Making the Connection

I take phone calls all day…it’s my job.

These calls are seldom pleasant, as no one calls me just to thank us for the great service we provide to our customers; however, they are not all bad either, most are professional, and I do feel a sense of satisfaction if the customers seem happy when I give them a ticket number and hang up the call.

Most calls are pretty routine however, even the nasty ones often turn out to be “more of the same”: complaints about the bill, service interruption issues, etc., but there are some calls that stand out, because I made a connection (however small) with the customer. Sometimes it is when the account holder has died, or the business has failed, and there are times when I talk with someone from a similar background, or we have a place in common…like New Jersey or NYC.

And, I have had a few calls, where the customer was a stutterer, and as anyone with this affliction can tell you, the phone can present a big challenge…in the midst of many that are faced by those who stutter.

I talk all day long, and have done quite a bit of public speaking, but many are surprised to hear that I used to stutter pretty badly.

I am not a stuttering expert, and really don’t know what causes it, but in my case, I really believe that Karma played a role. In first grade, there was a kid named Pepe, who was a lot of fun to have around, because he was often acting-out and would do almost anything we dared him to do. This meant he was often in trouble, and when he was yelled at he got nervous and this brought out his stutter. Being kids, the milk of human kindness was in pretty short supply, and we made fun of Pepe’s stutter, comparing him to Porky Pig and mimic him.

Of course, it did not take long for me to start stuttering myself.

It felt like I was a broken record. The words were there, but I just couldn’t quite come out, no matter how hard I tried! They simply got stuck! Then, the kids started to make fun of me too…which was not as much fun as teasing Pepe.

At least this got me to stop teasing him, as I was not too young or ignorant to miss the irony. I had hoped the problem might pass when I stopped teasing him, but it persisted for years.

Looking back, I think the stutter sounded worse to me than it really was; however, it still made me self-conscious, and added to my growing social awkwardness and anxiety. It also led me to avoid speaking up in class and to be afraid of public speaking.

And the teasing continued as long as the stuttering remained a problem.

One thing that bothered me almost as much as the teasing, was when people would complete my sentences for me. Often, when it was clear that I was stuck on a word, someone would step in to help, assuming they knew what I was going to say. This would usually break the log-jam, but it was annoying that people…and especially because not all of these folks were well-meaning, some were just tired of waiting for me to finish what I was saying.

Even those who did mean well bugged me; however, I was more frustrated with myself for not being able to get my words out!

This went on until the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in High School. We were on vacation with family friends, when my friends’ father took me aside and told me about his own stuttering problem. This surprised me because he was a pastor, a very good preacher and speaker. He told me how he worked hard to overcome the problem, and then gave me a book, called “Stuttering Solved”. He told me that the book helped him to understand his stuttering and find new ways to face the problem, rather than just relying on tricks like avoiding certain words.

I was a bit embarrassed, but I had known this man most of my life, and saw him as a father figure, so I valued his advice, and actually read the book! In it, the author talked about well-known people in history who had a stutter and what they did to live with it. He talked about Winston Churchill and how he would say “ummm” before he began to speak, as a way of resetting himself. The book also talked about the King George VI of England, who worked hard to overcome his stuttering through practicing steps that would alleviate some of his anxiety about public speaking. Then, the author talked about the country singer: Mel Tillis, who stuttered terribly when he was talking, but had a smooth singing voice.

The author said that this intrigued him. He wondered why Mel could sing so well, but have such a hard time speaking, and after some research, consultation with experts and other stutterers, the author concluded that the trick was air-flow! Of course, the flow of air is crucial to speech, but what he figured out was that the way air flows as we are singing is very different from when we are speaking, and that if a stutterer could use the same process to speak as to sing the stutter almost completely went away.

Then, the author wrote, he actually practiced speaking this way, and found that his stutter disappeared.

Usually, these kinds of process-improvement steps don’t work for me, but in this case, it did! I found that by speaking as if I was singing, my voice became smoother and the stutter all but went away! The change was dramatic, and a relief.

It took some practice, but before long this way of speaking became a habit, and to this day, over 40 years later, I still try to speak with a lilt. This is not to say that I never stuttered again, even now, I can still get stuck on a word, especially when tired or stressed, but it is so much better.

My experience with stuttering (and with being bullied in general) has led me to feel more empathy towards others who are being picked on, and who are struggling with things they cannot necessarily control. This has been helpful when working with kids, on various project teams, and also while working in call-centers, where I have to field dozens of calls every day, from a variety of people.

I worked in my first call-center while in college, it was for an airline. I remember one call I took from a person who could hardly get a word out due to stuttering. One of my co-workers was trying to help, but was getting terribly frustrated with the person, which was evident…and made things worse. I overhead this, and as I was off of my call, offered to take over. The caller was struggling and almost in tears, until I explained that I understood, because I also stuttered, and eventually he calmed, slowed down and we were able to get his flight booked.

This and similar experiences with other stutterers, and with people for whom English is a foreign language have helped me both professionally and personally to have more patience and understanding. This empathy has allowed me to be able to listen to the stories of others, and to identify with the struggles they may be facing…which in turn has helped me to offer support these people the support they needed.

Having someone to connect with, someone who understands, makes a big difference and takes away the added stress of the situation.

And I can use this empathy in any case, as we are all facing our own issues, and often when my customers are difficult, it is because they are struggling with something unrelated to our services. While it may not be fair, or right, people who work Customer Service often play a surrogate role, we are people who can’t really fight back, giving some a ‘safe place’ to express their frustration over many things they feel powerless over.

Note, I don’t see this as healthy for anyone, and I think that there are better ways of dealing with the stress of life than venting on a stranger, but it happens all the same. When it does, I can see it as an opportunity to show these people that everything does not need to be a fight, and that there are better ways for us to treat each other.

However, having someone we can connect with, talk to and even vent with, can be very helpful, especially if they understand where we are coming from, because they have taken the same journey.

And this is one of the lessons I learned from stuttering, and from being adopted, and from struggling with Addiction: any challenge is easier to bear, if we do not have to face it alone.

The Biologicals

I have wondered about them my whole life, who they were, what happened, if they were still alive, and if I had any siblings.

As I grew up, I made up some fantastic scenarios, like imagining that they were rich or had become famous, powerful, or even notorious. However, as I got older, I my speculations became more realistic, and figured that they were either young people who got in over their heads, and/or that there was probably some kind of substance abuse involved.

When I was in my late teens, I learned that the latter was closer to the truth when my adoptive parents told me that I had been abused as an infant, which was why I was put up for adoption to begin with.

It turns out that the abuse was so bad that the neighbors called the police, who took me to the Emergency Room at what eventually became The University of Medicine & Dentistry of New Jersey. It was November of 1963, and I was six months old. While there, I was seen by a doctor, a well-known Orthopedic surgeon who knew the signs of abuse and took custody of me and treated my injuries free of charge, just as he had with other abused children…and he also made sure that my biological parents never got me back.

This was quite a feat for the early ‘60s, when people were not as aware of the impact of abuse, making it more difficult to take action.

When I heard this story, I finally began to see how fortunate I was to wind up with a good family, who had to tell me I was adopted, because I never felt like I was, in fact I think that even they forgot about my status.

However, in spite of knowing about the abuse, I still wondered about my birth parents.

Although a naturally curious person, my search for answers never became a burning desire, but I did some research based on what my parents knew about the Biologicals: supposedly one was into the arts, perhaps a graphic designer, they had lived in the Bronx (where I was born) and later moved to Newark NJ, where I was taken away from them. I was also told that the hospital I was born, was in the Tremont section of the Bronx, but it had burned down…and that was about all that I knew.

However, they also told me my original name…as they knew it, information which would turn out to be helpful.

As this was before the internet, my research was restricted to libraries (these were large buildings that were filled with books, magazines and all kinds of records – often municipal, though many were also found at schools). At the college where my dad taught, I searched through birth announcements in the micro-fiche of the New York Times, Daily News and the New York Post, from May of 1963, but found nothing.

The East Orange Public Library was actually less helpful, and a bit creepy, as it was a nice place for the homeless to hang out during the cold days of winter, who were better than the teenagers who went there to cut classes.

Later, when I moved to Staten Island and started working in Manhattan, I spent some time at the New York Public Library, where I looked up birth records, and actually found a listing that could have mine, everything fit, except that the name was wrong!

I later found out that my parents were given the wrong name by the adoption agency, it wasn’t my name, but that of my biological father.

After my trip to the library, my search stalled as life took me on all kinds of new adventures, including working on Wall Street, my own Substance Abuse, marriage, Sobriety and parenthood!

Then, in the late 90’s I read an article about the Kessler Institute, founded by the doctor who saved my life, and I reached out to the hospital telling my story as I knew it…and heard nothing, for a while. Then, one evening, I got a call from Dr. Kessler’s personal assistant, who sounded on the verge of tears as she told me “…you must have been one of the babies that I bought clothes for!”

She went on to explain that most of the babies that he saved from abuse arrived with nothing but a diaper and a blanket, meaning that she often had to go out and buy clothing for the children.

We had a nice conversation, but I did not learn anything new about the Biologicals, as she was retired and did not have access to any records, and even if she did, some of the information was considered private, and it would have been hard to figure out which baby I was. Dr. Kessler had helped many children, not only victims of abuse like myself, but also those with birth defects.

Inspired by this call I began to search the nascent (to me) internet, where I found a message board (this was way before Face Book) where I posted what information I had learned about my past on the site, asking if anyone knew my story. Then I pretty much forgot about it…for two years.

Two very eventful years, during which I lost a family member, my marriage, and discovered the joys of single parenting. Then, out of the blue, I got an email!

The writer introduced himself as ‘Bob’, and said that he thought he might be my biological father. In the email he confirmed some of what I wrote in the posting, and then he provided some information that I hadn’t supplied, but which fit what I already knew!

After a few more emails, we decided to have a phone call. During our phone conversations, Bob filled me in on some family history. He told me neither of them were artists; however, my biological mother had been an aspiring dancer. She was also troubled with mental health issues, and yes…substance abuse. During their marriage she fell deeper into Addiction, got involved with some “strange people” and eventually died from her Addiction before she turned 40 (years after I had been taken away). Of course, Bob made it a point to tell me that he had nothing to do with the abuse.

As Bob told it, he was working long hours in Manhattan while living in Newark, having left The Bronx shortly after I was born (he did not explain why, but my guess is that things were already getting out of hand there and drew the attention of the authorities). He claimed that the abuse happened while he was at work and that he had no idea (I was doubtful, considering the extent of my injuries, and knowing that it is easy to blame someone who is dead). Supposedly, the neighbors heard the noise, the sound of me being abused and screaming, and they finally had enough and called the Police.

I was about six months old when I was taken away from them.

I find it hard to believe that such abuse took place without Bob’s knowledge; however, I did not press the issue when we talked on the phone.

Bob also told me about his second wife, his two sons with her (my half-brothers), and his life since I was taken out of it. He told me about his family, who were all from the Fall River Massachusetts area, how his mother was still alive and in her 90s, etc.

He also mentioned that (as far as he knew) my ancestry was mostly Irish, Eastern European (possibly Ukrainian) and a smidge of French Canadian.

Note that I have yet to take one of those DNA tests to see if he told me the truth.

After talking with Bob on the phone a few times, I was confident enough in his story to agree to meet him. He explained that he would be driving up the Northeast Extension of the Turnpike while returning home to New York State, from a trip to Florida, and we decided it would be a good opportunity to meet.

Before the meeting, I went to see my mother (the one who raised me, put up with me and loved me) and told her about Bob. I remember that she was anxious about the meeting, at the time I wondered if it was because she was feeling jealous, but now I realize that she was afraid about opening old and painful wounds.

In a rare show of common sense, I figured that it would be best if I didn’t meet Bob alone, so I asked one of my best friends to come along with me, this also allowed me to take my daughter along…knowing that there would be safety in numbers.

Of course, I was feeling very anxious about the meeting myself, as I was not sure what to expect, and still had a lot of questions…like whether or not Bob was REALLY my Biological Father.

This, I had to take on faith…for the time being.

That meeting took place in March of 1999, at the restaurant attached to the Best Western in Quakertown, PA.

I do not remember who got there first, our crew or Bob and one of my half-brothers. I do remember that when my friend Al first saw Bob, he picked him out right away, leaning over and whispering to me “He looks just like you!”

The meeting was friendly, we had coffee and my daughter had ice cream, while we talked and I found out some more about my biological mother’s colorful family history!

It turns out that one of my great-uncles had been convicted of murder sometime in the late 20s, and was pulled from the clutches of the electric chair twice, before having his sentence commuted to life. All in all, he wound up spending over 20 years in prison. During this time, he was befriended by Lucky Luciano, after telling him about a plot to jump him in the yard (which made his prison time easier) and he became well-known for his art work, which lead to him having his being released by the Governor of New York, for having rehabilitated himself.

There was even a movie made about him, called Convicts 4, which came out in the early 60’s!

I also learned that my great-grandfather was a bridge-tender, who won a Carnegie Award for jumping into the river in an attempt to save two girls who had fallen in and were drowning…unfortunately, the prize was awarded posthumously, as there were no survivors…but the effort was appreciated.

Although meeting Bob and my half-brother was weird and awkward, it was still an enjoyable evening, and I got a copy of the book written about my great-uncle.

However, I came away from the meeting feeling as if Bob was disappointed that I did not have any money to share with him. Throughout our conversations he continued to tell me about his money woes and how he was waiting for money from a law suit to come through…as far as I know it never did.

Shortly after the meeting, I went to see my mother, and I got down on my knees to thank her for all she and my father had done for me. I could see that I had dodged a bullet when I was taken away from my Biologicals, and adopted by my real family.

A few months after our meeting, Bob’s second wife died suddenly, and I felt it would be nice for me to go to the memorial, and offer some support. It wasn’t a bad visit – considering the reason for it, but it was still awkward, and the last time I saw Bob and my half-brothers.

And it reminded me once again of how very fortunate I was to have been made a part of my family, and I actually felt badly for my half-brothers.

I have only had a few other contacts with Bob, and have not heard from either of my half-brothers since our brief meetings. Not long after his wife passed, Bob sent a series of emails about how he had gotten involved with a Russian woman he met on the internet, and supposedly they married. It seems like she was looking forward to coming to America, but he had other ideas, as he moved to Russia for a while…I assume to escape creditors.

I got one more note from Bob, after many years of silence, when I received Birthday card that was printed in Russian, but had been mailed from North Carolina, it included good wishes, but no news…and that is where the story ends.

Or at least that is what I thought.

I came to the point where I figured that Bob had probably shuffled off this mortal coil; however, I got one of those DNA tests for Christmas, and wasted no time in submitting it. As a result, I reconnected with my half-brothers once again.

I began exchanging emails, and found out that Bob was still with us, and had a birthday coming up, and he wanted me to help celebrate. Therefore, I found myself making plans to travel down to Baltimore in mid-March, to meet up with a family I did not know.

Of course, I had not planned on a pandemic hitting around the same time. I was hesitant about making the trip, but realized that I was not sure where the crisis would leave us…so I went any way. As it turned out, it was the right move, and everything went on lock-down about a week later.

I drove down on a Sunday, and the weather and traffic were in my favor. I got there before my two step brothers, and got a chance to actually sit and talk with Bob. I took advantage of the time to ask questions about what happened to me, about my mother, and what he knew. Of course, he was not very forthcoming with details, and continued to tell me that he had not known the extent of the damage that had been done to me.

He did tell me more that my mother’s problems in life, and how he was not even sure how she died, but that no one really seemed to care about her at the end.

I was also able to offer him forgiveness…if he accepted it or not, I do not know.

What I do know is that before you can accept forgiveness, you must first admit that to what was done. I am not sure he can do that, but I did see the sadness in his eyes, and that was enough for me. Enough for me to think that maybe he understood, even if he did not say anything.

And when it comes right down to it, I have to remember that forgiveness is not about acceptance, just as it is not about saying that what was done is now all right…as if it never happened. Forgiveness is more about letting go of resentment, putting the past to rest.

After this, I also got to spend some time with my half-brothers, and get to know them…a little. We actually got to have a nice lunch together, along with Bob’s current wife, a woman from Russia, and one of their girlfriends, who helped break some of the ice. Sharing a meal is a good way to get to know each other.

I am glad I got the chance to reconnect with these people, this other part of my life, and hope to get to know them better in the future, perhaps once the pandemic is behind us…or has, as least, become manageable.

After taking the first steps in getting to know my biological family, I have come to believe, even more strongly, that any speculation I engaged in about my REAL family, when I was younger, was a waste of time. I knew my real family all along, they were the ones who raised me, were there for me, put up with my Bull Shit and loved me in spite of it all.

These are the people who gave me the best parts of who I am…and for this I will always be grateful.

I hope yo u enjoyed this essay, to read more like it, you can purchase or download the book: Ordinary Adventures from Amazon:

https://www.amazon.com/Ordinary-Adventures-Essays-itself-ordinary/dp/B08BWGWDXW