Rising Above: A Memoir About Family Betrayal, and Growing into Forgiveness

By Bruno DeLuca

All I ever wanted was for my dad to say he loved me, appreciated me, or was proud of me. Never have I heard the words Good job, son.three simple words that could have changed my entire way of thinking and the way that I chose to live my life. I would hit rock bottom and claw my way up again and still never hear those words. It took time, patience, and a wonderful woman to make me realize that I didnt really need his approval. I had built the me I always wanted to be on my own. I had risen above.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524659622

Bruno DeLuca

Bruno DeLuca is a Canadian-born son of Italian immigrants. He started his career in the bakery business at the age of 11. The Bakery that he built with his father and brother was at one time the largest independent business in Ontario.

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© 2017 Bruno DeLuca. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/26/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-5963-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-5964-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-5962-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017900531

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NRSV

Scripture quotations marked NRSV are taken from the New Revised Standard Version of the Bible, Copyright © 1989, by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved. Website

This book is

dedicated to my kids. It is my hope that it will

help you in the future with your friends and family.

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Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right. Honor your father and mother—this is the first commandment with a promise: so that it may be well with you and you may live long on the earth. And, fathers, do not provoke your children to anger, but bring them up in the discipline and instruction of the Lord.

Ephesians 6:1-4

M y father, Giovanni, was born in Calabria, Italy, in 1943. He was the youngest of three sisters and three brothers. The family was very poor. The family safe contained their most valuable item: bread! It had to be rationed properly so that all the kids had their fair share. I remember Dad telling me the story that when he was eating the bread he would pretend that he was eating a cheese sandwich.

My Uncle Sandro, the eldest of the seven kids, once told me that they all thought that young Johnny was special and different from the rest of them. He was restless and not happy simply accepting his lot in life.

At twelve, my dad already had a businessman’s mind. Somehow, he was able to convince a shopkeeper to loan him a case of pop. He said that he would bring the money later, plus extra for the trouble. He took the pop and sold it by the can to certain businessmen that sat around playing cards all day in the town square.

As promised, he brought back the money to the shopkeeper, plus extra, and a little for himself too. After that, the shopkeeper trusted him and was willing to let him come for the pop whenever he needed it.

At the age of sixteen, Dad decided to immigrate to the United States of America to find a better life. He had family in New York willing to help him out. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out so well. He was working as a driver delivering to bakeries around the city. He parked the van somewhere he was not supposed to, but he didn’t know the city very well or where else to go to make his delivery. There was a cop waiting for him when he got out. The details are vague, and my dad never really told us the whole tale. The most he ever said to anyone was to my wife.

I could tell by his eyes that he was going to hurt me, he told her. Maybe even kill me.

I can believe it. Remember, this was the late 1950s. These were difficult years in the States for racial unrest. I can imagine that the cop had negative feelings toward Italians, or my dad was trespassing on some kind of gang territory, and this cop was on the take. Either way, my dad went with his gut, grabbed a handy piece of wood, and beat the cop. How badly? Who knows? He was arrested and charged. My dad obviously had some connections in New York. He was able to get out on bail, and his friends got him north of the border quickly. He has not set foot in the United States since, so there is definitely some truth to this story.

In this day and age, it is hard to understand the kind of racism that existed then. My parents weren’t innocent either. When I started dating, my mother told me never to bring a nigger home. Apparently there is already black in my family and it is a big secret. Nobody likes to talk about it. Ridiculous! I just don’t understand it at all.

I did date a beautiful black woman for two years. Alisha was very sweet. She was divorced and had two boys who loved the Italian national soccer team. It was nice being with her and experiencing the Somalian culture. Likewise, I would cook Italian dishes for her. I liked her and the boys very much, but it was not meant to be. I was not in love. It had nothing to do with our races. If I had truly loved her I wouldn’t have cared what my family thought. Even she said that her family would have an issue with me being white.

Look how great our lives are for having all sorts of different cultures in our country. Where would the sushi restaurants be, the Caribbean festivals, and all other kinds of art and knowledge without people mingling races? At the end of the day, God only recognizes one race—the human race. As individuals we are all valuable and precious in God’s sight.

In Canada, my dad started working in construction. He worked odd jobs as a laborer and a painter. What he really wanted, though, was to learn how to make desserts. Back in the day, he had no money to go to school, and nobody was willing to teach him. Trade secrets were guarded carefully. The only way he could learn about recipes and baking was to watch and remember.

He took a job at Gianni’s Bakery as a driver. Between deliveries he watched and learned, sneaking off to the bathroom to write down what he saw. Once he felt he had something to work with, he moved on to his next job at Cakes & Sweets Bakery. The owner took an interest in him and was willing to teach him how to make cookies, pastries, and cakes. His colleagues there used to call him il ratto, the rat, because he was so fast.

He also worked at Cakes-To-Go, and all he did was cakes. He said it was a nice experience because he learned so much even though he was only there for a short time.

My dad met Maria, my mother, through a family member. My mom came from the complete opposite walk of life from my father. She was the oldest child from a rich family, with a father that she admittedly says spoiled her rotten.

Whatever I want, I got, she said.

I don’t know how my father charmed her, but they were married in 1964.

I was born in May of 1966—what day in May depends on who you ask. My mother says May 20, my birth certificate says May 21, and my health insurance says May 22. I have no idea how this happened. I suspect my mother’s lack of English skills may have played a part.

My mom said she had a hard time carrying me. Her doctor must have been a complete idiot. She complained of swelling and was told that all pregnant women have swelling. My mom delivered me in a severe state of toxemia. I was underweight, but apparently I made up for it as soon as I could and turned into a chubby baby. One day when my mom left me in my dad’s care, he fed me nine jars of baby food in one go.

Well, he was hungry! he said when my mother found out.

Dad couldn’t have been happier to have a son. He wanted to name me after his brother, Bruno, who was not able to have his own children. I heard stories that he would rush home after work just to see me, and that as soon as I was able to walk, I would come running to the window as I heard his car pulling in. Growing up, I loved my father very much.

My parents say that as a baby and a young boy I always wanted things my own way. For example, there was a time when my mother made spaghetti and I did not want it, so I hid it in the plants. My mother lost her shit. You just do not do that in an Italian home! Then she spanked me and I got so upset that I ran around the table knocking all the chairs down. She spanked me again and then I ran under the kitchen table and turned it completely over. All this time my dad was laughing.

My mom shouted, Why are you laughing?

This kid doesn’t understand when you spank him, the more you hit him the worse he is.

My father said this is the kind of person he is too—he wants things his way. That is funny because even today this is true.

My brother Rocco came along in 1968. Here is another weird tale that no one really talks about much: all he did was cry, nonstop. Now, I know all babies cry, my mother had her fair share of crying babies as an older sister, plus she’d already had me. But Rocco, apparently, never stopped crying.

If he was awake, he was crying, my mom said.

So, my mother took him to the same idiot doctor who told her not to worry about severe swelling, and he of course brushed her off.

After a while my mom just could not take it anymore. She had a nervous breakdown and had to be hospitalized for six months! I’m sure postpartum depression had something to do with this, but remember that this was the 1960s we’re talking about. My Zia Angela took care of us during that time.

I can’t help but think that something was seriously wrong with my brother when he was a baby. I wonder if things would have worked out differently if the doctor had cared more. To this day Rocco has what I guess you would call learning disabilities. He is still not able to read very well, although he is a genius with other things.

My parents didn’t care. Basically they told the schools that