“The Conversationalist”
What influence we have on our children will only be seen in their lifetime.
Looking back on my past, I see where I started to go wrong. Well, not really myself, but when “things” started to go wrong. You can say that for the first couple of years of my life, things were pretty normal.
I was born Stanley Joel Strumpetta, in December of 72. George and Nancy were very proud of their one and only child.
“Eight pounds, six ounces of pure Strumpetta line backer!” my dad said at my birth.
“We are not pushing him into anything that he does not want to do George. He can choose what he likes, and we will support him in his decisions.”
“My thoughts exactly Nancy! Right after football practice he can do whatever he wants to do.”
I was exactly four minutes in the world, and my life’s plan was already in motion. Little did they know that the entire plan would take a drastic detour in four years.
It’s funny how life works out. One minute you are sitting in your living room, munching on a Turkey Pot Pie while watching Sesame Street, and the next minute your life changes.
On that changing day, Dad came home early from work. Oscar was just recapping the letter of the day, which happened to be Q, when the door came open to our little house.
From what I can remember, and from that day on, dad no longer had to go to work. He was always there.
It use to be, I would wake up in the morning, put my footed pajama feet down onto the cold hardwood floor, and walk to the kitchen, where my mom was waiting for me to wake up. She would greet me with a smile and a hug, bundle me up in an afghan throw, a put me on the couch to watch some Mr. Rogers. Breakfast would be cereal and the best toast that I ever had in the world. The rest of the day would be G.I. Joes and Hot Wheels.
But, after “The Day”, the walk down the hallway to the kitchen would not be the same. Mom and dad would be in there, discussing things loudly, and waving their arms. My blanket was not ready for me, and my bowl of cereal would be empty. The toast came burnt sometimes now, and the television was never turned on. Being four years old, I really didn’t know what to do. I guess my instincts kicked in, and I started taking care of myself.
A world of my own is basically what I lived in. A world of silence in a loud house is the best way to describe it now. Mom and dad continued arguing until the day that dad finally had enough, walked out the door, and never came back. Mom found a job at a local diner as a waitress. It was not far from home so she felt safe leaving me alone. It was a little better though when I started school, then I would only be alone in the afternoon, and part of the evening. I never really had anyone to talk to at home. I watched television that changed channels on its own, so I never really could finish a show. Things just kind of ended, a new story began, and poof, it was gone. (Looking back now, this is where I went wrong.)
I would also try read some of the books that I had, and color some pictures. Looking back at the pictures now, you could tell then that I was different from other children. My pictures would start off as a lovely house, or a really cool racecar. Start off is the key words there. About half way through the drawings, they would slowly start to form something else. My racecar would evolve into a chicken. My lovely house would have a dog’s head for a roof. I couldn’t complete the simplest of drawing. I knew in my mind what I wanted to draw, but something would pull me away. Looking back now, the funniest picture is the self-portrait. It is my head, neck, and part of my torso, but my legs are hot dogs in buns. Guess I was hungry!
Even in first grade I noticed that I was different from the other children. No one really talked to me. Kids have a kind of sixth sense, in that they can pick out the odd ball in the class on the first day. I guess what I did didn’t help either.
The teacher held an impromptu “Show and Tell” with the class for an icebreaker activity. As kids, we always carry around something to connect us with our world outside of school. A couple of the boys brought out the small cars in their pockets, and the girls all had something inside their backpacks to show. I was just like one of the boys, I always carried around this red fire truck in my pocket. It was my special fire truck that I loved. I so wanted to share it with the other students.
“Who would like to share something with the class?” the Mrs. Shotenbock asked.
My hand shot up uncontrollably. Before I knew it, she was pointing in my direction, and asking me to stand at my desk. If I knew then what I knew now, I would of tackled myself to the ground, and smacked some sense into me.
Standing up the words just seemed to flow like a river from my mouth. Holding the fire truck up, like it was the Holy Grail, I started to describe how the fire truck meant the world to me.
“This truck, well fire truck, sings songs like my dog on Sunday. It has mudpies, and a very nice crayon box. My eyes hurt, and my shoes have ants in them.” The words just flowed from my mouth. In my head, I was explaining in detail how I came to have this beautiful red fire truck. As I rambled on and on, the eyes of the students just grew and grew. The snickering started, and the pointing fingers came out. Right in the middle of my talk, Mrs. Shotenbock came over placed a hand on my shoulder and escorted me to the office. That is when it came out in the open.
