Satan's Priest

By Victor Tesoriero

Pedophiles, I suppose, were children once.

--Adapted from a quote by Charles Lamb, 1775-1834

A gripping first-person account of a happy-go-lucky kid whose innocence came to an abrupt end the day he became one more victim of an evil priest, aka Satan's priest.

What thoughts go through a child's mind before, during, and afterward? And what was it like interacting with neighborhood wiseguys? And how could anyone be in the offices of Cantor Fitzgerald on the morning of 9/11 and live to tell about it?

These questions, and more, are answered, sometimes moment by moment as they occur.

Walk down the unbelievably dramatic memory lane of a street-smart kid growing up in a Brooklyn neighborhood in the 1960s. And the impact Satan's priest had on his life going forward.

You may already have forgotten the main character in the book you read last week. But you'll never forget Victor. Nor will you forget his memoir, Satan's Priest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781684986033

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Introduction

Acknowledgments

Prologue: An Important Lesson

An Important Lesson

1: Born in Canarsie

2: Starting Catholic School

3: The Molestation

4: Friends in the Neighborhood

5: Me or Drugs

6: The Courtship

7: God's Voice

8: Moving Forward

9: Losing Two of My Mentors

10: Getting Married

11: Our Firstborn

12: New Job, New House

13: Our Second Child

14: The Accident

15: Our Third Child

16: The Loan

17: New Friends

18: The Argument

19: Jail Time

20: A New Beginning

21: 9/11

22: Seeing Heaven

23: Beloved Uncle

24: Tying the Knot

25: Our Own Home

26: Lori, the Love of My Life

27: Earned Her Wings

28: Almost Gone

29: Retired at Fifty-Five

30: Never a Dull Moment

31: Our Southern Home

cover.jpg

Satan's Priest

Victor Tesoriero

Copyright © 2023 Victor Tesoriero

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2023

ISBN 978-1-68498-602-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68498-603-3 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Introduction

This book is an autobiography explaining how being molested as a young child affected me, how it ruined my childhood and impacted my adulthood. My family trusted me to be with a man of God to learn more about God. But this priest did not teach me about the ways of God. He introduced me to the ways of Satan. Therefore, I refer to him as Satan's priest.

A priest is supposed to be the closest human person to God. How then could a baptized man serving on behalf of God to offer comfort, love, and support to God's people knowingly hurt one of God's people? How could a Catholic priest steal my innocence when I should have had a normal sexual experience at an appropriate age and time?

And how is it that an archdiocese can turn a blind eye when it hears of a priest who does this? Historically, the priest is simply transferred to another church or Catholic school, perhaps out of state, and then the issue happens over and over again.

Molestation does not happen only in the Catholic religion because, in fact, molestation occurs in many different religions. These abusers are priests, monsignors, rabbis, deacons, and others who preach the Word of God. They are religious people we rely on to teach our children the way of God. But secretly, some thrive on molesting young boys and girls.

Clergy sexual abuse is now finally coming out of the shadows of misplaced shame on the part of innocent victims and into the spotlight of truth.

Molestation impacted my life as it did and does other children's lives. I am sharing my experience not because I am a victim but because I am a survivor who wants to bring more attention to this problem. It is important to stop this clergy abuse and to pray for the abusers.

For centuries, Catholic priests have taken a religious vow of celibacy. Instead of priests upholding the clergy celibacy mandate, some of them prey on young children to fulfill their sickening sexual appetites. No priest should take advantage of an innocent soul, yet too many young boys and girls have experienced clergy sexual abuse. In addition, abusing a young male often has the term homosexuality attached to it when, in fact, it is not homosexuality but abuse.

It is time to expose those priests who fail to uphold the clergy celibacy mandate. Preying on young children to fulfill their warped sexual appetites is wrong, and it is a sin. This book will hopefully shed light on their predatory ways. While it is important to pray to God for redirection and protection, we victims must do our part by telling our story. Here, then, is my life story.

Acknowledgments

Victor and Lillian Tesoriero

Satan's Priest includes priestal sexual molestation and the traumatic effect that had on my life going forward. All is spot-on true, but some names have been changed to protect their individual privacy.

I wish to thank my family and friends for their encouragement in the writing of Satan's Priest. I'd especially like to thank my daughters for their love and support as well as my wife Lori, not only for loving me but for always being my voice of reason.

And now an extra-special thanks to my aunt Lillian. She believed in me and spent countless hours revising, editing, and proofreading Satan's Priest. However, it was clearly understood from the beginning that the final say regarding content would always be mine.

Prologue: An Important Lesson

An Important Lesson

Pedophiles, I suppose, were children once.

(Adapted from a quote by Charles Lamb, 1775-1834)

I used to tell my kids from the time they were little, "Always remember, you can tell me anything. Anything! I repeated, as I looked at them solemnly. Do you understand?" I asked, anxiously awaiting their reaction.

In the beginning, they would nod, probably somehow sensing that was the response I wanted from them. But as they got older, they responded by saying, Yes, Daddy. I understand. Only then did I relax—and let my kids—be kids.

If only someone had said that to me when I was about their age, I thought. Maybe, just maybe, it never would have happened. Then again, I second-guessed myself, maybe it would have happened anyway. I don't know. I don't know…

1

Born in Canarsie

Family is everything—at least it is for me. Since family is such an important part of my life story, let's start at the beginning.

I was born in 1961. My parents gave me the birth name Victor, which means winner. My parents were both from Sicily, Italy. My dad's name was Joseph. He came from a town in Sicily that the boot was kicking away. It is called Stromboli, which is a volcanic island. My mom came from a town in Sicily called Casa La Ma, which is close to Palermo.

I have two older siblings: my sister JoAnn, the oldest; and then my brother Joey, named after my dad. I was my parents' third child. In the year I was born, my parents purchased their first house. It was located in a section of Brooklyn called Canarsie, which was named after a Brooklyn Native American tribe called the Canarsee Tribe of Lenape.

There were a few Jewish and Irish families, but most of the inhabitants of Canarsie were native-born Italians or of Italian descent during the 1960s and 1970s, my growing-up years. Therefore, many backyards had carefully tended vegetable and fruit gardens including tomato plants and fig trees. Before winter's cold and ice, you would see the old Italian men cover the fig trees so they wouldn't die. There was fishing from the Canarsie pier and a movie theater for recreation, as well as two Catholic churches and two public high schools.

Plaster Madonnas were common on front lawns. Some front yards were cemented over where perhaps front lawns had once been. The house I grew up in was next door to a gas station, considered a convenience rather than an eyesore.

My parents owned a two-family house. The upper floor was a rental. We occupied the main level, which included a couple of bedrooms, an eat-in kitchen, and a living room but no dining room. My mom and dad soon realized this setup would never do. Italians tend to have large multigenerational families, as well as many friends and acquaintances. Good food, lots of it, accompanied with a bottle of wine, often homemade, is part of our culture—or at least was during my boyhood.

So the living room furniture had to go, replaced instead by a large dining room table surrounded by many chairs. I remember enjoying many a Sunday or holiday dinner extending hour after hour, all day long really, with much laughter and multiple conversations going on all at once back and forth across that well-laden table. When the lasagna and roast beef or turkey plus all the side dishes were gone, out came the nuts and fresh fruit. Latecomers and drop-ins were cheerfully greeted with "Mangia, mangia!" (Eat, eat!) as they were enthusiastically waved to a waiting chair.

As a child growing up in Canarsie, if you did something wrong, your parents would definitely find out about it. Everyone in Canarsie watched over the neighborhood's children. It was a great neighborhood to grow up in.

My dad worked as a letter carrier for the United States Postal Service. He was a hardworking man, always doing what he could to make ends meet. There always seemed to be a pile of bills to pay, so he knew he had to work hard for his family. He would wake up at four in the morning to go to work. After he was finished with his route, he would drive a cab. He would take no-doze pills to stay awake. If he wasn't working, he was helping his friends with things they needed, even if they didn't necessarily return the favors. My dad was a selfless man. He was aware of his responsibilities and took great care of his family.

My mom was a stay-at-home mom. Back in those days, most husbands were the sole breadwinners of the family; so moms stayed at home to cook, clean, and take care of the children. My mom played her part perfectly.

No matter what struggles my parents faced, they always had the bills paid, had food on the table, bought us nice clothing to dress well, and made sure we were all well taken care of. My dad would get an expense check from the post office to buy his uniforms and sweaters with the United States postal insignia on them. Instead of spending it all on his uniform, he would get just a few things. He had a friend he delivered mail to who sold jackets; so Dad would get me, my brother, sister, and Mom jackets also. We were a close Italian family who were living the American dream.

My family was large. Besides my immediate family, I had two sets of grandparents, as well as aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends, all of whom I enjoyed having a fun time with.

In 1972, when I was eleven years old, my grandmother, my dad's mom, passed away. Dad cried the whole day. I was too young to understand what he was crying about. On the day of my grandmother's funeral, I remember her casket being lowered into the grave and my dad crying uncontrollably. Momma, he cried in anguish, and then, because he loved her so much, he tried to throw himself into the grave with her. My uncle Vito had to hold back my dad at that point. I started thinking, Am I gonna be like that when my mom dies? It was frightening for a young boy like me to see all this.

A few years later, my father's dad also died. Although Dad was upset, he did not cry the same as he had when his mom passed. I began to think about how much closer a man is to his mom than to his dad. Now I had only one remaining set of grandparents, who were my mom's parents.

That grandmother's name was Catherine, nicknamed Katie. She was a roundish old lady who knew how to cook amazing Italian food. I remember when I was a kid, Grandma Katie would say in her Italian accent, Vito, comma watcha me cook. As she pulled out pots and pans, she added, Soma day, you gonna make a woman a happy wife. So I always watched her cook, and, at nine years of age, I started cooking for my parents. One day I made them chicken cacciatore. I cooked it all by myself, and my parents said it was really delicious. I'm so glad I watched Grandma cook because to this day I'm a great cook.

My grandpa was my true idol, and his name was Vito. He loved me so much, even more than his other grandkids, because my mother named me after him. You see, my Italian name is Vito, and Victor is the American name for Vito. My grandfather took me with him everywhere, and when I was about five, he took me to get a haircut. I remember he sat me in the chair, then waved his hand over my head, letting the barber know just what to