triggered a tragic trajectory in my life. Separating any child from a loving and nurturing mother is devastating to both. But that’s exactly what happened to me.

Four to five times a year, not nearly enough, my dad arranged for me to go visit my mom. Our family had lived in Brooklyn, but Mom moved to a small apartment in Staten Island where the cost of living was cheaper. Dad and I lived in Queens. I couldn’t appreciate it at the time, but looking back, Mom had this incredible panoramic view of the Statue of Liberty. Her windows acted as a frame around a beautiful landscape canvas of Lady Liberty. Whether in the daytime against the backdrop of a blue sky or at night with the lights showcasing her in the harbor, the view was stunning. Always present, eternally optimistic, and a beacon of hope—just like my mother.

Because my dad left her with no income, Mom applied for Medicaid and got professional services that came in several times a week. (Years later, Dad would offer me this as his reason for leaving: without his income, Mom could qualify for government assistance to receive the level of care she required.)

Because she could no longer walk, Mom was confined to a wheelchair. But everything else about her was full of life. Her mind was sharp, and her heart was full. Any time I spent with her was amazing and always over far too soon. I never wanted to leave. At least when she was with me, Mom kept the biggest smile on her face. I can’t say it enough—beautiful inside and out.

Every time I would go visit her, I remember thinking, Why am I not here? With her? She clearly loves me. My heart is here with my mom. I was older before I began to have thoughts and questions like, What kind of a man leaves his wife in this condition? If anyone in our family had a right to be bitter, it was my mom, but she never was.

When I was five years old, Dad remarried. After what felt like overnight to me, I had a stepmother. As can happen with children in second marriages, I came to see that this woman wanted a husband but not a stepson. Before I knew it, my life began to change from bad to worse.

Moses versus Mary

My mom was raised Catholic, but because my father was Jewish, she had made the difficult decision to convert to Judaism. Now alone and abandoned, Mom returned to her roots, clinging tightly to her faith in God to help her survive a broken home and a broken heart from the confines of her wheelchair. But now free to express her faith, she had a Bible and small statues of Jesus displayed proudly in her living room.

When I went to go visit Mom, she was always beaming. When I heard her on the phone, she was always laughing as she talked. I made the connection between my mom’s unexplainable joy amid such terrible circumstances to the very little I knew of the Jesus she talked about—who loved others even though he was ultimately betrayed.

Over all those years, I never heard my mom say a bad word about my father. Or about my stepmother. Or about anyone for that matter. As I got older, I began to think, I don’t love the people I live with, and they obviously don’t love me, but if my mom can stay positive on this road she’s been forced to go down, then I can do it too. Mom’s faith was having a very slow and subtle effect on me, like grains of sand sifting one at a time inside an hourglass.

The woman my dad married was Jewish like him. This further reinforced the strictness of how I was raised in their religion. From my earliest memories, their belief system was all Jehovah, no Jesus. No Holy Spirit. And completely unlike the Trinity, no love.

Like any boy born into a devout and dedicated Jewish family, I had to memorize the Torah—the first five books of the Bible. (This discipline at such an early age certainly helps develop a young brain.) Attending my weekly class at the temple, I remember sitting there contemplating, I’m going to be a man. This is a big deal. I accepted this as something I had to do. But I have always been really good at rule following.

I liken my memorization of the Torah to giving me an eighty-thousand-word Russian novel and telling me that, in a year, I had to have it memorized. So I learned the text by rote but had no idea what it was actually talking about and certainly, as a child, no idea how it applied to my life. Because I had no real foundation in faith, the Book to me was just historical literature that I had to be ready to regurgitate. There were no “whys” behind the “whats.” Yet, through constant repetition, I took in the text so I could do well when I was tested. I did whatever my stepmother and father told me to do—literally—to the letter of the law. I always desperately wanted to be obedient, so I adhered to the code even with no context. I didn’t buck the system. Memorized without meaning. Went through the motions with no emotion. That was my life as a kid. That’s how I survived.

As many know, in Judaism you can’t write out the word God. In the Jewish heritage, out of a holy awe or fear, you have to leave out a letter, usually the o. We celebrated Hanukkah in December. Passover in April. No Christmas. When people ask me how I was able to ignore Christmas as a kid when the entire world was celebrating, the best way I can explain the mindset is that it’s like driving down the highway in a lot of traffic. You just focus on what’s in front of you. Where you’re going. You don’t really even notice the other cars passing by. I just didn’t think twice about what Christmas was or why others celebrated the holiday and we didn’t. Believe it or not, I was in my thirties before I even realized the name of Christ is the root word in Christmas.

Starting at around the age of eight, I would fast on Yom Kippur. For twenty-four hours, I had no food and nothing to drink. I wouldn’t even brush my teeth because I avoided water. I’d wake up on that day each year and walk down to the convenience store to get my stepmom and sister their bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwiches. I can distinctly recall being asked one time to also pick up barbecue potato chips and Hershey chocolate bars. I would go pick up their food, deliver it all to the table, and retreat to my room. A vivid memory, like it was yesterday.

Proven by that example, my family’s adherence to being a strict Jewish household was certainly far more by word than deed because I was the only one who held to the traditions on holy days. What I was being taught at the temple, I obeyed. But if I dared ask my stepmom why they didn’t take part, I would be told, “Shut your mouth,” or “Just be happy someone wants you,” or “Be glad you have somewhere to live.”

Like the Christmas question, when asked why I worked so hard to adhere to the traditions when my family didn’t and wouldn’t, my only answer is that I have always had this deep, innate sense of the law, right and wrong, black and white. When I was told that I needed to repent on this one day of the year and “suffer,” I was well aware that I wasn’t perfect like God, so I felt I needed to obey. That compliance was just another step in always working hard for approval through my behavior. I wanted to avoid the commission of the wrong things and the omission of the right things. While my life exemplified no faith, a constant burden of works was growing heavier in my heart.

Over the years growing up in a Jewish community, we attended other families’ bar mitzvahs in our area of New York City. When my own took place, our rabbi tested me. As a kid, and fitting with my personality to this day, I was 100 percent all in. Rules. Standards. A rigid structure. I was good at it. I worked hard to comply. And I passed with flying colors.

If a box was supposed to be checked, I had to check it.

Dehydration, Starvation, and Isolation

But because of how detached my family was from any sort of lifestyle reflecting faith and because my stepmother was fully in control of the family, more and more rules were placed on me until their house became a prison with a sentence of solitary confinement.

In 1987, my dad and stepmom had my half sister. Her nursery was right next to my bedroom. When I was not at school, I had to stay in my room. Going out my door without permission meant severe punishment. As my sister became a toddler, knowing she had a playmate in the bedroom next door, she wanted to crawl over into my room, but she wasn’t allowed. She would come up to the threshold and stop as she was trained to do. Yet somehow, even with the limitations, we managed to forge a strong sibling connection. Probably because of loneliness.

There’s one major problem when you are confined to your bedroom as a child: no water and no food. The only time I could get a drink or eat was if they chose to bring something to me or allowed me out for a few minutes. The times they...