CHILDHOOD MEMORIES
(1942 -1948)

The memories that are from my childhood remain with me in two forms.  The first type of memory that I will eventually share with you are those events of which I have a direct line of communication with my personal consciousness as well as that of my unconscious mind. And secondly I have other equally profound memories that I would more aptly call simply the repeated memory of memories and though I have no way of telling you that these events actually happened in terms of the memory of memories, they have obviously had some effect on the outcome of who I have become. Since I am very and uniquely aware that I have made contact with some of the memories that have had to reside somewhere deep in my genetic memory pool, I am hesitant to make a distinction between these genetic memories and the memory of memories that I might have ounce experienced in this present life as Lamah.

The seemingly oldest memory that I have, occurred just prior to my birth in the old hospital that was located in Sodus, New York.  I actually do not remember where the hospital is actually located or what exactly the name of the town in which it existed as part of this particular memory.  These are facts that I later learned as part of the reported reality of my birth.  What I do remember is being outside the hospital looking down on what I remember being a two-story white building and knowing that this was just prior to my birth.  It was on a trip with my father during one of my summer recesses from high school that we actually visited Sodus, New York, and what I remember is asking my father to drive by the hospital that I was born in.  And sure enough, there was a two-story white building that still existed as late as 1958.  I also understand that this memory could have easily been my first encounter with genetic memory. I have mentioned this memory because once I had realized that this memory could have had another explanation as simple as a dramatic dream of which I will confess that this incident did finally enter my dream world well before my sixth birthday.  Another memory that raises the same questions as to its actual source was that of having a picnic with my parents, who by the way was not truly seen as an integral part of this scenario, but none the less, were definitely there, while my sister who could and even perhaps should have easily been remembered because she was, after all, ten years older.  For whatever reason I have almost no memories that included my sister and I have no idea as to whether she was ever really physically present on any given day of so much of my early childhood.  It is precisely why I have asked my sister to contribute her own thoughts to this biography.

I have, to date, no reasonable explanation as to why these two memories are so ingrained on my own memory banks.  This third memory is sketchy as a memory, but most definitely not a dream as I bore the scar which today has all but faded away.  I was a young child that was already walking and watching my mother perform and number of domestic activities.  I can very distinctly remember that I was walking over to an ironing board that my mother had walked away from momentarily.  I had observed her ironing technique of placing a piece of clothing on the board and then stroking it back and forth with the iron.  Well my friend, I tried the same technique on my left arm even though this ironing board was above my head, but I was able to reach the iron and proceed to iron my arm.  I don't remember this, but I'm sure that I must have screamed out very loudly as my mother came and got me and took me immediately to see a doctor.  The scar from this incident occupied almost half of my tiny left arm on the upper side and as I grew the scar that was equally distant on either side of my elbow remained the same size and because I was so young and small the scar later occupied perhaps only 20% rather than the original 50% of my arm. The scarring was minimal because this German doctor had a special technique that consisted of the peeling off the skin that was above the scar for what must have been several months. I was subsequently told just how painful the visits were to see this particular doctor as vary apparently, I screamed in agony as this doctor repeatedly proceeded to peel off all of the skin above the burnt area of my arm.  My mother would swear that this doctor's technique most definitely saved me from having a very disfigured arm as an adult.

I was about four years old when my mother and father had gotten a divorce. Even though it was never explained to me to what had actually happened in their relationship, I was must have been aware that he created a great deal of stress in the family. At that time my grandparents lived in the same block on the same street that we did and it was a time when I was visiting my grandmother with my father present that I had apparently called my father “a son of a bitch,” probably because or having some connection with the divorce.  I immediately took off running for home knowing that I should have never used those nasty words. My father apparently came running after me and when he finally caught me at home I received a whipping like no other and I could ever remember. This was a first time I was ever aware that my father had a huge temper that was in part, responsible for my mother seeking a divorce. Apparently my mother had tolerated this bad temper for some time and she later confided in me that I was a great blessing in that I gave her a great deal of comfort in my own little way.  She often claimed that I was born; “a little old man.”  And that this “little old man” was born with a comforting wisdom that my mother needed at that time in her life. It wasn't until sometime in my 20s that I realized that I had actually nurtured my mother is quite the reverse role where she should have been nurturing me. It is now apparent that my mother was actually correct in her diagnosis that I was born “a little old man” who actually had a rich genetic memory provide by many of my ancestors that must have had a very rich spiritual existence based on their own life's experiences.  All in all, I am more than grateful for the richness of my genetic heritage and vary pleased that I was able to help my own mother at a time of her greatest needs.

Even though my memories of this next significant event are more from my elementary school years, its medical etiology was most definitely sometime prior to my sixth birthday. It seems that I bled rather noticeably when defecating and when cleaning myself with toilet tissue there was a definite presents of blood that even scared me to look upon. The doctors never did find any reasonable cause, but to be on the safe side I was given penicillin as well as other anti-bacterial shots that must have been every week or so until I was about 11 years old.  I most definitely remember hating to see the doctors because it meant that I was going to get another shot in either the arm or the butt, no matter what my usually loud objection was.  The rectal bleeding apparently was responsible for my being underweight for my age and size and the doctor told my parents to permit me the pleasure of eating absolutely anything that I might desire as I needed to gain weight no matter what the actual source was for my bleeding.  My grandmother joined the team of getting me to put on weight and well again and would frequently make milkshakes for me that were rich and very creamy.  And when she had the time and the necessary supplies she would actually make the ice cream from scratch herself.  It did work and soon I was even a bit overweight which turned out to being a fatty most of my young adulthood until I finally got back to normal in my early forties.

This bleeding continued until sometime during my 11th year when the family, now with my first stepfather, Manuel Alvarez had undertaken a visit to his homeland, Cuba.  While in Havana, Cuba I can vaguely remember seeing a doctor about this problem of bleeding in my stool that had apparently become more serious at that time.  This doctor, whom my parents had a great faith in his abilities had apparently told my parents, that in his good opinion I was beyond any hope of surviving and that I should simply be taken back to the hotel where we were staying, and essentially be giving anything that I might want to eat as my last supper. We apparently returned to the hotel and I had ordered for that last meal a meal consisting of “Cuban” chicken from the room service.  I remember that the Cubans had a great way of roasting chicken that was “out of this world.”  Sometime during that evening my mother left the room and went for a walk and ended up in a Catholic church.  It was in this Catholic Church that my mother recognized one of the saints that had many lit candles in front of her station.  Imitating the behavior of other women in the church, my mother lit a candle and asked St. Theresa to heal her son.  She swears that this statue of St. Theresa had developed tears in her eyes while my mother was praying for my healing and when she saw the tears she had the distinct feeling that I was indeed already healed.  No matter what the actual reality was during that rather miraculous evening, I was in fact healed, returned back to Miami and never had another incident of bleeding.  It is worthy for one to note that this particular doctor did not prescribe any medications that might have accounted for this spontaneous healing.  All that I can add here is the account of, that my mother had previously received an approximately 14 to 16 inch high statuette of this Saint Theresa from a good friend who had visited the saint’s Carmelite home sanctuary in France while on a vacation in Europe.  It was this gift from this friend several years prior that gave my mother the recognition of the Catholic Church’s Statue of this special Carmelite Nun, St. Theresa.  I have this rather vague memory of my mother receiving this statue while we were living in the Pompano house that was almost next door to where my grandmother's home.

It is a bit out of order for this autobiography, but after that healing in Havana, Cuba via this teary-eyed St. Theresa, my mother always had that statue on display in her bedroom where it could be easily seen by her each day.  It was some eight or 10 years later that we were living in one of the family’s apartments located at 613 NW 43^rd Ave in Miami that another healing had apparently taken place.  One of the tenants at these apartments were French Canadians and Catholic that had moved away from their Canadian home because of their son’s suffering from asthma that seems to be aggravated by the much colder weather in Canada.  My mother, who had shared the story of my healing with the mother of Malcolm probably because this lady was Catholic and I my healing had taken place as a result of my mother entering a Catholic Church. Malcolm's mother had approach and asked my mother if she would pray to this Saint Theresa for a healing of her son’s asthma.  My mother, not being a Catholic was a bit hesitant about intervening for some Catholic woman in prayer to her Saint Theresa statue, but, in any case, the strangest thing happened. It was several days later when my mother was dusting her chest-of-drawers where the gifted statue of the Saint was kept.  When she had picked up the statue for dusting, my mother found three rose petals that were beneath the Statue.  Saint Theresa had apparently always enjoyed the roses and it was later said of her, who was always pictured with a large bouquet of roses, that the petals of her roses possessed the power to heal the believer.  My mother had naturally assumed that these three petals were there for the healing of Malcolm and immediately delivered all three petals to Malcolm’s mother.   I don’t know for a fact as to whether this young boy was healed by these rose petals as this French Canadian couple had moved away soon thereafter receiving this miraculous gift of the three rose petals.  It was my understanding that this couple had simply returned to Canada as the colder weather was no longer a problem for their son, Malcolm.  

          While I was living in the home that was located in Pompano, I believe it was in 1948, when one of Florida's historically large hurricanes had hit the coastline.  I was in my bedroom that was on the second floor located on the southeast corner of the home that was on the northwest corner that was just east of my grandmother’s home in the same block. I wasn’t a bit scared of the howling wind coming from the south even though it was blowing the hell out of an eucalyptus tree that was planted on the east side of the corner of my bedroom. The tree was as high as a house with the wind was blowing it completely over to where the top of the tree was hitting the ground. When the storm had finally subsided it had left behind a flood of some 2 to 3 feet deep that surrounded the entire house.  The house was fortunately built elevated above grade for precisely these reasons that it was always possible for a flood to follow a hurricane. I can remember actually fishing off of our front steps to the front door of the house.

          The other memory that I have while living in the Pompano house is one in which there was an attempted sexual molestation against me.  I can remember being in a small apartment that was located just behind the house that was across the street on the eastern side of our own home.  The young gentleman had taken off his clothes and asked me to play with his genitals.  I remember being rather frightened and most definitely uncomfortable by this strange behavior and immediately ran for home. The young gentleman with his pants back on followed me home.  I remember running up the steps and in our front door which had glass panes and quickly shutting the door behind me. The young man did not hesitate at the closed-door and putting his hand and arm through the glass, he had badly cut his arm that required a number of stitches. I don't remember ever having a conversation with my parents as to what had actually happened except that this man that was chasing me had cut his arm coming through our front door. I don't believe that that event had anything to do with my later coming out as a gay man.

          It was when I was four or five years old or even possibly six, and I remember playing with to the Osteen girls, Cecelia and Marie.  They were the daughters to my mother’s beautician, Gertie Osteen.  Even though my mother was teaching Baptist Sunday school at that time, I can remember attending Methodist Church where these two girls went to Sunday school. It wasn't until I was about 12 years old, that my mother had sat me down and had told me that I was not baptized, because she had wanted me to choose my own religion. She later explained that she was given a rather hard time by the Baptist Church for having permitted her child to attend another Sunday school.  It did not occur to me until much later just how empowering that decision and position that my mother had taken, simply because she was determined that I would choose my own religion. I had indeed attended this Methodist Church’s Sunday school that was evidenced by their giving me a Holy Bible for my good attendance record.

          Another memory that I have while living in the Pompano house that was adjacent to my grandmother's home was that my grandmother had taught me how to sew on one of those Singer’s sewing machine that was powered by rocker paddle.  I can remember making a cape I would wear around my neck and running about with it being held out by my two arms spread apart. I cannot remember who I was probably imitating, but I'm sure it was some character that I must have seen in some movie, maybe it was Zorro.

          You may remember that I already told you about my grandmother who taught me how to fish with a cane pole.  I believe that one of the last memories that may have had while living in the Pompano house was the little girl that lived across the street south of the house.  It was her family who had the first television set in our neighborhood that could pick up the broadcast stations of the three major networks that were all only located in Miami at that time. This had to be sometime around 1947 or 48 and I believe that the first show that I can remember ever seeing was the Howdy Doody Show, which was broadcasted in the afternoon after school was let out.  I don't believe that I can remember that we ever got our own television set while living in that home in Pompano.  “The Howdy Doody Show made its debut on television in 1947. When the Howdy Doody Show first aired, there were only some 20,000 American homes with television sets ...”  I was curious as to whether the Howdy Doody Show was actually on the air in 1947 of 48 and the Google search engine gave me the above answer.

          The last memories that I have to date that dealt with the home in Pompano was about a domestic woman of color that lived in a small room off the kitchen. Her name was Cora and I can remember her taking care of me in several specific occasions.  One of the occasions was her bandaging a finger that I cut while playing; I still have the scare on my index finger on my right hand.  She was on occasions my principle caregiver as my mother was beginning to get involved with the Florida legislature, specifically the racing commission that also governed the Jai Alai frontons because of their pari-mutuel betting practices on the players who were initially only Cubans.  She had wanted legally to clear the way for my first stepfather, Manuel Alvarez to be able to play Jai Alai as an American citizen on American soil.