Jimmy
He is five years old, with an impish grin, a personality far too grand for the olive complected, scrawny yet strong assemblage of arms, legs, and jet black hair. His smile containing his entire young soul, beaming bright enough to erase all doubts of God, in those that were fortunate enough to be baptized in it. Born into strife and poverty, he is blissfully unaware that his very existence is the cause of bitter conflict. Two families torn asunder at his conception, one Italian, one German, during a time in the tenements of Chicago, where the mixing of nationalities was met by the shunning of both.
His father, a handsome German youth of questionable intentions, afflicted by heart disease and alcoholism, was a tenant of his mother’s fiercely proud Italian family. Della was the second youngest daughter in a family of nine, a bit homely and recalcitrant, an easy mark for the suave flirtations of the older German boy living in one of her father’s buildings. The two enjoyed their secret meetings in and out of the shadows of disapproving eyes, until Della’s belly began to swell with the exuberant life of her first born son. Disowned by her family as a whore, disowned by his family in shame, the two struck out to brave the waters of life in their cardboard vessel, certain to sink and perish.
At 6 months, Jimmy’s father was arrested and jailed for a bungled robbery, a get rich quick scheme born of laziness and a lack of ambition, fueled by whiskey courage. He met his father as a cuddly three year old, and was soon to welcome a brother and two sisters each a year apart. Poor, ill, with little success in securing employment, the ill fated family were at the mercy of Jim Sr.’s family, and were just barely able to scrape together the funds necessary to keep a shotgun apartment roof over their heads.
Five year old Jimmy, this effervescent little soul, lies in the parlor that his parents converted to a bedroom with a sheet and clothespins, with his younger siblings. He says his prayer to a deaf saviour, pleading not to wet the bed again tonight. It is a cold winter, all the children shivering in their thin blankets, and the single wood burning stove which provides heat, is at the very back of the apartment, in the rickety little kitchen. Through the parlor, through his parent’s sleeping room, through their closet to the bathroom, and through the bathroom to the kitchen, the staves of wood not enough to keep the frost off the bedclothes in the front rooms, a seemingly endless distance to where Jimmy lies cold and fearful.
He just knew, that tonight would be the night that he wouldn’t have an accident. Tonight he wouldn’t wake up to needling pinpricks of pain, caused by the wetting and freezing of the sheets, to his skinny little legs. He would be warm like his brother and sisters that didn’t wet the bed, and were allowed to cuddle together in the bed across from him. Every night the same dreaded fear, chased away by optimism and prayer enough to allow his little eyes to close in slumber, to awake in pain and suffering. He would lie there, in that damp freezing bed, fearful to wake his mother and father, afraid of the yelling and the blows to his backside that were sure to follow the discovery of soiled sheets.
I cried today hearing this story from the man I love, my Jimmy. He has often said to me during the many cold winters we have shared together, that no matter what struggle life may bring, he will always feel grateful for a warm house. I finally understand why.
His father, a handsome German youth of questionable intentions, afflicted by heart disease and alcoholism, was a tenant of his mother’s fiercely proud Italian family. Della was the second youngest daughter in a family of nine, a bit homely and recalcitrant, an easy mark for the suave flirtations of the older German boy living in one of her father’s buildings. The two enjoyed their secret meetings in and out of the shadows of disapproving eyes, until Della’s belly began to swell with the exuberant life of her first born son. Disowned by her family as a whore, disowned by his family in shame, the two struck out to brave the waters of life in their cardboard vessel, certain to sink and perish.
At 6 months, Jimmy’s father was arrested and jailed for a bungled robbery, a get rich quick scheme born of laziness and a lack of ambition, fueled by whiskey courage. He met his father as a cuddly three year old, and was soon to welcome a brother and two sisters each a year apart. Poor, ill, with little success in securing employment, the ill fated family were at the mercy of Jim Sr.’s family, and were just barely able to scrape together the funds necessary to keep a shotgun apartment roof over their heads.
Five year old Jimmy, this effervescent little soul, lies in the parlor that his parents converted to a bedroom with a sheet and clothespins, with his younger siblings. He says his prayer to a deaf saviour, pleading not to wet the bed again tonight. It is a cold winter, all the children shivering in their thin blankets, and the single wood burning stove which provides heat, is at the very back of the apartment, in the rickety little kitchen. Through the parlor, through his parent’s sleeping room, through their closet to the bathroom, and through the bathroom to the kitchen, the staves of wood not enough to keep the frost off the bedclothes in the front rooms, a seemingly endless distance to where Jimmy lies cold and fearful.
He just knew, that tonight would be the night that he wouldn’t have an accident. Tonight he wouldn’t wake up to needling pinpricks of pain, caused by the wetting and freezing of the sheets, to his skinny little legs. He would be warm like his brother and sisters that didn’t wet the bed, and were allowed to cuddle together in the bed across from him. Every night the same dreaded fear, chased away by optimism and prayer enough to allow his little eyes to close in slumber, to awake in pain and suffering. He would lie there, in that damp freezing bed, fearful to wake his mother and father, afraid of the yelling and the blows to his backside that were sure to follow the discovery of soiled sheets.
I cried today hearing this story from the man I love, my Jimmy. He has often said to me during the many cold winters we have shared together, that no matter what struggle life may bring, he will always feel grateful for a warm house. I finally understand why.
tater
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