The Life of an Uncle

I am not a father. I am, however, writing this on Father’s Day.

It’s fitting because it is a bittersweet day for me due to the lack of a good father in my own life. I am blessed to have had several second fathers, though. Positive role models that showed me that although many men are awful, it is not all of them.

Although I have no children of my own, I have had experience in putting the lessons my second fathers taught me to use. For despite not being a father, I am a proud uncle.

I have six nieces and nephews. Kaleigh, Emma, Liam, Landon, Lucas, and Sylvie. Three boys, three girls. I have been an uncle for more than half of my life and cherished every moment.

I was there the day that most of them were born. I was there for many birthdays, holidays, and other important moments in their lives. I did my best to be a fun and positive presence any time I was around them. That deep emotional connection with them as children is a double-edged sword, though.

As I said, I am not a father. This means I am none of their fathers. I am an uncle. Sure, it’s an important role, but it’s not THE important role. Only time will tell if any of the three men who are the fathers of the six nieces and nephews turn out to be positive or negative. It doesn’t look great, but there is still time.

I don’t know the pressures or the life changes that come from parenthood. I do know that no child asks to be born. It is the responsibility of the parents to care for and nurture their children. You don’t have to be the greatest parent ever to be a net positive in your child’s life. You just have to start by showing up and showing you care.

As an uncle and the child of a terrible father, it hit me on two fronts. I wanted to show that I was a positive role model. I also wanted to show that I was a better uncle than my biological father was a parent.

The double-edged sword I mentioned a moment ago comes from attachment and remembering your role. For as much as I loved spending time with my nieces and nephews, it was always a bit superficial. Not like I was pretending to love being around them, but more that things were meant to stay fun and light.

I am not their fathers. I am their uncle. Growing up, my uncles were fun distractions from daily life. They didn’t tackle anything serious. Those problems were for parents to help with. An uncle needs to know his role and be a fun distraction, but in the end, that’s where their role typically ends.

When I was a kid, I remember fun times with my uncles, Bob, Eric, Steve, and John. As I grew up, though, I started seeing them less and less. Not because of anything bad, I just wasn’t their kid. They would be at holidays or other random occasions, but in my teens and early 20s, I was focused on getting my own life started. My uncles and aunts were seen far less than when I was little. That’s just the way it goes.

I was lucky that my oldest nieces, Kaleigh and Emma, lived in close proximity to me when they were growing up. They were either right down the street or right down the hallway. I was able to share probably hundreds of memories with them.

Walking the mall with little Kaleigh in her stroller. People would stop and mention how cute she was and what proud parents my sister Kate and I must be. I would laugh, Kate would be grossed out.

Sitting on the floor of my bedroom with my laptop open. Little Emma sitting beside me as I showed her classic McDonald’s commercials from the 1980s. In the days when she was hesitant to get close to anyone besides her parents, I took it as a major badge of honor that she liked spending time with me.

My nephews Liam and Landon were born at different times in my life. Liam lived further away. Landon was born as I was moving into a new place. Thus, I was more disconnected from them. This always made me feel bad. I wanted to be the fun uncle, the favorite uncle, to all of the kids. Feeling more connected to some than others was never something I intended. Life just happens that way.

When Lucas was born, I made it a point to set things right. I was there when he was born. I did my best to visit him and Liam at my sister Lindsay’s house, even though it was a bit of a hike to get there.

Time was ticking away. I was 33 when Lucas was born, and I had my doubts as to whether I’d ever have kids of my own. I tried to be the fun uncle. Always looking to make the kids laugh, do stupid voices, and tell funny jokes. These were the things I had learned from my Uncle Bob. He was and still is the gold standard of the fun uncle.

I always had to remind myself that I was the uncle, not the father. If I disagreed with something one of the fathers did, it wasn’t my place to say anything. I never wanted to hear someone tell me to mind my business because I wasn’t their father.

That reality led to my having less of a role in the lives of my nieces and nephews as they got older. Much in the same way that it happened with my uncles, and probably a lot of your uncles. You don’t lean on an uncle for answers to difficult situations as a teen and young adult. That is what parents are for.

I’d watch, so close, but so far away, as the kids grew up. They started and finished high school and college. They got their first jobs, cars, and relationships. As proud as I was, and still am, it comes back to that bittersweet feeling. I am not as important to them as they are to me.

That’s not unusual. It’s just something that uncles and aunts have to cope with as the kids get older. They stay closer to their parents because that’s how it should be. Being an uncle means your seat gets further from the stage, the older the kids get.

My youngest niece, Sylvie, was born when I was 41. She is almost 8 years younger than Lucas. It was like starting the clock over again.

Having children in your life can make you feel young and old, all at the same time. You feel young because you watch them learn and discover, and start to become who they will be. You feel old because, as they grow up, you feel your own clock ticking.

I try to be the best uncle I can be to Sylvie, who is 7. She’s my final excuse to be a foolish man-child for a little longer. I know that eventually she will drift away, not from anything bad, just because all kids grow up and develop their own lives. It might not be tomorrow or the next day, but it will come someday. I just have to enjoy each moment as they come.

It happened with Kaleigh, Emma, and Liam. It’s happening with Landon, who just graduated from high school. It’s like I want more time with them all, but I’m lower on the ladder of importance. Parents, grandparents, friends, partners, they all occupy more important real estate in the lives of my older nieces and nephews. That’s how it should be, and I have done my best to accept that.

Despite being an uncle for more than half of my life, I still don’t have a clue what it means or what I should be doing. I never went off on adventures with my uncles, except for rare times when my Uncle John took me to Friendly’s. I don’t know if I should have done more as the kids grew up, or less. I don’t even know if I was or am good at whatever an uncle’s role is.

What exactly is an uncle anyway? The brother of your parent. They are adjacent to the important stuff in your life. Maybe they were there a lot more than you remembered as a kid. Maybe they were more like a guest star who showed up every now and then.

Maybe it’s not about the quantity but the quality? I don’t remember meeting my Uncle Eric until I was 12 and my cousin Patrick was born. He went on to be someone whom I told I wished had been my father.

My uncles Eric and Bob have each attended more of my author events than my biological father. My uncle Steve was by my side for several grueling road races. These men showed up. Sometimes, as a human, no matter your age, you just want someone you care about to show up. They did, my father didn’t. I try to do the same for my nieces and nephews and hope that I have succeeded more times than I’ve failed.

I am not a father. I am, however, a proud and grateful uncle to six wonderful people. They are all different, unique, and special. They are all at different points in their lives, but all have blue skies filled with hope and opportunity ahead of them.

As an uncle, you have to know your role. It’s to be a positive presence above all else. You want the kids to be glad you were there and waiting in anticipation of when you’ll be back. That’s a big reason why I tended to rile them all up and then leave. Fun uncles gotta fun.

Decades from now, when I am old and worn out, I hope that my nieces and nephews reach out every now and then to make sure I am still alive. I hope they do a better job than I do at keeping in touch. Uncle Bob I hear from a few times a month. I haven’t seen my Uncle Steve in many months. My Uncle Eric sadly passed 3 years ago, before I could say goodbye.

You only get one life. I’d much rather be the fun uncle who gets steely-eyed glares from parents and grandparents because I let the kids do whatever they want. It beats being the lame, boring, or worse, absentee uncle that doesn’t know the kids' middle names.

I hope that my nieces and nephews know that even as my role in their lives gets smaller, I am still cheering as loudly from the nosebleed seats as I was on the sidelines. I think it is important to make that known rather than just hoping that it is.

I have been an uncle for more than half of my life. I will be one for the rest of it as well. Being a positive male presence in their lives is very important. If they need me, I am there. If they don’t, I will be first in line to hear all about how their lives are going when they do.

Kaleigh, Emma, Liam, Landon, Lucas, and Sylvie. I am so proud and blessed to be your uncle and to call you family. Just know that I am never far if you need me, and your fun, some might say crazy, uncle loves you very much.

I Appreciate You, Grampa

I appreciate you, Grampa.

When you’re young, you look around you for people to emulate. You don’t start life looking to be like someone you see on television or hear on the radio. It is typically those closest to you who form the first impressions of life and what you want to do and be when it comes to your own. If you are lucky, you have one or more good role models to choose from.

As a young boy in the early 1980s, I was looking for someone like that to show me the way. I needed someone to be the guiding light, to teach me how to live not just as a boy but all the way up through life as a man.

I looked to my father. My first memories of him are not those of a parent, nor those of a male role model. My first memories of my father are of a man who acted more like an older friend. He had funny jokes to share. In fact, he taught me a lot of what would later become my own wacky and sarcastic sense of humor.

He taught me about the Three Stooges. He introduced me to Foreigner, Steely Dan, Kate Bush, and, for some reason, called every cat he ever saw ‘Goot,’ which was the name of his cat when he was a teenager. I loved my cat Tigger when I was a teen, but don’t call every cat by that name, so it’s a bit odd.

We had cookouts on Sundays. Sometimes we’d go on trips to local playgrounds. Christmas and Easter dinners aplenty. It all sounds great, right? When compartmentalized, it does, but it was window dressing. The one thing my father never taught me was anything about how to be a man. The one thing he never showed me was love outside of awkward handshakes and pats on the back.

I saw him once or twice a week for most of my childhood. He and my mother had gotten divorced when I was very young. He was not interested in being a parent. Oh, sure, he enjoyed what creates a child, but couldn’t wrap his head around being there for said child.

The final straw came when he passed out on the couch and allowed me, as a toddler, to wander out our front door after dark wearing only a diaper. My mother, coming home from work, spotted me with my blanket walking under a streetlight. Sure, mistakes can happen, but the lack of responsibility from a parent was staggering.

That’s not to mention the times he would leave my sister and me, as toddlers, home alone so he could go out. Neighbors would tell my mother they’d hear my infant sister crying from her room.

There was the time my mother gave him a professional portrait of my sister and me, and he proceeded to tack it up to a corkboard at a bar. My aunt found it and called my mother. I found out when I was in my 40s that my father offered to waive all parental rights to get out of paying child support.

You read that right. He wanted to disown his children so he wouldn’t have to pay his fair share to help support the people he helped to create. What stopped it from happening? My mother told him my Nana would then not be able to see her grandchildren. This stopped him from disowning us, but didn’t make him care enough to pay full child support.

He would quit jobs abruptly when child support came calling. He would make plans with us kids and stand us up to go to a bar. Of course, none of this was wrong in his mind, and my mother was evil for daring to hold him accountable again for the children he helped to create. I was too young to see what a rotten excuse for a father he was.

As I got older and started working, my father was right there to be the first to ask for money. It is an odd feeling to have someone who is a parent in name only constantly wanting to use you as their own personal ATM. It was nearly every time I was in the car with him, he’d say his typical 'Do you got any dough?’ line. Still wanting his approval, I loaned him, sorry, gave him, money that likely ended up being somewhere north of $2,000 in total while in high school. He would tell me he’d pay me back, but I likely recouped little more than half of what he got.

Giving money to help out a parent who supports, feeds, clothes, and houses you is not a big deal. Doing the same for someone you saw a handful of hours a week at best was a damning indictment of what I thought a man was. He neglected me unless he needed money.

The older I got, the more I learned that my father had shown me a blueprint of how not to be a man. He was lazy, selfish, immature, a drunk, and a professional victim who, to this day, cannot accept that the fact that his children and grandchildren want nothing to do with him is his fault alone.

So I could not count on my father to show me the way as far as being a man. Hell, I had openly wished either of his two brothers had been my father. I then looked to his replacement, my first stepfather.



The first memories I have of my stepfather were confusion. I wondered aloud where my father was when confronted with this new man. I am not sure if my resistance to him caused immediate resentment toward me. He was around more and more. It became obvious that he was going to be in my life whether I wanted it or not.

When he was first around, my new stepfather was in the throes of alcoholism. He did give it up, and that is to be commended, as I know all too well how hard it is to slay that demon. However, that is where the commendation toward him ends.

If you look at it from a wide view, my life improved with my stepfather. He provided a roof over my head, helped with clothing, food, and medical care for my sister and me, despite us not being his kids. But the saying goes, ‘you don’t know what goes on behind closed doors.’ I know it because I lived it.

My stepfather was physically and verbally abusive to me, full stop. I don’t remember the first time I was hit or told I was nothing, but they became a part of my life in childhood up to midway through high school. Maybe it was when he had his own kids with my mother that he really began to look at me as an annoyance that needed to be kept in line. I don’t know what was in his mind and really don’t care.

I was an honor student. I never got in trouble. I did my best to be a positive example for my four younger siblings. Yet still I was routinely hit with belts, wire hangers, or just plain old hands when he was too lazy to grab something. I can only imagine my fate if I were a problem child. I guess in his mind, I was.

Things escalated when my brother and twin sisters were born. Now I was truly an outsider in his family. There was always favoritism shown toward my brother. If I told on him I got hit. If he did something and I didn’t tell on him, I got hit for letting it happen. There were times my brother got in trouble, and I got it too, maybe just to make sure I didn’t think I was special. There are times when I feel bad. My brother has caught strays in life from me because I hate his father so much, but that falls on his father and not me.

I was a witness to him abusing my mother when he thought the coast was clear. That night, she called the police. I, barely 10 years old, was hiding under the kitchen table. I listened to him deny things I saw. My mother was the one who always had my back, so I owed it to her to have hers. I stepped out from under the table and told the police what I saw, in full view of my stepfather.

I don’t know if anything came of it as far as the police went. I do know that I became his target after that. It came to a head in the basement, likely a few days later. The door was closed, and I was handed a miniature basketball. My stepfather said all I had to do was score one basket in my basketball hoop stuck to the wall. It was not so easy.

I was kicked, hit, tripped, and shoved by a grown man twice my size. Why? Because I dared to call out his spousal abuse to the police. Once I finally scored, he smugly said to me ‘nice shot.’ Then he left me in a puddle of shame and embarrassment on the basement floor. In his evil, warped mind, he likely thought he was teaching me to be a man. In reality, he taught me anger and hatred like nothing I have ever felt before or since.

For years, I was beaten down physically and emotionally. I was told my feelings and my problems didn’t matter. Things that meant the world to me were meaningless according to him. I learned the only way I could safely navigate life in that house was to make myself as small as possible. There are too many other incidents to speak of. Just know that most of my childhood was a constant fight or flight loop that made a day where I only got yelled at feel like I was getting an award on stage in front of adoring fans.

These things from childhood remain issues for me to this day. My confidence and self worth, they are tied to two men who are poor examples of that word. A father who didn’t care, and a stepfather who abused me.

Eventually, my mother had had enough, and my stepfather was kicked out of the house. It was one of the best days of my life. Where I kept giving my father the benefit of the doubt for decades too long, I was all too happy to begin erasing the memory of my stepfather. However, my simmering rage wanted revenge.

I began working out at sixteen. I had weights, a bench, and a heavy bag. I vividly remember scuffing up my knuckles, hitting that bag with all my might until it came crashing down from the beam. All I could see was my former stepfather’s face.

Sure, I could say I was working out to possibly play sports, but that was not the main reason. I didn’t want to feel helpless anymore. I wanted to gain strength to feel confident. I wanted to gain strength so I could get my revenge on him.

The bottom line is, I wanted to do as much physical harm to my former stepfather as possible. If I ended his life, so be it. He deserved whatever came to him because of what he did to my mother and me. He is still alive today. I did not follow through with any bad thoughts. It was my second stepfather, my current stepfather, who was able to get through to me. It was he whom I first confided my anger toward that former stepfather.

By this time, I was eighteen and could have been arrested and tried as an adult. It was that fact that stopped me. It was my new stepfather who showed me through words and actions that it wasn’t all men who were evil. I was just dealt a bad hand with the first two ‘most important’ men in my life being neglectful and/or abusive.



We come all the way full circle. I appreciate my Grampa because I was able to find the role model I needed. Where my father and first stepfather didn’t have the capacity as men to be decent husbands and fathers, my Grampa excelled. He worked hard. He stayed true to my Nina for over 70 years. He was firm but loving to his children. He was, and always had been, the example I was looking for.

It’s not that I didn’t appreciate my Grampa when I was growing up. When you’re treated well by someone for a few hours of cumulative time in a year, but the rest of your time is spent being ignored or fearing a heavy hand, the good times don’t make a dent. It wasn’t until I got out of my teenage years and my father and former stepfather became less relevant to my life that the light that as my Grampa started shining through.

Some could say that grandparents are naturally seen as angels compared to parents because parents are the ones who have to dole out the discipline. Grandparents are more apt to let the grandkids do whatever they want. That is usually true, but I’ll use my father as Exhibit A. He has three grandkids, and I guarantee he doesn’t know their birthdays or middle names. I am thinking he hasn’t seen them in many years, despite living relatively close to them all. So no, not all grandparents are made the same.

I felt seen and appreciated by my Grampa. He had genuine advice. He had genuine, kind words that made me feel worthy. In my 20s and 30s, it was my Grampa and my current stepfather, Serpa, who began to paint over my image of what I thought a ‘man’ was.

It was my Grampa who was at many of my author events, not my father. It was my Grampa whom I confided in about my struggles with self-worth and chasing my dreams, not my father. It was my Grampa who became my role model and the one I emulated.

I wanted to be at least half of what my Grampa was because I knew I could never be him, but if I was half, I knew I would have been a success as a human. I don’t want to be like my father. I don’t want to be like that first stepfather. They taught me what not to do.

I was devastated when my Grampa died 7 years ago this month. I reflected and decided that he had given me all of the lessons he could and that it was up to me to put them into action. Some days I feel like I get close. Other days, I feel like I am failing him in every way possible. But I woke up the next day knowing that anything is possible because he told me so.

I still have a handwritten note he gave me way back in 2015. It says, ‘it’s never too late to be what you might have been.’ Yes, the quote is from novelist George Eliot (real name Mary Ann Evans), but my Grampa wrote it for me when I was unsure of who I was supposed to be and where I was supposed to be going. So I will always associate it with him.

When I say that I appreciate my Grampa is goes much deeper than words or how he lived his life. He was there, setting the example for me throughout my life. I just was not ready to see it until I got older. Perhaps if I hadn’t had such terrible male role models in my father and first stepfather, I wouldn’t have found my Grampa to be the guiding light. I am glad I don’t have to wonder about that.

His teachings were never overt. He never said ‘here is how you act as a man.’ No, he simply lived by example. I saw his work ethic. He worked until he was 90. I saw his stability and love as a partner because I was witness to his marriage to my Nina lasting over 70 years. I saw his teachings as a parent through my mother, aunts, and uncles. I saw his importance to his friends and community. I heard the kind words people said to him, about him, when he was there, and when he wasn’t.

I don’t know who I would be without my Grampa. Would Serpa have been enough to break me out of that cage I was put in by those other two ‘men’? I don’t know. Maybe I would have been fine. Maybe I would have been so beaten down that I succumbed to alcohol, depression, or any other issue I have dealt with. You know, the issues that I’m sure that first stepfather would have said were ‘petty?’

I am still here, though. Closing in on 50 and trying to figure out my place in this world, but still here. When I feel like the answers are getting away from me, I look at that note my Grampa wrote me. I also just sit back and think of him, his life, his actions, and know that his DNA is in me.

Seven years have passed since my Grampa taught his final lesson to me. I will always keep his memory alive as often as I can. He deserves to be remembered, unlike other ‘men’ whom I will not shed a single tear for when they go. I put all of my energy into thanking my Grampa and Serpa, and while I’m at it, Uncle Eric, Uncle Bob, Uncle Steve, Uncle John, and Maui. Any successes I have in life as a man are reflections on you and your teachings.

I appreciate you, Grampa, and I appreciate all of those second fathers I just mentioned. You all filled the hole left by those other ‘men’ who let me down in every possible way. Thank you.

To All Of My Second Fathers

To All of My Second Fathers

Happy Father’s Day to all of my second fathers. Thank you for pitching in to pave the road left abandoned by the one who should have paved it. I could have spent this Father’s Day feeling resentful toward the person who had, but did not earn, the title of *Dad*. Instead, I wanted to thank the good male role models I have had, for I didn’t get to this point in my life on my own.

When I began putting together this piece, it really dawned on me. Despite the main male in my life not wanting to show me anything except how not to be, I found that I had a village of true men who took a boy and helped make him a man.

To Serpa, CJS Sr., my second stepfather. Thank you for bringing the type of stability that eluded me when it came to male role models in my life through my teenage years. You started as my mom’s coworker, whom I would end up chatting about sports and sports cards with in the produce section of Stop & Shop for way too long. Here it is, 30 years later, and we still chat about sports and cards. You’ve been there through high school, college, moving cross country, births of kids, deaths of family members, and everyday moments that pass by in the blink of an eye. You taught me that so much of being a man is showing up for those who matter.

To my Grampa, Sully. Thank you for crafting a life that served as a blueprint for all I wished to be. Your hard work, your dedication to your family, your ability to make things make sense. All of these things I have tried to emulate. I often said while you were still here that if I became half the man you were, I’d consider my life a success. That will never change. You were and still are the role model above all others. You taught me that part of being a man is leading by example and living life in a way that makes people proud that they know you.

To my uncles. Bob, Eric, John, and Steve. Thank you for helping to guide me each in different ways. Uncle Bob, you are the one I emulate when relating to my own nieces and nephews. If they enjoy their time with me as their uncle, it’s because of what you showed me. Uncle Eric, I told you that I wished you were my father. You showed me that it was possible to be a good father even if your brother could not be bothered. You looked out for me and helped me through some hard times when you did not have to. Uncle John, the only one who knows more about family history than I, is you. You showed me that the right way to live life is by simply being a decent human. Uncle Steve, you taught me about mental toughness and perseverance. You took your grief and turned yourself into an elite distance runner in your 50s. You showed me that there is more than one road that can take you where you want to go.

To Maui, the man himself. Thank you for instilling in me a work ethic that serves me well to this day. You took a kid who was working in an industry he didn’t want to be in and showed me how to do it and do it well. You taught me how to work hard but still make it fun. You were someone that, although not related by blood, I felt I could lean on, ask for advice, and also count on to set me straight when I needed it.

I have also been lucky to have many friends whom I look at as inspirations. I have friends who are loving and dedicated fathers and husbands, disciplined hard workers, creative entrepreneurs, gutsy risk takers, and above all else, good and decent people. I’m looking at you, Barry, Steve, John, Mike, Greg, Hasan, and others I might be forgetting. You don’t have to be a generation older to be a male role model, and I appreciate all of you.

For me, Father’s Day tends to be bittersweet. As you can see, I have had many good male role models who have helped to shape me into who I am today. However, it shouldn’t have been the job of a committee of others. The main male role model in anyone’s life should be their actual biological father. Sadly, it is more common for a father to shun their duties of teaching and protecting their kids in favor of being lazy and selfish.

The person who is my father is so in name only. He avoided responsibility in every way possible. It included not paying child support for, you know, supporting the child you helped create. It included making promises to his kids that he routinely broke. It included valuing alcohol over his kids' well-being. It included looking at his kids as walking ATM machines as soon as they started working.

I could have easily become a lazy, selfish, ignorant, drunk, professional victim. I was blessed though, with the men I mentioned above. They taught me how to be a man while my “father” showed me all of the things not to do. To this day, he sits back and whines, wondering why his kids and grandkids want nothing to do with him. Get a mirror and you’ll find your answer.

To all of my second fathers, thank you so much for all of your love, support, and advice. Thank you for helping me build the road I am on. I will keep on doing all I can to be a person you can be proud of. I will do my best to validate all of that support every day of my life. Happy Father’s Day!