Tragically Beautiful: A Memoir By Kuko Alamala

By Kuko Alamala

This is a story of generations that starts before the author, a successful IT professional and musician, is born, with the meeting and marriage of his parents, a marriage that turns out to be troubled in more ways than one. This leads to the introduction of an abusive stepfather into Kuko Alamala’s life.

Follow Kuko Alamala through incredible highs and devastating lows as his family grows, starting with the birth of his first child at the age of 14. Throughout the struggles of parenthood, Kuko Alamala also wrestles with depression and multiple suicide attempts as his life appears to spiral out of control at several turns.

This is ultimately, however, an uplifting story of triumph and the power of God’s grace to transform a person and his life. The search for spiritual guidance resonates with many who are in the midst of their own journeys, and provides hope for a future full of light and love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483587981

Book preview

Beautiful

Prologue

There I was on July 11th, 2015, praying for peace, the peace I had lost to infidelity and the death of my granddaughter. But the longer I prayed, the deeper the realization set in that I had never known peace. I didn’t have peace when my stepfather was was beating me, and I definitely didn’t have it the first time I tried taking my life before my 13th birthday. I didn’t have peace when I was molested by an older family member or when I started selling drugs at 14 to feed my daughter. I didn’t have peace when people knocked me for having a gay father. Lucky for me, I didn’t allow those thoughts to impede my prayer for peace which came with one catch: I had to share my story, which ultimately is His Story…

Chapter 1: Before my time

My mother and father knew of each other long before their first real chat in 1966 by way of my mother’s brother, Jose. My mom was in the tenth grade, and according to her memory, it was truly an age of innocence in Aguada, Puerto Rico. Well, at least it was for her. My dad was fairly popular and, according to my mom, full of swag. They hit it off and became good friends and spoke on a pretty frequent basis.

Fast forward to 1973. This is where their love story truly begins. By this time, my mother had completed her collegiate studies and was an elementary school teacher at the very school she attended some twenty years earlier.

My dad, on the other hand, had moved to the United States and put his degree to work in Newark, NJ, as an investigator for the Welfare Department. According to the stories he shared with me, it was different back then. He use to look in closets for the boyfriend or husband and hidden TVs. Much later in life, I came to find out the real reason my father moved to the NJ/NY area, but I will allow you to draw your own conclusion when we get to that point of the story.

My father had flown to the Island for his sister Alma’s wedding, which my Mother had been invited to as well. It was at this party that my father expressed how he had admired her from afar for as long as he could remember. He spent the rest of his stay in Puerto Rico with her and did everything he could to sweep her off her feet. 

After returning to New Jersey, my Dad would constantly write letters to her professing his love. Since my mother did not have a phone in the house, they would arrange phone dates to talk.

I know what you’re thinking: no phone? Well, the thing is that my mother came from an impoverished family, and she was the first person to graduate from college. Her father passed away when she was a child and there were many mouths to feed, so long story short, no phone.

My father visited Puerto Rico a few more times before finally proposing to her in May of 1974. Their engagement was short as was the tradition in that day and age.

November 2nd of 1974, she uprooted and headed to New Jersey, where 28 days later, on November 30th, she married the man that to this day she calls the love of her life.

What I just told you will prove important as we proceed, for you see, this is not a happy story. If anything, this story is about the perils of a forgiving heart and when loyalty becomes a detriment instead of an asset.

Chapter 2: When Doves Cry

A year into their marriage, my mother had yet to conceive the son they both so desperately wanted. As it turned out, my pops was really into partying, which was the polar opposite of my mother and her demeanor. She was brought up to be the typical loving and caring wife, which was something that my pops was not receptive to, according to my mother.

She found herself lonely and to her surprise jealous of my father’s male friends, with whom he spent all of his time—and a lot of his money. The stretch of time between when my father would leave and when he would come home became longer and more worrisome. She confronted him time and time again, but she made no headway. What happened next would forever rob my mother of her sweet innocence and self-worth.

On a cold winter night in 1975, while at a family gathering, my mom found herself in the same room with a woman who my father constantly showered with attention. On this day she had reached her limit. Enough is enough! She yelled at my father, running at both my father and the woman whom she thought was his mistress. The lady barely escaped, but my mom and dad came to blows and it wasn’t until my father’s oldest sister Merry stepped in that the melee ceased.

My father stormed out of the house, leaving my devastated mother behind.

This was the moment that broke my mother forever. My aunt looked at her and said, Can’t you see, Cecy? Can’t you see that he’s not after her, he’s after her brother. Your husband is gay!

My mother could not believe her ears and refused to accept the truth. She went to bed crying her heart out and just waited for my father to return, which did not happen until the following morning. He walked through the door with flowers in hand and an apology on his lips. My mom chose not to confront him because it was too much to fathom. She decided to take the high road and forgive him for the previous night’s indiscretions. Confronting him with the truth would not occur until a few years later.

Chapter 3: 1976

We all want to believe that we were conceived in love as is stated in the Bible. Unfortunately, hearing the details of all the deception, the physical and mental abuse leading up to my life, tears through my heart like the jagged edge of a hunting knife through flesh.

However, these intimate details also make me appreciate my mother that much more. To be fair, my father is not the villain in this story, he had a horrendous upbringing plagued with sexual and physical abuse. He lived in the type of poverty you only read about existing in third world countries. But this is not my father’s story, nor is it my mother’s story. This story is about my absolute truth, so let’s fast forward to May of 1975.

My parents went out to eat with a friend of my father. As usual, my father neglected my mom in favor of the friend and an argument ensued. This infuriated my father so he decided to drop her off at the house. He then took off with his male companion. She sat in her living room contemplating what had become of her life. She had a horrific marriage and believed in her heart that she could not bear a life of her own.

Filled with sorrow to the brim of her soul, she walked to the bathroom, looked around, and saw a bottle of peroxide. She wanted out and this was the way. Without thinking twice she drank half the bottle. My grandmother, Juana, who we affectionately called Mother, noticed that she was pale and dizzy and asked, "Mija que tu as Hecho! Daughter, what have you done!"

My mother yelled, I don’t want to be here anymore! My grandmother lunged at her and jammed two fingers down her throat, causing my mother to throw up.

According to my mother, my grandmother kept giving her milk (this may be why I’m lactose intolerant) which caused her further anguish from the dry heaving.

They got ahold of my pops shortly after. When he got home, they decided to only keep an eye on my mom instead of taking her to the hospital, out of fear she would be committed to a mental ward for attempting suicide.

The following morning, my mom went to the doctor explaining that she felt ill and was throwing up. She conveniently omitted the fact that she knew why. Her doctor gave her a thorough checkup, and during his diagnosis, he said, My sweet Cecy, what you probably experienced was a bout of morning sickness, which is one of the common side effects of pregnancy. Yup, my sweet momma almost killed me!

My mom was overwhelmed with tears of joy. As for my pops, well, to put it lightly, he lost his mind! He began literally jumping for joy. This news ushered in a wave of happiness my mother had not expected. From one moment to the next, my father changed for the best. To this day my mom says that this was the best era of her life.

My pops was as attentive as a man could possibly be. He did not allow her to cook, but ordered every meal. He also did not allow her to do anything. He took care of all of her needs. She basked in his company and he in hers. All he talked about was his unborn child. From there on, it was smooth sailing until my birth, with the exception of one small event.

My mom had been teaching at the Boys and Girls Club in Newark, NJ, when it was an actual school. About seven months into her pregnancy, a student opened the classroom door and interrupted her. Mrs. Sanchez, said the student, peering into her class.

She turned and looked, and was immediately horrified when the student lifted his right index finger to his neck and slid it across while whispering, You’re dead.

She panicked, touching her seven-month pregnant belly, and then began crying. The students realized what had happened and went to the principal’s office to inform them that something was wrong with Mrs. Sanchez.  A compassionate principle sent her home.

When my pops got home and found my mom distraught, he lost his mind, this time out of anger.

The next day he went to the school and demanded that something be done and the principal obliged. My mom returned back to school the following day reassured by the principal and the school security team that everything would be okay, that they would never allow anything to happen to her.

Unfortunately, they could not protect her from her own clumsy feet and later that day, she fell down the stairs. In her heart she knew that this turn of events signaled the end of her teaching career. When my dad got wind of what happened, he demanded she stop teaching until she gave birth. According to my mom, the school allowed her to go on maternity leave shortly thereafter.

On a cold Thursday morning, two days after her due date, my mother felt her first contraction. Less than an hour later, my parents checked in to the maternity ward at Saint James Hospital in Newark, NJ.

My mother is small by any unit of measure. Although Puerto Rican, you would never know it by looking at her pale skin and olive-green eyes. On this day she barely weighed 130 pounds soaking wet.

The contractions went on for hours, but she was not dilating. After reviewing the ultrasound, Dr Jeroby, her obstetrician, told her, There is no way you’re giving birth to this big ass baby naturally. Five hours after her first contraction, I arrived into the world via c-section on the 26th day of February in the year 1976.

Chapter 4: Before Trenton

The good times continued between my parents after I was born. My dad was enamored with his son, showing me off every second that he could. During my first day back home, he drove around the neighborhood that for most of my life I have called home in Newark, NJ. My mom tells me that he must have visited every friend, bodega and liquor store in a 10-mile radius. He took me to every park and spoiled me rotten, chasing the ice cream truck every day after work to put a smile on my face. One of her fondest memories of me as a child occurred around the age of 18 months. My parents had been arguing and it began to escalate. Next thing she knows I was standing in front of her, looking up at my dad yelling in baby gibberish at the top of my lungs while waving my finger at him.

The impact of their 18-month-old son in diapers stepping in to defend his mother was so great that they both broke out in laughter. It was the last time they ever argued in front of me. In December of 1978, my sister Maty was born, but according to my mom by this time my dad was back to his old ways. He would leave on Thursday and return on Tuesday. She did everything she could to keep the family together, including giving birth to my youngest sister Joanna in July of 1980. It was not long after this that I made the biggest mistake of my life.

We seldom, if ever, saw my pops, and it seemed as if he was always traveling. My mother and father did not sleep in the same bed any longer and when he was around, he slept in that mythical space in the house called the basement.

One summer night, my mom had a male friend over at the house while my pops was traveling.

It’s funny how I can still see him so vividly in my mind’s eye, his mustache, his goatee, and his dark hair.

He initially did not sit right with me. I felt jealous, maybe because my mom didn’t have male friends.

He eventually won me over. I remember feeling exhausted waiting for him to leave, but my four-year-old body was no match for his and at some point I fell asleep.

I woke up scared in the middle of the night, keenly aware that a stranger had been in the house with us. I gathered the courage to get out of my bed in the absolute darkness that surrounded me. I walked towards the living room and hung a right, heading towards my parents’ room, which always seemed to glow at night because of the large windows. As I cut across the living room, avoiding the obstacles in the dark, the room grew brighter with a navy blue tint coloring every open space. I made my way to the far side of my mom’s room, closest to the window, which was the side my sweet momma always slept on.

As I made my way down the path between the window and the bed, I noticed an arm around my mother’s waist. I glanced at her angelic face dimly lit by the moon and began climbing into bed when I realized that the arm was not attached to my father. My four-year-old mind did not know much, but it knew this was wrong. When the stranger’s facial details came into focus, I realized it was her friend who had been there earlier that night. This, my friends, was the first time I had my heart broken.

This was also the first time I saw the sunrise. I could not fall back to sleep. I was hurt and upset with myself for crying because boys don’t cry.

I got out of my bed after I heard someone softly opening the door, like a thief in the night. When I heard the thud of the closing door, I ran out of my room, unsure if both my mom and the thief had left but my mom was still in bed. I said mommy can I play in the yard and she said, Okay, Pollito.

Our house was a three-family home with a fenced-in yard and a long driveway. My father’s brother Benny lived upstairs and I believe my aunt lived in the adjacent apartment. I walked down the steps and got on my big blue sneaker car and just sat there kind of rocking it back and forth.

My uncle was on his way out when I startled him. He said, Muchacho por poco me matas as he fake clutched his chest. He immediately noticed something was wrong because he asked me, Pero que te pasa Kukito? in a soft compassionate voice. I said nothing Tio… He said, Yo soy tu tio, cuentame… I know you no ok, in his broken English. My four-year-old lips said, A guy slept in Mami’s bed.

Although it was obvious, he said in his famous English, Are you chure it no you father Kukito? I said, Yes, I’m sure Tio, it was her friend. He grabbed me by the hand and walked me upstairs to his apartment. This was the moment I condemned my mother and sisters to a lifetime of agony.

Chapter 5: South Logan Avenue

I wish I had never woken up that night and seen what I saw. It was such a defining moment in my life and I don’t believe it should have occurred when I was four years old. My parents’ indiscretions affected me greatly, and to this day I have trust issues, but as you will see later in the story, they are very much warranted. Needless to say, my uncle Benny’s allegiance was to my father. So as soon as he could spill the beans, he did. My father no longer stayed in the basement. He took over the main bedroom and moved his lover, Kenny, into the apartment and slept with him in the very bed that he once shared with my mother. My mother was beyond humiliated and my father took every chance to demean her. She slept in my bed along with my two sisters, Maty and Joanna.

Then on a cold November evening when my mother could not take the mental abuse any longer, she moved us out. I recall that day so clearly, jumping into this strange car and driving for what seemed like forever. It wasn’t forever though, because some two hours later we arrived in Trenton. We spent the first night at Rosy’s house, my mother’s co-worker. The following night a stranger picked us up. My mom said Pollito, this is Lino, and he extended his arm, cigarette in mouth, which made his grin seem sinister. I shook it as he pulled away in an old state-issued dodge with his new stepfamily.

Our destination was South Logan Avenue in Mercer. It was a pretty side-by-side two-family brick home with the entrance on the left side of the house. We walked in through the kitchen and hung a right and went up a flight of stairs. When we arrived at the top, he said turn right and I obliged.

He said this is your room Kukito. He continued down that side of the second floor and told my sisters, this is your room.

Thinking back now, I can’t imagine that he just happened to have three beds ready. My mother’s flight may not have been uncalculated after all. Directly across from my room was the bathroom and to the left was the master bedroom. I took my shoes off and lay down on the bed as ordered by the stranger and went to sleep.

The next morning when I went to check up on my mom, the door was open so I let myself in. As soon as I stepped into the room Lino barked, What are you doing here?! My mom shot back, Don’t talk like that to him! He received her message loud and clear, but he did not apologize, he just looked at me and snickered and nodded, his squinty eyes filled with a rage he could not unleash in front of my mom. His look said, I’ll get you later, and that he did.

Not an hour later he said, Come on Kukito, let’s go down for breakfast. I jumped out of my bed and walked out of my room. Lino was on the opposite side of the stairs when he gestured, after you. So I did as asked. I was about three steps in when I felt the shove. I almost cleared the entire flight of stairs, but the second from last step broke my free fall. I tumbled straight into a shelf that held an oriental china doll. My mom ran down behind him asking, What happened? He told her that I stumbled. He didn’t rush. He was much larger than my mom and I could hear her saying, Hurry up. When he finally made it down to me he looked down and said, Are you ok? He had a big evil grin and this look that said, I got you, sucker!

I never went back into their room for as long as I lived there. Avelino Barreto was a chain-smoking high-functioning alcoholic who had served in the Korean war.

What my mom saw in him I will never know.

He wasn’t kind, funny or even good-looking, but he treated her well and I guess that must have been refreshing for my mother. I would love to say that he taught me a lesson and that was that!

Unfortunately, nothing could have been further from the truth. He found pleasure from physically and mentally abusing my five-year-old frame.

I guess I am lucky it wasn’t worse. He could have sexually abused me but he never did. He left that job up to the babysitter’s daughter.

I could probably write an entire book on this particular chapter of my life, but I will just share the moments that affected me the most while living on South Logan Avenue. Unfortunately, my mom worked in Newark, but we now lived in Mercer, a two-and-a-half hour drive in traffic. So it was very rare for my mom to get home by 7pm, which gave Lino plenty of time to get his rocks off.

One evening after school, he asked me if I wanted a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. By this point in time I had already gotten the shit kicked out of me a dozen times or so in the year I had lived there. So his gesture really surprised me. I said Yes sir, which was the way I needed to address him if I didn’t want my teeth knocked out. He told me to sit at the little kitchen table. He put a loaf of bread in front of me and got out the peanut butter and jelly. He popped two slices