I’m Not Dead…Yet E-Book

Dr. Joshua Caraballo

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 356

Beschreibung

In "I'm Not Dead...Yet: How I Turned My Misfortunes Into Strengths," Industrial-Organizational Psychologist Dr. Joshua J. Caraballo takes readers on an unforgettable journey through the depths of his personal struggles and triumphant resilience. With poignant honesty and raw vulnerability, Joshua shares his battles with mental health, addiction, self-hate, surviving cancer, and coming to terms with his queer identity.

This memoir is an open invitation into Joshua's life, a connection point for those facing or who have faced similar hardships, and a beacon of hope and empowerment for anyone in need of strength. Through his experiences, Joshua illustrates that despite monumental setbacks, it is possible to emerge stronger and more resilient.

Readers will glean valuable insights into the power of resilience, the lessons inherent in adversity, and the importance of self-acceptance free from judgment. Joshua's narrative offers coping mechanisms for societal taboos, strategies for managing mental and physical health challenges, and a profound message about the significance of self-acceptance.

As a cisgender, gay Puerto Rican survivor, Joshua's perspective is both unique and universal. His memoir speaks to individuals seeking inspiration, understanding of the human condition, and guidance on navigating various challenges, especially those within the LGBTQ+ community.

The writing style is marked by maturity, heartfelt introspection, vivid descriptions, and relatable anecdotes that evoke a spectrum of emotions. Themes of survival, empowerment, overcoming adversity, self-discovery, and the journey toward self-love and acceptance resonate throughout the narrative.

While there are other books covering similar topics, "I'm Not Dead...Yet" distinguishes itself as a deeply personal account that resonates on a profound level. Joshua's memoir is not just a story; it is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the transformative power of embracing one's truth.

For readers seeking solace, inspiration, and the courage to confront their own challenges head-on, "I'm Not Dead...Yet" is a must-read. Joshua's memoir is poised to make a meaningful contribution to the literary landscape, offering hope and healing to all who turn its pages.

Leseprobe

I’m Not Dead… Yet

How I Turned My Misfortunes Into Strengths

Dr. Joshua J. Caraballo

© Copyright 2024 - All rights reserved.

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Please note the information contained within this document is for educational and entertainment purposes only. All effort has been executed to present accurate, up to date, reliable, complete information. No warranties of any kind are declared or implied. Readers acknowledge that the author is not engaged in the rendering of legal, financial, medical or professional advice. The content within this book has been derived from various sources. Please consult a licensed professional before attempting any techniques outlined in this book.

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Table of Contents

Dedication

Introduction

Chapter 1: Entering the World—Naked and Unafraid

A Beautifully Painful Experience on April 30, 1977

The Freedom of Not Choosing Your Family

The Man of House

The Real Man of the House

Sibling Rivalry

The Art of Being Sick

Forging an Identity at Odds

Chapter 2: Growing Pains—One-and-a-Half Dozen

Mama’s Boy

Getting Closer to the Equator

The Storyteller Within

Fitting in With the Worldly People

The Middle Is the Most Awkwardly Troublesome

Suppression Doesn’t Solve Much of Anything

Navigating High School Logistics

One-and-a-Half Dozen and Out

Chapter 3: An Identity for the Masses

Be It, Just Don’t Act on It

The Artist Within

An Actor Prepares

Everything and the Kitchen Sink

When the World Stops

Chapter 4: A Mass Conspiracy

Mass Conspiracy

His Name Was Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, Sent From God

Learning What “Aggressive” Means

Two Years of Torture

Becoming the Victim

Chapter 5: Consciousness Be Damned

Internalizing Stigma and Hate

Self-Medicating

Just a Bit of Juice in College

Just a Bit More in Grad School

Teaching and the Deleterious Cycle

Hitting Rock Bottom

An Incurable, but Manageable, Circumstance

The Ultimatum

Chapter 6: Seventy Men in One Room

Entering Another World Naked

You Don’t Belong Here

Another Chance to Teach

Being the Best at Bad Doesn’t Work

The Challenge

The Solitary Outcome

The Horrors

Chapter 7: Hitting the Reset Button

A Conviction Is Made

A Change Is Determined

A Renegotiation of Relationships

Learning to Love Oneself

The Doctoral Journey

Telling Stories to Help Others

The Future

Chapter 8: I’m Not Dead...Yet

Taking Stock

Being Mindful

Accepting What Is

This Life Is Beautiful

Being Naked and Unafraid

Conclusion

References

Dedication

This book is dedicated to anyone who has ever struggled and felt they don’t belong in this world. Your misfortunes can turn into strengths if you want them to, and we all have the opportunity to stand on the shoulders of giants who have done it before us. Thank you to my parents, my brother, extended family, and my loving partner. You all have shown me what true love looks like, and your support has made me who I am today, and for that I am truly grateful.

Introduction

Much is known of human life. Thanks to the dedicated work of people with many degrees to their name, we understand the behavior of the human body down to the very cells that make up our physical forms. However, for all the knowledge we have of the physical, so much has yet to be discovered of those aspects of human life that are decidedly less tangible. The effects of time on a human life is one such area that warrants further study. The longer we live, the more we know and the richer our wealth of experience to draw from. While our life experience is nothing if not useful, it can be an incredibly heavy weight to carry around with you. The past cannot be undone.

As onerous as the task of carrying around your past may sometimes be, it’s worth considering that each memory that burdens us in this way is, in fact, a piece of the puzzle that fully comprises who we are. When we put them together, the jigsaw of our being is complete, and we can see the truth of who we are. Whether we understand that truth is another matter entirely, one that could be discussed at length by minds much more enlightened and philosophical than my own. Regardless, looking back on our lives is important, however old one may be. It is through this same retrospection that you and I meet each other here today.

The way in which a person looks back will depend on who they are, where they come from, and the person they have grown to be. As I engage in this retrospection, I see a life characterized by several milestone events, many of which followed the progression typical of human life. However, along with these milestones, there were others that were just as crucial to the formation of my personhood, and which I would dare say are not typical of everyone’s lived experience. Over the course of the first few decades of my life, I experienced cancer, addiction, a number of mental health issues, and even spent some time in prison. In this period, there were stretches of time in which I felt disconnected from myself, from my heritage, and from my identity, which itself is so greatly informed by my background. And yet, here I am today, welcoming you to this book, eager to share the story of my life with you. In fact, that is exactly the purpose of this book. I hope that, in taking you through my past and all of its facets, you can unlock the powerful skills of perseverance, change, and self-acceptance that may lie dormant within you. I hope to help you gain these specific skills, as they are the very ones that got me through all the lowest moments of my life, and which ensured that I made it to the present.

This book is a narrative journey through my life, but only in part. In addition to telling this story, my goal is to meditate on the meaning of family, religion, love, and life. Ultimately, what this book hopes to become is a tool that you can use. Everything I have experienced in my life has taught me something. If all goes to plan, you can use the stories of similar experiences as a sort of guide to refer back to, and to steer you away from the same darkness I was in for so long. And while I can’t promise that the story of my life will eradicate all the pain and suffering from yours, you may walk away from this book feeling slightly less alone in your struggles. With any luck, this sense of newfound connection will be accompanied by a shift in perspective.

Rest assured that I’m not trying to convince you of anything, nor attempting to use the pages of this book to convert you into one thing or another. What I am trying to do is to reflect on some of the things I’ve learned in my time on Earth. In the process, it’s my hope that I may gain more insight into the human condition as it exists, develops, and evolves within the microcosm of society. And if all else fails, this book will serve to immortalize one person’s experience and to preserve it for those who will follow. Who knows? Twenty years from now, a young, queer Puerto Rican kid might want some answer to their questions of identity, culture, belonging, and life, and they’ll find this book. With luck, each of those answers will lie within the pages of this book, ready and waiting for their discovery. For those whose identities diverge somewhat from my own, I hope that you will undergo a similar learning process, if only to put the challenges you have faced from your own life into perspective. More importantly, it is my hope that, regardless of your identity, you will find something in my story that will help you take control and write the next chapter of your own story.

Chapter 1: Entering the World—Naked and Unafraid

Decades ago, the calendar page turned, and the year became 1977. James “Jimmy” Carter was sworn in as the 39th president of the United States, the world was introduced to the Force when the first Star Wars film hit theaters, Miami experienced its first—and thus far only—snowstorm, and the country took a few steps in the name of progress, with the people of San Francisco electing openly gay politician Harvey Milk to the office of City Supervisor. And yet, as much as 1977 appears to have been a year of largely positive historical landmarks, things were far from ideal. More specifically, in the 1970s, the further away the color of your skin and the practices of your culture were from White, the worse things were for you. Driving the attitudes of the 20th-century society even further home was the knowledge that things would be even less ideal if you were a person of color who fell under the rainbow umbrella of the LGBTQIA+ community. In fact, just a year after I was born, de Boer (1978) would write that “[h]uman rights, legitimately claimed by everybody, are withheld from homosexuals in our society.” Like so many of the experiences that populate my life, describing queer people in such a clinical manner is very much a product of its time. The same can be said for a much longer list of words that someone from my background will have heard in the latter half of the 20th century.

Staying with the theme of race and ethnicity for a moment, it’s worth mentioning that the experience of the Puerto Rican people, heterosexual or otherwise, wasn’t exactly wonderful. After enduring insurrections in the 1950s and the rapid expansion of industry in the 1960s, many Puerto Ricans began the decade of the ’70s living in slums in the Martín Peña canal, where they had been displaced after experiencing two horrific hurricanes (Kruhly, 2012). Even those who came over to the US in hopes of building a better life were faced with difficulties, this time in the form of racial discrimination, poverty, limited opportunities, and systemic oppression at its most potent. All of this to say that when I, a gay man of Puerto Rican descent, entered the world in 1977, the odds were very much stacked against me.

A Beautifully Painful Experience on April 30, 1977

Childbirth is a strange thing. After nine long months of changes, ups and downs, worries, fears, preparation, and self-assurance, pain starts to kick in and a person changes from an adult to a parent. Stranger still is the perception we hold of the process. For those who aren’t propped up by stirrups, experiencing pain that would put any stubbed toe to shame, childbirth is a time of frustration, fear (again), pain, and exhaustion. For those watching the events unfold from the safety of their position as designated supporter and hand-holder, childbirth is a glorious miracle—albeit one that involves more viscous components than you’d think. And then there’s a third perspective still—one of blissful ignorance taken on by the one who is welcomed into the world, kicking, screaming, naked, and for the time being, unafraid. This three-pronged experience marked the beginning of my life on Saturday, April 30, 1977, at 06:56 p.m. As the world was quickly moving through the latter half of the decade, I drew my very first breath at Saint Vincent’s Medical Center of Richmond in Staten Island, New York. And while some people were awaiting the relief they thought would come in the 1980s, I lay swaddled in my parents’ arms, gleefully oblivious to what was yet to come.

There’s something strange about trying to explain the process of childbirth from a nonclinical point of view. I think this is especially true for those of us who won’t have that experience ourselves but will most likely participate in it from an external perspective. In looking at it in this way, I can’t help but feel that there’s a strange sense of futility to the whole thing. Not to start dipping my toe into nihilism so early on, but what other purpose is handed down to us from the moment we are born, other than to stay alive? And even that comes to an end. I sometimes think of it as a sadistic punchline to the cosmos’ oldest, and worst, joke. We are born to live, and what is life without pain and suffering, without death? Without the latter, how would we even know anything or anyone is alive at all? And yet, through the mists of this doom-oriented thinking, I can still see the appeal in childbirth, and in all that follows. It must be glorious, that moment when you can inhabit the shoes of God (if you are of the religious persuasion), giving birth to a human, becoming a mighty creator yourself. And when the child has arrived, you have borne witness to a miracle, and the next years of your life will be filled with times in which you can give your offspring all the wonderful, happy experiences you have had. Still, my concern about that paradox remains: Some of the most wonderful things in life are achieved through pain. That is, I suppose, the fate of all those who succumb to the human condition. After all, without death, how would we know life? Without suffering, how would we know happiness? And without any pain, how would we grow or become better versions of ourselves?

By all accounts, my arrival in this world was a near-perfect example of this dichotomy of agony and elation. I weighed 7 pounds, 11 ounces, at birth, a size far too large for my mother, who stands at 4'10", if I were to make a generous estimate. In fact, as happy an occasion as this was, that day in 1977 would be the opening salvo of a lifelong struggle with pain and suffering, not only for me but for those around me as well. It should come as no surprise that my mother, waif of a woman that she is, struggled during delivery. Given our comparative sizes, labor was particularly difficult, and she left the delivery room having burst several of the blood vessels in her face due to the strain of the birthing process. Further physical damage came when it transpired that I had grown too large for her womb, causing my lower limbs to contort themselves so that my still-developing fetal body could be accommodated in utero. The pain of this occurrence would later evolve into discomfort, when my legs and feet were encased in plaster casts around my third month. Consequently, physical therapy was administered in the form of specialized shoes connected by a bar and worn at night in an attempt to realign my extremities into their typical form. Over the years, I’ve wondered if this was the first sacrifice my mother made for my sake. I’ve wondered if the bursting of the blood vessels was a means of creating space somewhere in her body, of taking away some of the pressure my exit through the birth canal was causing. I’ve wondered if part of her hoped that she could somehow make herself bigger in that moment, stretch her physical form in some way so that the agony would pass. I doubt it was her agony she was focused on, as pain is what many people accept their fate to be when it comes to childbirth. Perhaps this was the first demonstration of familial loyalty and love: My tiny mother earnestly trying anything she could to ease the pain she felt her newborn experiencing, even if this meant damaging parts of herself in the process.

I believe the moment of my birth to have set the tone for my life. In part, yes, it was the first instance among many of pain and discomfort, but it was also so much more than that. It was a moment in which the entirety of my life could have been defined, for better or worse. Coming out of the womb with my limbs entangled and in need of medical assistance could have meant that my life would be very different from what it became. Part of me still believes that this was some sort of test meant to determine whether I could handle the onus of living. I’m not entirely sure who administered this test, nor who analyzed and interpreted its results, but I believe it, nonetheless. Maybe my continued stubborn maintenance of this notion is a byproduct of my religious upbringing, the last vestiges of the parts of my mind that still engage in some measure of deification. Alternatively, it could simply be my way of conforming to the oldest of aspects of the human condition: I want to feel as though my presence here means something, as though I’ve earned my place in the cosmos. Whatever the true reason for this belief, the story of my birth—and all it entails—makes me feel vindicated in my argument for the concept of the suffering-happiness dichotomy. It’s still early days, and we have much to cover before we reach the end of our journey. With that in mind, I have for you some comedic relief to end this rather heavy introductory section. After birth, the doctor slapped me on the bottom, as gynecological medics in the ’70s were wont to do. In an act of what could be considered rebellion and righteous indignation, I proceeded to drench him in urine. In all likelihood, this expulsion was brought about by the physical stimulation of the slap. Whatever the cause, be it an instinctive reaction or the very first attempt at differentiation, in that moment, I was naked and unafraid.

The Freedom of Not Choosing Your Family

So, by the time April 1977 came to a close, my first breath had been drawn, and I was officially a member of the human population. Naturally, I can’t recall what my thoughts were in the time following my birth, if there were any thoughts present at all. However, I’d like to believe that my mental faculties were put to use to revel in my newfound freedom. I was no longer tethered to my mother’s body, feeding from her, reliant on another person’s maintenance of homeostasis to ensure my survival. More importantly, I was free from the cramped space of the womb, able to stretch and move as much as I’d like—well, as much as the mobility and physicality of a newborn baby allow. And yet, despite my hope that this was the gist of my internal monologue, I’m rather certain that the idea of freedom my little heart held didn’t stretch beyond my imagination into practicality. This type of contradiction, this fundamental disconnect between what I’d like to see in the world (and what I’d like to believe it to be) and the reality of its state would come to be a theme in my life, the first instance of which took place the moment I was born. You see, where I thought I had traded the confines of the womb for the openness and freedom of the world, what had actually transpired was a transfer, as opposed to an exchange. For a moment, the edges of my world seemed infinite, then providence intervened, and walls were built with alarming speed.

Once again, we steer this narrative through the realms of reality and poetic license in equal measure. As an aside, I’d like to think of it as poetic license, but I am neither a poet, nor indeed an authority, in determining where the line between wishful thinking and embellishment lies. So, though everything in this book is patently true, I’d ask that you allow me my indulgence in descriptors, if only for the sake of coloring in what would otherwise be very bland proselytizing.

With that smooth segue locked into place, we move on to the matter of what those walls that were built upon my birth were, and how their existence felt very much like the universe sending me a message. This divine correspondence came in the form of my parents’ religious practice. They were Jehovah’s Witnesses, and because of the way these things tend to work, this meant that I was, too. I won’t go into the details of what this religious practice entails, as this is neither the forum for that, nor are my experiences relevant to this particular part of the story.

In the years since childhood, when I have known periods of great freedom and great limitation, I wonder if some force greater than myself was trying to establish some sort of preventative measure. I wonder if this entity perhaps knew the path I would walk, and thus made an attempt to ensconce me within a community that was possibly as far removed from illicit behaviors as could be. However, how the decision was made to use the encampment of religion, I’ll never understand. I think the aforementioned universal message may have been, “Don’t make bad decisions,” though my vanity wants it to be more profound. Nevertheless, there I was, a Jehovah’s Witness since my first breath, tied to the values and beliefs of the adults around me.

I feel it imperative to mention that I hold very little resentment regarding my religious upbringing. My endless rumination of this part of my life comes from the fact that I can’t seem to let go of my ideas about freedom and how little of it seems to be available to us readily and freely. What is important to note is that the institution of the Jehovah’s Witnesses is found on conservatism. In the US, we tend to conflate conservatism in one aspect of life with conservatism across the entire spectrum of the human experience. As such, I should mention that I am wholly apolitical, as dictated by religious texts studied by zealots. So, while you couldn’t accuse my family of being Republicans, the conservative label certainly applied to morality, sociality, and the way in which the world at large was regarded from within the confines of our little family unit. If you haven’t yet realized why this belief system would prove to be problematic, allow me to remind you that the foundational aspects of my identity form part of what the religion regards as sinful. Not only would the very essence of who I am be deemed as wrong, but my actions would be filed under the category of “serious sins.” Ergo, my sinning was on an entirely different level from those around me. There’s an odd sense of pride I feel when thinking of this, if only to feel some sort of vindication. It’s strange, I’m aware, but I believe in taking your wins where you can find them.

Neither my parents nor I could have known just how at odds my identity would be with the teachings of their scriptures and religious officials. Obviously, I can’t say that, had we been in possession of that knowledge, things would have turned out differently. I didn’t have the freedom to choose, so a choice was made on my behalf. As much as I would love to feel some sort of righteous indignation about this, I can’t help but think of the ways in which my parents were raised and wonder if they had the freedom they imagined they did. Did my grandparents? Did my great-grandparents? It seems to me that freedom exists, and it can be exercised, but only in matters that concern the smaller things in life. In those instances when we make big, life-altering decisions, freedom becomes something else. It’s not entirely an illusion, nor is it as pure or as personal as we’d like to believe. Instead, the freedom we use to make choices is one move influenced by millions made before it. All we do is the result of all that has been done—for better, and perhaps God knows, for worse.

The Man of House

Nearly three decades before my introduction to the human world, my father entered this life in 1940s New York City. The baby born in 1949 would go on to have a life characterized by experiences that, for lack of a better description, made for very compelling stories during my childhood. In his youth, my father was no stranger to difficulty. Before enlisting in the military, he was a member of a New York gang, made use of recreational drugs, and engaged in acts of violence. Though I can’t credibly claim to understand the intricate working of human genetics, there is a strong case to be made for a genetic component of addiction. So, who knows? Maybe my father’s stories should have been a hint (or a warning) for what was to come. To a degree, this would make sense. My father was a staunch traditionalist when it came to masculinity—at least when I was a child. During childhood, both my brother and I were provided with a very specific example of manhood, one that my father inhabited as a means of keeping the wheels of his conventional system turning. The problem is, these wheels may turn, but they are surprisingly ineffectual at generating any sort of movement. At times, something might move one way, but for as long as they remain in the same formation, their direction will always go unchanged.

Later on, my father joined the armed forces, serving as part of the airborne division. During his years as part of the troops, my father saw the light of God when he met with members of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, who introduced him to the core tenets of their religious practice. Throughout his life, little had been consistent, and his conversion was an attempt at finding the thing that had always eluded him, something concrete and lasting. My father found was he was looking for, settling comfortably within the structure of the Jehovah’s Witness religion, and finding the sense of purpose he’d been lacking until then. Finding religion was truly my father’s saving grace, changing him on a fundamental level. His devotion to his newfound faith ran so deep that he would report for his daily military duties, Holy Bible in hand. After an eventful three years full of salvation and reinvention, my father was honorably discharged, and his time in the military came to an end.

Despite all this, the regimentation and rigor of the army stayed with him. So, when the time came to settle down and start a family, the strictness of his experience was naturally transferred into his family life. Once he assumed the role of father, he became the house disciplinarian, and this role meant that he set the tone for the family when it came to acceptable behaviors and beliefs. My father’s faith was an incredibly important component of his life, so naturally, it became a prominent fixture in the rest of our lives, as well. With the benefit of hindsight and maturity, I can more fully understand the thought process behind raising me and my siblings using such a strict, religion-oriented parental style. To my father, Jehovah and his congregants were the greatest source of happiness, security, and salvation. Believing in my father’s god meant that we would be kept safe in the same way he believed himself to be. By being adamant about studying the Christian Bible, my father felt that he was keeping us safe and allowing us access to something beyond ourselves. Knowing how fiercely he clung to his beliefs, and how much they contributed to changing his life, I can see now that he created this specific domestic atmosphere as a means of sharing with us the core part of who he was. Religion permeated everything in our household. Rites of worship and attending Kingdom Hall were regular fixtures of our daily and weekly schedules. Life was lived around the religion and its teachings, and every action was to be carried out in exaltation of God with the utmost reverence for his might.

Our family dynamics were constructed according to the biblical designation of the man as the head of the home. Listening to my father was the recommended course of action—actually, it was more required than recommended. He took his paternal role very seriously and was very particular about what he expected from his wife and children. It will come as no surprise that my father was a traditionalist. In the 1970s and ’80s, for all the progress being made by second-wave feminism, a reliance on gendered domestic roles supposedly made America strong, and would ensure that my father raised good, hardworking, respectful children. It must be said that his having this perspective wasn’t entirely negative, as it meant that he was involved in our lives to a considerable degree. Regrettably, this single sentence is where the silver lining begins and ends. My father’s adherence to conservative traditionalism resulted in the perpetuation of a toxic cycle of masculine ideals, power dynamics, and blind family loyalty. To my father’s mind, his role as head of the household meant that he was to be the breadwinner, the disciplinarian, the protector, and a myriad of other things that meant he could become what he regarded as the truest type of man.

Unfortunately, my father’s methods didn’t involve only his actions or attitudes. In pursuit of becoming a real man, my father ensured that my mother was subservient, that she was humble, and that she understood her role in the household to be inferior to his. As far as he was concerned, she was a supplemental aid to his attempts to maintain control of the family. A memorable instance of his strict adherence to the values of loyalty and respect for pre-established dynamics involves a trip to see my grandfather. Their relationship was far from ideal, with my grandfather having been abusive toward my dad, as a child, on many occasions. One example among many that demonstrate the severity of his actions includes forcing my father to kneel upon a pile of uncooked rice, from which he wasn’t allowed to move until blood had been drawn from his legs. This brutality formed a part of the image I had of my grandfather. The rest of the picture was configured during our visits, which weren’t infrequent. By the time I arrived and was old enough to recall seeing my grandfather, decades of smoking had taken its toll on him, leading to the development of emphysema. My memories of our days with him are largely indiscernible and involve him being confined to a chair largely immobile. He would sit there with an oxygen tank resting next to his chair, a tube leading up from it to a mask strapped to his face. Occasionally, the hiss of his breathing from the tank’s supply would be interrupted when he took the mask off, either saying something in Spanish or otherwise putting his breathing on hold to take a drag from a cigarette.

One day, our visit was cut short when my grandfather took the mask off once more, again to say something in Spanish. This time, it was an expletive—puta—directed at my mother. One of the less elegant Spanish words, puta translates to “whore” in English. Naturally, my mother felt unsettled by this, and our departure came soon after, as she became overwhelmed with emotion. Unfortunately, the day didn’t end there. As we drove home, my father (ever the familial loyalist) informed us all that we would be returning the following week to see our grandfather again. Though I can’t recall the exact expression that passed across my mother’s face, I remember that it was far from pleased. My father caught sight of this and proceeded to remind us that his father was, after all, a member of the family. We were told that family wasn’t discarded, regardless of the nature of their treatment of you. Family, he informed us, were to be the recipients of our unconditional love. No matter what was said or done, this love was to be expressed, and it was never to cease.

At the risk of appearing to make excuses for my father, I feel compelled to mention that I don’t resent him for his chosen style of parenthood, or for his choice of religious practice. The further away I move from my own childhood, the clearer my comprehension of my father as a human being becomes. Like countless others across the globe, he was faced with an ultimatum when he first became a dad: Either he could choose to carve a new road on his journey through parenthood, eschewing his parents’ practices, or he could rely on what he had seen, heard, and experience firsthand. His decision to follow the latter path was, I’m sure, influenced by his adoption of a socially restrictive religion. All he did was the result of all that had been done. All his parents did was the result of all that had been done in their youth, too. The cycle of parental emulation continued with him, and all I did was the result of all that had been done. The wheel spun once more.

The Real Man of the House

For all my father’s machismo and strictness, our household saw the same subtle shift in power that many others experienced across the world in the ’70s and ’80s. Female empowerment was young and still a ways away from functioning as an independent, practicable concept. Despite the fact that it was impossible for my mother to explicitly assume the role of domestic head, everyone in the house held the same sort of subtle understanding regarding the true dispersal of power within our parents’ relationship. On the surface, my father was the highest of authorities, laying down the law, enforcing its recognition, and steering the family away from the perils of the world. However, one needed to look only inches below that same surface to be confronted with the reality—my mother was the real man of the house, in the way that mothers the world over sometimes are; authority started and ended with her. This particular subversion of traditional gender roles could not be overt, as it would stand in direct contradiction with the way in which my father believed men and women should interact, especially within the context of domestic living. And yet, my mother knew how to assert herself in ways that would allow him to retain his sense of control while simultaneously letting the rest of us know how things were truly operating.

One must understand that the power my mother wielded within our household wasn’t easily gained, nor was holding on to it as effortless as it may sometimes have appeared. The older I become, the better I understand just how hard my mother worked at tipping the scales in her favor, and how carefully she had to operate in order to preserve the relative calm that came with my father’s perception of the extent of his power. I’m hesitant to call my mother cunning, as I believe her actions to have been born out of great intelligence rather than malice, though I must concede that there was a measure of slyness to her maintenance of authority. Had we lived in an ideal world, her deft manipulation of interpersonal dynamics could have been a natural talent, one she used for greater things than keeping the inner workings of the family entity as close to homeostatic as possible.

Unfortunately, our world was far from ideal. My mother hails from Puerto Rico, born in 1951 in the city of Humacao, situated on the eastern coast of the island nation. Though her upbringing was typical of what one might expect of the 1950s and ’60s, her family life was somewhat more complicated. Being one of eight siblings, things were already relatively atypical, despite the fact that large families were not so unusual at the time. The number of people in the house wasn’t the only notable factor; rather, it was the fact that she was one of six sisters, with the total number of eight siblings being rounded out by two brothers. Among the children, there were four different fathers, making the branches of the family tree a bit more intertwined than one would expect. And yet, none of this can be designated as the cause of my mother’s quiet fortitude, or indeed her impressive ability to subtly make her presence known.

The way in which my mother was able to consistently assert her power in our home came in part from the fact that she had to fight to be heard from among the noise of her seven siblings. However, even more crucial to the shaping of her personhood was the abuse she endured at the hand of her father. My mother had to fight to make it out, she had to fight to achieve some semblance of being okay, and she had to fight to hold on to the power that her past could so easily have robbed her of. She carried this fighting spirit into her marriage and stoked its flames as she transitioned into motherhood. While I’m certain that my mother loves my father, I’m also certain that she recognized the abuse he suffered from his father and knew the extent of the damage its aftermath could wreak on her own children. She knew that overt resistance would achieve nothing at all—or might risk making things worse. So, she worked in the quieter worlds of subtlety, nuance, and diplomacy, ensuring that the way her children thought of their home was light years removed from her own recollections.

Naturally, I wasn’t aware of the reasons behind my mother’s existence as the highest authority in the home, yet I nevertheless felt compelled to forge a deeper bond with her than with my father. This compulsion, and indeed the depth of my bond with my mother, wasn’t born out of anger, nor out of a desire to reject my father’s love or distance myself from him. Rather, I believe the closeness my mother and I shared came from the intensity of our experiences with pain, both individual and shared. The latter is perhaps the greatest reason of all and comes from the time of my birth, when both my body and hers were stretched, contorted, and handled in ways they were not meant to endure, much less withstand. After the trauma of this experience, my mother became fiercely protective of me, and I of her. I suppose that, on her part, this is typical of motherhood, with the lengths she went to in order to shield me from harm being only slightly more intense than those of other mothers. If this is the case, the intensity can once more be chalked up to the pain of that day in 1977. As for the sense of protection I felt for my mother, I suppose this can be traced to some sort of unconscious awareness of our shared trauma. Perhaps I understood, even in my infancy and childhood, that my arrival in this world had harmed her in some way. Perhaps the creation of our bond was some form of penitence on my part. I could theorize all day, but I fear I won’t ever find an answer that satisfies all possible avenues of origin.

Regardless of the reason for it, my mother and I were close. The responsibility she felt for me was reciprocated, and I believed the onus lay upon me to protect her just as much as she always protected me. I recall one instance in particular when I felt this sense of obligation very strongly. Years ago, my mother got her finger caught in a mouse trap when she reached her hand into a closet. I was standing behind her when this happened and was close enough to feel her scream reverberate through my body. Actually, as I look back on it now, I don’t know that I could in actual fact feel the vibrations of her crying out. It seems to me now that the intensity of my emotional response spilled over into the realm of the physical, perhaps in an attempt by my brain to replicate the distress my mother was experiencing. Physical or not, I remember being shook to my core when I heard her scream, so much so that I immediately began to weep. My tears weren’t shed because of any fear I felt for my mother’s experience of pain, but rather because I stood behind her, unable to do much–if anything–to make things better for her. Years later, this would still be my go-to response. Whenever I feel helpless or out of my depth, I feel myself start to well up. As I got older, this response would change slightly. Though tears were never that far behind when I encountered these situations, my reaction would sometimes veer in another direction, albeit one that was just about the same in terms of intensity. When I didn’t cry in those moments, stubbornness set in, making me adamant that I would find and implement a solution, regardless of what it might take. It’s funny, looking back on one’s life like this, to see what makes the cut for profundity. In this case, no one was severely injured, but the experience still sticks with me all these years later. It just goes to show that the scale of an event does not always equate to the impact it has on a person, and that some of life’s most valuable lessons can be learned in smaller, simpler moments.

Sibling Rivalry

Completing the portrait of the family Caraballo are the stories of the trials and tribulations of the family’s younger generation. As the title of this section suggests, it’s time to take a look at that age-old tradition, one that renders any multi-offspring family incomplete until it has come to pass: the always fun, rarely traumatizing act of sibling rivalry. It’s worth pointing out that my brother did not, in fact, traumatize me, but making dramatic statements like this comes with the territory of being the younger sibling.