I never suspected that your father treated you badly. He was charming, and an enthusiastic host to his grandchildren, so I only saw that side of him. He was playful, mischievous, and resourceful. He made his own soap and vinegar, grew vegetables, bought delicious Genoa salami from a shop on Arthur Avenue, which we called “Chee-chee salami”, our nickname for him.
He calculated his portfolio by hand every Sunday afternoon using the prices in the financial pages, verifying that the statements from Merrill Lynch were correct. He made his calculations by hand even after calculators became widely available. He had learned English as a second language - his mother tongue was Italian – but never pronounced a final “s” so our family always says “Cheer” when giving a toast.
Now that I understand some ACA basics and the legacy of emotional abuse, I see more deeply, and am forced to construct a different narrative, one in which you were not supported by either of your parents. I understand now why you adored your grandmother, why you learned to speak Italian so you could speak to her. I wonder how she advised you, whether she dared to contradict her son.
You were angry about how you were treated by the world — I remember you stepping out into West 52nd Street to curse a taxi driver as he pulled away, refusing to pick up a woman with three children — and I agree with your anger. But I cannot agree with the way you weaponized your hurt and turned your fine intellect to manipulation and harm. You made a roost for malice in your mind. Belittling others to inflate yourself became your True North.
I ask myself if you could have made other decisions. I ask myself if abusers are born or made. You passed away six years ago now, and sometimes I light a candle before an ACA meeting to invite ancestors who never had the chance to attend a meeting and want to heal. I do not have any sense of your interest in this, but figured I would try. I will continue to try.
You were a victim, too. But I wish you had made different choices.
Christine O