With apologies to Evelyn Waugh, it is now time to speak of Ray. The overarching influence in my life has been my father. He shadows all things. And while it is true that a more psychologically balanced individual could and should have managed such a domineering force in their life, I could not. The result was that I allowed him to mold and shape me through anger, guilt, physical abuse and - with a mind much duller than his - powerful, emotionless logic. He wanted me and my brother to be carbon copies of himself. No charting your own course in the Harding family.
Which was strange considering my grandfather, Mane Harding, was such an open man who really just wanted his son and grandsons to be "satisfied" in all that they did. That was always the word he used. He never asked me if I liked my teachers or a particular job I had, but was I satisfied. I loved him for a lot of reasons but a big one was his use of that word and what it represented. Like me, he approached life as a consumer. I receive a service and should be pleased with it. I have a job and should derive some contentment from what I do all day with my time. It wasn't quite happiness - Hardings, with the exception of me and my mother, never thought of happiness as a goal - but rather being at peace with things; a much greater achievement in fact than happiness. Mane Harding was a hero to me and a very wise man. When I went to prison, and all during my incarceration, I said many times how grateful I was that he was no longer alive to see this. I could not have borne it.
My parents were very much products of their generation. They married in 1956 - my father not even 21 and my mother 19 - and had a child, my brother Robert, 11 months later. They were stone cold broke and going to school. My mother dropped out to support my father and he worked as well as went to college and then law school. My brother stayed with my grandparents who lived in the same building. My parent's long hours of work and school didn't make much time for parenting and my brother would see them mostly on weekends. My brother slept on a cot in the kitchen as that's where there was available bed space. Although never openly acknowledged by him, these and other childhood experiences would deeply effect my brother's psyche for the rest of his life.
Why they had me I'll never know. I suppose my parents did what the times dictated and no one had just one child. Certainly not young, Jewish parents in Washington Heights. So they had a second child child six and a half years after their first.
My father was a stern man in those days. A cross between Raymond Burr (as Perry Mason), Mr. Spock and Jack Webb (as Joe Friday). I feared him and his punishments. The slightest act of what he perceived as disrespect or disobedience would result in a sharp, hard, open handed smack across the back of my head. Often times repeatedly. He had an accompanying name for the punishment which he would say as he performed it. It was done in anger mostly and it hurt. There is no question that the repeated act of doing this would today be considered child abuse. Back then it was discipline. He would do this anywhere and everywhere over the smallest thing and usually when he was in a bad mood. The most memorable incident was at Gov. Hugh Carey's second inauguration. As we were walking out of the Assembly Chamber my father, in a very bad mood for some reason, decided I had given him a dirty look at something he had just said. He whacked the hell out of me right there in the Capitol. Although not present that day, my mother was indifferent to all this, always indifferent, unless it affected her.
Early on she would physically abuse my brother. Nearly every weekend, from the time I first had consciousness to about the age of 7, I would wake in the room my brother and I shared to her screaming and crying. This is a special talent of my mother's. She screams and hysterically cries simultaneously. That was how I remember waking up most weekends in that bedroom. My mother would start her screaming at my brother, throw back the covers, drag him out of bed naked and then begin chasing him with a belt with which she would whip him. I never knew what these episodes were about or what set her off. I don't think my brother really did anything. She was, I believe, just an unhappy person with a totally uncommunicative husband.
It finally stopped when one day my brother, who by this point was nearly as tall as my mother, grabbed the belt and said, "This stops today. One more time and I take this to you." It was a brazen thing to say and he never would have done it but he sounded like he meant it and she was totally taken aback. She resumed her crying and screaming at a decibel level so high you could shatter china. She said to him, "Oh yea? You're gonna hit me? You're a big man? You're gonna hit your mother?" But it worked, she never touched him again and those weekend morning hysterics ceased.
Other than those episodes, and they generally ended by the time I was 8, it was my father we feared. And as far as he was concerned, fear was just about the right emotion sons should have in measure for their father. I don't know where or how he came by his views on parenting, but they were his own and he thought they were 100% on target. In the earlier part of his life, prior to say age 50, he was sure of all things that he had done and how he had conducted himself. He didn't believe in a lot of introspection. Certainly the raising of his children gave him no cause for second thoughts.
From an age too young to remember I began calling my parents by their first names. I don't know why or whose idea it was. I didn't then and still don't think it was a sign of disrespect, as my father never would have permitted that. I guess we're just not a mom and dad kind of family. There was a girl I knew in college and for some years after who, along with her brother, referred to her parents as mommy and daddy. That was never gonna happen in our family. So it was always Liz and Ray.
Ray worked hard in the Liberal Party rising up through the ranks first in the Washington Heights section of Manhattan and then in Bronx County after we moved to Riverdale. A quick history: The Liberal Party was formed as a breakaway from the American Labor Party (ALP). FDR wanted a second line in NY to run on in 1944 and was concerned, as were many, that the ALP had become infiltrated with communists. He turned to Alex Rose, David Dubinsky, other labor leaders, New Deal coalition partners and asked them to form a progressive third party alternative to the ALP. They founded the Liberal Party (LP).
As Ray has told the story on many occasions, he went to a LP meeting in Washington Heights and asked someone who the old man was who never spoke and sat in the back. He learned that it was Alex Rose who also lived in Washington Heights. That's how they met and Ray came to Alex's attention. Ray would become a protege, in the end the protege, of Alex. First becoming Chair of Bronx County and then when Alex and former mayor Wagner were instrumental in the candidacy of Hugh Carey as Governor - first as a very long shot in the primary against Howard Samuels and then in the general election against Gov. Malcolm Wilson - Ray was chosen to be Alex's guy on the Second Floor. That term refers to the area of the Capitol Building occupied by the Governor's Office. Ray was going to be the Liberal Party's man in the Carey Administration. There was a nice side note to the Carey transition in that it took place in the Commodore Hotel where my grandfather had been head waiter in the banquet rooms for many years and had only recently retired. The whole thing had a nice Upstairs/Downstairs quality to it.
What this all meant for me was that my cold, emotionally distant father was now going to be geographically distant as well. He would be spending four days a week living in Albany. I don't think I much cared, it was more of a relief. By this point, in my tenth year, I was already pretty messed up in the head. I was a very nervous kid and had developed irritable bowel syndrome (back then called a Spastic Colon) and had already started bleeding rectally on regular basis. Everything made me nervous and tense. Because of the constant shouting and yelling in our house, I have to this day a terrible aversion to loud and sudden noises. I was not what you would call an easy-going and relaxed kid.
When I was about six years old I developed a bad case of warts on the back of my neck. Liz made an appointment at a doctor who specialized in this. He said he could cure this and his method was to burn them off. With my mother in the office he had me lay down on the exam table and proceeded to employ some device that burned my neck; it was basically a hot poker - this was 1970. I jumped off the table and began screaming and wouldn't stop. The doctor kicked us out of the office. Outside on the street my mother began screaming at me that she was mortified by my behavior; that we had been kicked out; that she had missed a day of work and that she still had to find a doctor. She then turned and slapped me in the face.
Our pediatrician recommended another doctor. We went. When we were in his office my mother explained what had happened with the previous doctor. The doctor asked for the the other doctor's name. Upon hearing it he explained that the other doctor was a well known quack and that his method not only wouldn't have worked it would have scarred me for life. He told me I had done the right thing. My mother was mortified. The doctor said my warts were caused by nerves (I told you I was a very nervous kid) and that there was a simple home remedy that would make them go away (ice and milk applied with a towel on the back of the neck - don't laugh, it worked). Outside his office Liz started crying and begging my forgiveness for how she treated me and for having taken me to that quack doctor. She said she couldn't believe she had done something that would have caused me to have been burned. I said I forgave her, but clearly it left a memorable scar.
As I was a latch key kid, since a very early age, I had developed an irrational fear of being left alone in our apartment at night. It's not an uncommon circumstance. My parents, due to their jobs, LP work (my mother was also very involved then) and social activities, came home late most evenings. In my younger days - ages 4 through 8 - I had nannies or babysitters in the afternoons until my mother came home from work. When I was eight we moved up the block to a new apartment and this stopped. My brother was expected to keep an eye on me if needed. Our age difference was such that we hardly spoke and when we did it was usually to fight. A seven year age difference especially when raised in two different economic environments is very difficult. By the time they had me and I was starting kindergarten we were definitely middle class. Maybe just, but no longer poor.
My brother had real issues with how I was raised versus his upbringing. And those issues would color our relationship and last the rest of our lives. What he never understood was that while it is totally true that our family was poor when he was a kid, there was a much greater sense of family. Look for any pictures of my youth. There are almost none. My brother on the other hand had elaborate birthday parties with many guests, family and thought given to their planning. There are lots of pictures of his early years. My parents did the whole interested dutiful thing for him since he was first-born and they were still interested. When my turn came they had no interest, patience or time. What they had was some more money. So that was the trade off. I know my brother wouldn't have wanted to switch places with me but he's resented me my whole life just the same.
My brother graduated high school early, at 16, in December of his senior year. I was therefore pretty much home alone after I came home from school. From a very early age I had developed an irrational fear of burglars breaking into our apartment. I insisted that my parents keep their bedroom door open at night so they could hear me scream if something happened. I don't know if I ever explicitly told them that 'something happened' meant burglars breaking in and trying to kill me, but that's what it meant. We lived on the top floor of a high rise with easy access to our terrace from the roof of the building. In fact, on a few occasions someone had tried to break into the apartment through the window in my brother's room that looked out onto the terrace. It was gated so they never succeeded. Many a night, alone in the apartment, I would be convinced that someone was breaking in. Either a noise or a feeling would set me off. I would sneak out quietly and go downstairs and sit with the doorman until my parents returned. They were not happy to come home and find me in my robe in the lobby. From about the age of 5 continuing to this day, the only constant/recurring dream I have ever had is of burglars breaking in and trying to kill me. For at least 30 years it was the exact same dream, taking place in our old apartment and ending with the burglar throwing me over the terrace which was at the top of a very steep incline. After that it morphed into whatever apartment I happened to be living in. They continue to this day.
One night, returning late, my mother said, "We feel you're alone too much and we want to do something about it." Thank God, I thought, no more facing the burglars alone. I assumed they were going to tell me that they had decided to cut back on their activities and she would come home earlier. I didn't think he could cut short his 4-day week in Albany this soon after starting. I also wasn't sure I wanted him to. "Your father and I have decided that you should get a dog," she told me. A dog? Now I know some - perhaps most - kids pine their entire childhood for a dog, I get that. However, I hadn't. We were not a pet family and the idea of owning a dog had never been discussed. It just wasn't something that would have been raised for discussion in our family. At least prior to that night apparently.
OK, a dog. My mind started racing. I'm immediately thinking cute puppy - very cute puppy. I knew nothing about dogs and neither did my parents. What kind do you get? I didn't even know the right questions to ask. All I knew was puppy!
"We'll go to the Bid-A-Wee Home and get a rescued dog one day this week," she said. A rescued dog? Do they rescue puppies? So I took the bus downtown after school to meet my mother at her office so we could go to Bid-A-Wee together. We walked around there for about 5 minutes. It was all very sad and depressing. Plus, there were no puppies. Nothing how I was picturing this moment. We hadn't read any books on dogs, dog care, or dog training. We had done absolutely no research for this moment. Nor had we made a single purchase to prepare for his arrival. As a dog owner some years later, I can tell you this is absolutely the wrong way to get a pet and a sure-fire formula for it not working out. I settled on a mixed-breed. I have no idea why I chose him. I think it was because he wasn't barking; barking scared me. They told us he was probably part shepard, labrador and maybe some beagle.
My mother paid them for shots, food, a leash, a collar and made a donation. We took the dog home in a cab. I think it was in the cab I decided to name him Sherlock after Sherlock Holmes. I somehow pictured this dog wearing the famous deerstalker hat that Holmes always wore. I was 10 years old and in the fifth grade. I came home every day at lunch to walk him. My relationship with the dog lasted less than a week. By the time my father came back that weekend from Albany I had decided I didn't want this dog. When I came home at lunch to walk him he would growl and bark at me. He wasn't house trained and would pee in my bed. He cried and whimpered much of the time. No one had prepared me for any of this. I was expecting a puppy who would lick my face.
Liz cried and screamed at me. She had Ray take me to Bid-A-Wee to return the dog. She wouldn't talk to me for two weeks; she called me heartless, wicked and evil. I especially remember evil. In retrospect he was clearly an abused dog. No one had explained that to me or what it meant. I didn't know dogs could be emotionally damaged. I thought they just came cute and lovable fully prepared to love you unconditionally. I interpreted his insecurity as my own. I assumed he didn't like me and therefore I didn't want him around. And if it were possible for a 10 year old to fathom this concept, maybe I also didn't want to assuage their guilt over leaving me alone by keeping the dog. I know that wasn't a conscious thought at the time, but maybe, on some level, I also resented the easy one-stop Bid-A-Wee dog pick-up service. No puppy, no thought given to what dog should go in an apartment, what my schedule after school would be and what dog fit best in the city versus the country. Nothing. But most importantly I had never expressed any desire for a dog.
I know lots of people who have sons and are amazed that these boys, coming from the same parents and the same environment can turn out so differently. My brother and I were alike insofar as Ray was the dominant presence in both our lives. We did share the same sense of humor and liked the same foods but that was pretty much it. He was out-going, sports oriented and level headed. I was dark, moody, and impulsive. We never got along when we were children. In fact not until we were adults and then only for a brief time.
At the reception for his wedding my brother made a comment in response to my toast that he liked or respected what he saw in me the previous summer (we had spent 3 weeks petitioning for Ray and the LP all over upstate NY). I was already in college and I think this was the first time in his life that he liked me. I think that dawned on him during that wedding weekend. He had spent so much of our lives resenting and disliking me that it was noticeable to him that his feelings had changed. I was a younger brother and wanted - I won't say craved - my brothers attention when we were growing up. But the age difference was too much and he wasn't interested. I went to visit him a few times when he was in college. I took a 9-hour train ride to Plattsburgh. It was one of many experiences that later on when Bob had kids would have been totally unthinkable for his children. Bob turned out to be this bizarrely over-protective father. My parents could never figure out where it came from. I had a blast visiting him in college. Bob had a rough start to his college career. He was originally accepted to and attended SUNY Buffalo. Within days, maybe hours of being there he called my father sobbing that he didn't want to stay. The unbelievable irony is that I was the one growing up who had major problems with being away from home. Every year my parents would send me to sleep away camp and every year I would beg to come home. It always got so bad that they had to bring me home early. My brother loved sleep away camp so it had never occurred to Liz and Ray that college would be an issue for him.
Bob always had a very small group of friends growing up. He was a high school football player and didn't partake in the freedoms of his era, the early 70's. SUNY Buffalo then - and even when I was applying to college - had a reputation as a big drug school. Everyone knew that. I supposed Bob didn't give it that much thought or what it meant to be away from home. Well he gets there and everyone is smoking pot. This was deeply upsetting to him. He said he couldn't handle it. I remember the night he first called home and asked to speak to Ray. He sounded really troubled. Ray was working for Gov. Carey at the time and reached out to the Chancellor of SUNY to ask his advice as to where Bob should transfer and could he help. It was the Chancellor who suggested Plattsburgh and smoothed the way. Bob switched but still didn't adjust quickly to college life. Ray would make bi weekly and then monthly trips to meet Bob for dinner at a restaurant half way between Albany and Plattsburgh. I never understood what it was about college that scarred him so much in the beginning. I was thrilled to go to college and get away from home. And yet 4-6 weeks of camp in the summer was unbearable to me. Go figure. Same parents, same environment and we could not have been more different.
Russell Harding
