A Boy Growing Up Different: A Memoir, #1

By Roger Moreau

Growing up with divorced parents, Roger always felt a divide within his family. He saw his dad once a year as he lived far away. He witnessed arguments between his parents and stepparents and was exposed to domestic and family violence. He retreated often to his room in an attempt to escape the harsh reality of life. This is where he discovered his passion for writing short stories. At the age of twenty, Roger's family moves to the United States. He is conflicted and decides to stay in Canada. He comes out, has a boyfriend, makes good friends, and starts living the life he always thought he'd have. Until one day, depression and childhood traumas catch up to him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roger Moreau
• Release date: Jan 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201578480

Roger Moreau

Roger Moreau was born and raised in Toronto, Canada. He started writing short stories at the age of thirteen. A child of divorce, Roger lived with his mother, and on visits to his father’s home, Roger always had a notebook with him for writing. Roger’s first book, A Boy Growing Up Different, is a childhood memoir about growing up with divorced parents, domestic violence, discovering sexuality and addiction. I’m Not Him, his second memoir, follows Roger’s struggles with mental health on a path to finding recovery.  In his mid-twenties, Roger travelled the world working on a cruise line. After a few years, he returned to Canada and moved into Social Services. Roger is a Youth Support Worker and has worked in youth resource centres, where he also held weekly LGBTQ2+ youth group meetings. He has also worked in youth shelters, crisis stabilization units, group homes and independent living programs.  On his time off, he is with his two cats, keeps in touch with family and friends from all over the world, and is always writing. Roger has also produced several short films about his life and on issues of addiction, mental health, suicide ideation, sexuality and gender identity. Roger is also the author of, Ship’s Life, his third memoir, from his time traveling the world and working overseas.

Book preview

1. Picking Up Roger

Roger, is there anything else you want to bring to your dad’s? my mother asked, looking up from the small suitcase full of clothing and toiletries on my bunk bed.

I was six years old, and my father was on his way to pick me up. I was excited because I only got to see him once a year. He lived in Sault Ste Marie, a town eight and a half hours away from Toronto by truck. That was how I always thought of it. Not by car, but by truck.

Everyone in my family lived in Sault Ste Marie. At six, a part of me considered it weird that everyone else was so far away. But I had my mother in Toronto. She was what I knew. And I loved her.

My camera! I told her in response to her question.

As early as six, I liked taking pictures of me and my family. I took lots of pictures, even though I often got my thumb or finger in the way.

It's right here, my mother said, lifting a Power Rangers tee shirt to show me.

I smiled because I liked the red Power Ranger, I always thought he was cute. But I also liked the pink Power Ranger. She was cute, too.

When is my dad going to be here? I asked my mother.

I always referred to my father as my dad and my step-father as dad. Weird, maybe, but it was my way of clarifying which man I was referring to.

He said about five-thirty, my mother said while she zipped up my suitcase.

I watched as she scratched her chin and then lightly bit on her painted thumbnail. I knew she was studying my packed bags, mentally checking off her list of items to be packed with me.

You have this bag and a backpack I have with juice boxes and sandwiches for your drive to the Soo.

My mother always prepared snacks for the drive, even though my father stopped often at various Husky and Ma and Pop truck stops where I’d fill up on crispy tater tots and juicy bacon and cheeseburgers.

It was always great driving with my dad. He’d pick up an assorted box full of bite-sized Tim Horton's donuts with maple glazed and Boston creams, called Timbits, and fruit punch juice, my favorites.

My mother picked up both packed bags and carried them into the hallway. I followed behind her.

The thirty seconds it took us to walk down the carpeted stairs to the main foyer of our townhouse always made me feel as if this was my time. I had a strong imagination, and in these moments, I pictured myself walking down a long dirt road to meet the other half of my life, where I come from, my father.

It was always at this moment every year that there were no struggles. It was the one time it was okay to be where I am from. There were no issues, just calmness. Tranquility that allowed a smile on my face.

My mother placed my bags next to the staircase. I took a seat in the front room on the plush beige couch situated by the large window with green and blue mosaic designs, waiting eagerly to hear the roaring engine of my father's 18-wheeler truck. This was a part of me that brought me joy.

I knew it was almost time by the sharp pain that ran down the back of my neck as the tension in the house suddenly escalated. I’d get nervous as the clock ticked past 5 pm. I’d get scared. This was the part I hated.

I barely remembered the black eye incident when I was three years old that soured the relationship between my dad and my step-dad, and I was too little to witness the fights and harsh words that broke my mom and dad apart when I was just one. I never understood the battle that continued between the adults below the surface, but I felt it.

Roger, put your shoes on, my mother said as she picked up my black travel bag.

My feet were heavy as I picked up my blue, red, and white Power Ranger shoes. It was as if someone had dumped an enormous amount of sand in my socks, holding me down. I’d feel frozen, but I moved. I sat on the bottom step and slowly pulled on my shoes, delaying the inevitable bruising I knew was coming.

My mother stood beside me and reached for my hand. I took hold and she gently helped me stand. I looked over at the front door, already propped open for my father’s arrival. I thought that was sort of nice.

I took a deep breath, and we walked outside. I could always feel my heart racing through my chest as we stepped outside. As we reached the end of the front steps and the beginning of the paved driveway, I’d see my father and stepmom, Pam, standing there with my sister Megan and my brother Raymond. They were all smiles. I was not sure who to look at first, but of course, it was always my father.

Hi Rog. my father said with a big smile. It was a genuine smile that overrode all other troubles I faced in these situations.

My father, I thought to myself. My dad. This was my dad. This was where I came from.

I noted my father's light blue jeans and a tucked-in red polo tee shirt with the embroidered ERB company logo above the left breast pocket where he also had a pack of cigarettes tucked away. He was wearing light brown cowboy boots that authenticate his small-town guy ensemble.

Pam had a fair skin tone and curly, reddish-brown hair that fell just past her shoulders. She was wearing a blue tank top and a patterned yellow pair of shorts with flip flops. She was crouched down next to Megan who had inherited her mother’s red hair and lots of freckles. Megan was wearing overalls with white shoes and a bright purple tee-shirt, which complimented my beige shorts and blue Rocko's Modern Life tee.

My father leaned down as I walked over to hug him.

Hi, I said.

Roger! Megan said, rushing over to me. I smiled as I hugged her. Suddenly Pam, who was also holding my two-year-old brother Raymond in her arms, joined in on the hug.

Oh, we’ve missed you buddy! Pam said, giving me several kisses.

I ignored her extreme smile and her glossy eyes which were focused on my mother, revealing this was a premeditated act intended to hurt my mom. At the same time, I heard an undercurrent of angry words almost whispering behind me.

Every fucking time. The muffled words erupted from the background of my hugs. I was not sure who said it, but I did not want to know.

Okay Roger, say bye to your mother, my father said, coming back into my view.

I pushed Pam aside and ran into my mother’s arms. She held me close. I could feel the pressure of her grip. I knew she had tears streaming down her face. She did every time.

Have fun, okay, she said to me with a smile that I loved seeing. It was pure, natural. The sparkle in my mother’s eye let me know she did not want me to go, but was okay with it as it was with my father. Without either of them, I wouldn’t even be here.

Okay, I replied to my mother, who was still holding me tightly in her arms,

I love you, she said as she kissed my cheek. I could feel a moist dab from her tear-soaked lips.

I love you, too, Mom, I said.

There was a long pause, one that took away any background noise of this family exchange. I hugged my mother back with a strong grip. I love her and knew I would miss her very much, like I always did. I hated saying goodbye to her. It made me sad.

I felt my mother's wet, tear-soaked kiss press against my cheek one more time. She smiled at me, and I smiled back. She pulled me in once more for another hug, and it was time to go.

Love you,