A word about the NYC neighborhood in the 1950's culture is needed as a base to follow my lifestyle through this period. The "neighborhood" was like being in a different country. The "block" was even more isolated. Everyone on the block knew each other and all the kids played together. There were few examples of people who "escaped" the neighborhood. By that I mean that life basically began and ended in the neighborhood--people married within the neighborhood, set up home within the neighborhood and perpetuated the neighborhood mentality by having children that attended the same schools I attended--it was truly a vicious cycle, one I wanted no part of. My favorite TV show was "Father Knows Best" because it depicted a utopian family scene--no arguing--no abuse--a house and garage--family meals--family activities--no street gangs. In my world, we fended for ourselves, grew up too soon and some of us were trapped, or they thought so. Yes, I know this sounds like ghetto mentality--maybe we were a ghetto. Within a 4-block radius, there was at least one bar ("gin mill") on one of the four corners of a block. In my father's case, he had two favorites of the five he frequented. Unfortunately for him, he had to rotate his haunts on a six-month cycle because he was banned frequently by one or the other "favorites". After a 5-bar cycle, he was usually allowed access to one of his "home away from home" establishments. I was never taken to a ball game, circus or zoo as a child. My father's idea of an outing was Saturday night at the bar, starting when my sister was about 4. I had some fun at the shuffle-board table and reached a level where I could hang the puck right at the edge of the board. I became like the bar mascot, got a few sips of beer and lots of slaps on the back. The odor at the bar was unbearable, a combination of cigarette smoke and spilled beer. Of course the Saturday outing usually ended with my father staggering out, returning home, verbally abusing my mom and ending with a punch or two. I didn't like my mom drinking because only then did she have the courage to say "#$%& You"--on one hand, it was music to my ears; on the other hand, it was the impetus for my father to beat my mom. And there I was again, helpless to protect her--my rage and guilt grew greater each day--my sister began to cower in a fetal position next to my bed, quietly crying throughout the incident.