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It was a very humble home life in Puerto Rico that I shared with my parents, four older brothers and one younger sister, the princess of my life. After a short time and the addition of a stepfather and a younger brother, my family decided to move to New York City in search of a better life. With enough saved up to move half the family, my stepfather planted my mother, two brothers, and myself in New York ant then returned to Puerto Rico to work, save, and return with the other brothers to stay. But these plans were rudely interrupted by the death of Papi Arturo only two weeks after returning to Puerto Rico to collect the rest of the family. |
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My mother had only a few grades of education and no trade. But with a faith firmly grounded in prayer and much determination, she found a job in a factory and finally saved enough pennies to send for her other sons. It was a happy reunion the day we were back together again, but little did we know that our struggles had just begun. A few short years later, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. Surgery followed and we were told she would live no longer than a year, probably only six months. We all tried to hold up our own post of duty, cooperating only for survival. During these hard days, my father and his wife moved to the New York City area bringing with them a strange new religion. We were neither impressed nor interested; our only interests being food (which was scarce), and the only real family bond – mother’s progress. By now, gambling, racism, gangs, my early curiosity in scientific inventions, girl friends, spiritualism, and personal popularity threatened to tear our family apart and leave us shredded irreparably. |
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