Many parents seem to act out that mean folly of trying to "re—live" their lives through their, children. Naturally, this is done with the most noble of motives, but usually with painful results for both the children and the parent(s). There are times, when these aspirations are tactfully applied, that the results can be quite satisfying for both parents and their children. But there does seem to be an art to getting such lofty aspirations off the ground, without expectations dragging everything crashing back down to earth at the first down-draft.

My own parents had both come from low-income families. Although they always had food to eat because of being raised on farms, they lived in poverty as far as material things were concerned. My father had only completed the 7th grade and my mother had completed the 11th grade. For both of them, education was imperative as far as we kids were concerned. Inadvertently, perhaps because it was so important to our parents, it wasn’t so important to us.

At any rate, my older sister didn’t complete high school, my younger sister completed--I believe--a two year college secretarial college, and I am one course away from a Bachelor's Degree in Specialized Studies entitled Corrective Human Psychology. I should have graduated in 1995, but I haven’t completed the last required subject through a correspondence course. I think I may subconsciously have procrastinated to keep from losing my "undergraduate" status. This is because financial grants are available for undergrad work only; at least so in this prison setting. But all of that is another story.

Back to my beginning. My mother and father met, fell in love, got married, raised three children, and stayed together for 56 years. (My father passed away April 10, 1993.) In the beginning of their marriage, my parents came from nearly opposing religious backgrounds. My mother was Catholic and my father was Methodist. And this was at a time where the two approaches to Christianity were adamantly opposed in doctrine and between both sets of in-laws. There was a big family stir as to how the children would be encouraged to religious beliefs.

In the late 1930’s, there were no ecumenical conferences attempting to bridge sociological and theological differences. An uneasy balance was met when it was decided that the children would not be baptized into either church until they were 21 years old and thereby old enough to decide for themselves. In the meantime, they would not be taken to either of the churches, but rather would receive religious instruction about Jesus (not the churches) by our mother. She would read to us from the Holy Bible in as non-denominational format as she could.

One time, when I was about 5 or 6 years old, I had particularly provoked my mother into a verbal rage and she was screaming and yelling at me. In exasperation, I asked her, "Don’t you Love me?" And she said, "No. No one could love someone like you!" So in my hurt, I cried out, "Jesus loves me!" And mom hit me with a bolt of lightning, saying, "No! Jesus doesn’t love bad little boys like you!" This "Gospel" from my mother showed me that she could even take Jesus away from me. I couldn’t articulate it at that time, but I could feel very alone spiritually; I felt alone without Jesus on my side. But I learned to cope without Jesus.

The next time mom tried to have our little Sunday School and would say that Jesus loved me and everybody else, I couldn’t shake the impact of what I learned to perceive as "hateful truth."

Even as a youngster, I saw that when people were very angry they would speak what was really on their minds more honestly than they would when they were being kindly and in good humor. I remember when Alice, our neighbor lady asked my mom if she thought that she (Alice) was getting fat. Mom was in a good mood and told Alice, "No, not at all; you look just fine." A few days later, when mom and Alice got in an argument, mom told her that she (Alice) was fat; a fat hag, as a matter of fact. Alice was fat as anyone could see, but mom had to be angry and hateful before she could tell her the truth.

There was another facet of truth that I learned at an early age. At about that same age, I remember being downstairs in the basement with my Dad, Uncle Bob, and Walt, our next door neighbor, and I was listening to them talk. They were talking about Ellen, a young lady who lived upstairs in our apartment building. They were saying that she had a great ass; a beautiful ass. I knew what ass meant, because that was what I got beat when I made a grown-up mad.. .they would beat my ass.

I didn’t understand how an ass could be great or beautiful, but these big guys knew lots of stuff that I didn’t, so I paid attention.

A few nights later, when a bunch of us were sitting on the front porch with other neighbors, there was a lull in the conversation and I spoke up and told Ellen in front of everyone that she had a beautiful ass. Everybody on the porch looked at me like I had just shit myself or something, and my mom ran over and jerked me to my feet and drug me into the apartment living room, spanking my little ass as we went. Mom screamed at me, "Where did you learn that? Who did you hear say that?" I broke down quick and told her that I had heard it from Dad, Uncle Bob, and Walt. Mom went out on the porch and called Dad inside and confronted him about what I had told her. Dad came over to me and began whipping my little ass, yelling, "Tell your mother the truth!"