Nearly a quarter century has passed since our first meeting, yet I still remember it as if it were yesterday. One look into those hazel eyes electrified me with that same jolt of ecstasy I felt when that first blast of cold sea air had hit my hair so many years before. No one else would ever lift my heart to such heights.

I was born Roger Williams, the first son and second child to a sanitation worker in Queens, New York. My father was a devout Catholic and child abuser. He would beat me before church, sit down for the hour mass and then beat me afterwards. My mother, although physically there, had long been gone. In her mind she had a happy loving family and nothing bad ever happened. While being the first son in many families brings love and admiration, in mine it brought hatred. I was a symbol of opportunity lost. A daily reminder of every dream this bitter man had been too gutless to follow. I was his scapegoat, hence beating me was like beating the world. My childhood was thus a long and miserable one, although it was at this time that I first fell in love with the sea.

With my mother in another world, my only protector was my grandmother. During one of her visits the truth came out, as she watched in shock as my father burst through the door with his belt drawn and started viciously beating my face with the heavy metal belt buckle. His face went from bright red to dark purple, the hate raging in his eyes as he furiously tried to cut my eyes out with his buckle.

"Get off him, you psycho," my grandmother screamed, knocking him off me with her cane. "He's five years old. He didn't do anything. He was just coloring in his book."
"You bitch," he howled, charging at her like a mad bull, only to be knocked to the floor by a well-placed shot to the knees from her cane.
"Mom!" my mother yelled, walking in on the madness. "What did you do?" she shouted as she ran to tend to my attacker. "He was trying to kill Roger," she protested.
"Oh, you're exaggerating," my mother scoffed as she helped him to his chair.
"He's your son, what the hell were you thinking?" my grandmother screamed, adrenaline still rushing through her.
"Don't buy his innocent act. He's no angel," my father bellowed.
"He thinks he's better than me. Anyway, he's my son, I'll beat him whenever I feel like it. That's all he's good for anyway!" he barked.
"There, there," my mother soothingly stated. "Eat your dinner before it gets cold," she chirped, placing a gigantic bowl of spaghetti and meatballs in front of his face. "See, Mom," she countered cheerfully as he immediately began scarfing it down like some crazed animal. "No need to make something out of nothing. Just fill his plate and he'll calm right down."

Horrified, my grandmother was faced with a difficult decision. Either report him, thereby subjecting her daughter to legal ramifications or spend the rest of her life raising a child. She chose the latter. Hence, whenever I didn't have school, I stayed with her. My grandparents had come to this country fleeing poverty and political oppression, just to be greeted with bigotry and hatred. Wisely my grandmother paid little credence to both those bigots who claimed to hate her as well as those who claimed to love her simply because of her roots. My grandfather on the other hand failed to follow her lead. He was determined to prove his naysayers wrong, while rewarding those who supposedly had faith in him. Sadly in his attempt to expose them as frauds, he let them choose his destiny. He spent every waking hour of his life working in his hardware store, not wanting to be viewed as a failure. In order to save the five dollar delivery charge, he would carry sinks and cabinets on his back through the streets to his customers, all by himself. Sadly, treating his body like a mule in order to save that five dollars cost him his life.

One night while carrying an entire living room set on his back, he suffered a massive heart attack and collapsed on the curb. This tragedy brought the bigots together as they literally tore the clothes from his back, robbing him of his last dime and leaving him to die alone like a dog in the night.

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Tags: Relationships

About the Author

Born and raised in New York City, Joseph Foti graduated from Brooklyn Law School in 1998. During this time, he worked in the Sex Crimes and Domestic Violence Bureaus of the King's County District Attorney's Office. He is a published poet whose work has appeared in several anthologies by the National Library of Poetry. These include The Space Between, Best Poems of 1995, Best Poems of 1996, and Best Poems of 1997. "The Carrot And The Mule" is Joseph Foti's First Novel. He has written several short stories. More