Out of Respect

By Denise De Stefano

Are you searching for a glimmer of hope in the shadows of your own past secrets? Within the pages of "Out of Respect," Denise De Stefano shares with you her powerful journey from the darkness of unspeakable childhood abuse at the hands of her violent, narcissistic mother, to the healing light of redemption.

It is told by the voice of a child who become a savvy woman growing up in South Philly with all its colorful culture. The book teaches us a new perspective, on the word "respect."

De Stefano's recovery, recollections, and authentic storytelling are a gift to us all. Through her story, written in first person, anyone can find their own truths revealed.

De Stefano was taught street smarts by her father and his friends. She learned how to think like a man in order to survive, but never to forget that she was a lady.

These skills and her relentless perseverance took her through many traumatic life-threatening events, demonstrated in vivid language. The power of resilience ultimately led Denise to triumph over adversity.

De Stefano's life took her from Philly to New York City, Malibu, Hollywood, and abroad. She lives her truth through the power of faith that one can overcome the past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350922936

Denise De Stefano

Denise De Stefano is an entrepreneur, writer, creator, producer, and author. Born and raised in South Philadelphia as a child, her father taught her to think like a man in order to survive, but never to forget she was a lady. De Stefano grew up in a world of secrets which she chronicles in her new released memoir entitled "Out of Respect." A born storyteller, De Stefano incorporates humor as one of her major coping mechanisms that she used in addition to her relentless faith in God to survive her life journey. She professes she is on a mission from God, walking by faith and not by sight. In the 1990s she moved to LA and accepted a position as the Director of Operations for Miracle Pictures Group, an LA film company owned by producer A. Kitman Ho (also known for his work in Platoon, Wall Street, JFK, and other notable films). In the past she has been represented by William Morris, among others. She wrote and performed as a stand‐up comedian in New York City and Los Angeles at various major clubs, ultimately becoming a headliner at The Comedy Store in LA. De Stefano holds a Bachelor's Degree in Nursing with a Background in Psychology and the Arts. She has received acclaim and numerous awards for her visionary pioneering work, making her a national leader in the healthcare and creative media industries. De Stefano was the Founder/ Executive Producer of Video Health Systems, Inc., an award‐winning informational media company that quickly became an industry leader of delivering health information to empower patients. Additionally, she co‐published a paper for the American College of Legal Medicine, among others. As a frequently requested speaker on women's issues and business issues, and as a motivational speaker, De Stefano has served on numerous advisory boards, uplifting and motivating women in business. De Stefano is a staunch advocate for issues dealing with adult survivors of abuse and trauma, child abuse, mental health, PTSD, quality patient care, preserving our planet, equality, animal welfare, and animal rescue. De Stefano presently lives in Los Angeles, California.

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Chapter 2

The Basement

I remember the day it all began. The day I learned to lie. My mother told me to get dressed, that we were going out, but I didn’t want to go with my mother. I wanted to play with my friends, I kept telling her. She asked me to check on the clothes in the dryer down in the basement, a routine task. I went downstairs and when I opened the dryer door the lights went out and I heard the sound of the cellar door closing. I rushed up the stairs and tried to open the door, but she had locked it. "Maybe next time you’ll listen to me when I tell you to come with me," she said.

Mommy, please let me out. I’ll come with you. Please don’t leave me here, I pleaded. I’m afraid of the dark.

She shouted through the door, "Maybe next time you’ll listen to me!" In the darkness I could hear the front door of the house slam behind her.

During that time my mother insisted on working a part-time job at Maggio’s Cheese Company. My father didn’t like it and said, "You don’t have to work, Ruth." But she fought him on this, and back then it was an embarrassment for your wife to work, especially with the men my father hung out with. Supposedly this was to help with the bills because of my father’s gambling debts and loan sharking, among other things. She kept saying that, but it wasn’t true at that point in his life.

In reality, it was a front for an affair she was having with a man who worked at the cheese company. His nickname was Reds. He was Irish, tall, and skinny, with red hair and dressed slick. She first met him while working at Maggio’s.

He was a pool hall hustler and grifter and lived with his mother in a one-bedroom apartment. My mother’s job was a front for her affair, just as my father’s plumbing work was a front for his racketeering, just as my own lies would become my front for the ugly reality in my life.

In order for my mother to continue to live her secret lives, she had to continue creating cover-ups. With every cover-up came a new personality and a whole new set of lies.

I was terrified of the dark. I stacked boxes on top of the table and climbed on top of them. I began to talk to God, sitting on the boxes, praying and waiting for someone to find me.

It was quite some time later when my father found me in the basement. I could see through the window that it was already dark outside. He asked me, "How did you get locked down there, Daddy?" I hugged him really tight. We embraced for a long time. I told him I was afraid of the dark. He said I was okay and didn’t need to be afraid. He often called me Daddy. In our neighborhood lots of parents called their children Mommy or Daddy as a term of endearment.

I replied, "I accidentally locked the door."

He said, "Just be careful next time," as he explained to me, pointing to the cellar door handle, showing me how to not lock myself in again. "Now do you understand, Daddy?" I nodded in agreement with a smile on my face.

He then asked me where my mother was. I told him that I didn’t know. I found myself lying to my father for the first time. How could I explain something to him that I didn’t understand myself? Somehow, I knew I had to lie. It had to be my fault that I’d been locked in the cellar. It had to be that I was a bad girl. Why else would my mother do that? I was thinking to myself, "But what did I do?"

I started up the stairs to my bedroom. He asked, "Don’t you want some hot chocolate tonight, Daddy?"

No, I just want to go to sleep, thanks.

I went to bed and when my mother came home, I cracked open the bedroom door to listen. I heard my mother raise her voice. 

Ruth, lower your voice. Denise is upstairs.

So what?

There was a horrible fight that became a blur in my memory.

Chapter 3

Dancing

Picture 3

I was five and a half years old when I started to go to dancing school. It was really my father’s idea. He was watching me one day, snapping my fingers to Louis Prima and bouncing to the music, at age 2, saying, "Look at her go. I love to watch her dance." A lot of kids in South Philly went to dancing school. It was something we did.

For my mother it was keeping up with the Joneses. She thought, "If others are doing it, so is my daughter."

Whatever the motive, it made me happy, a gift from God. I loved dancing. At a wedding, at a party, at a friend’s house, down the shore, in the car. Heck, I even danced with my car, pumping the brake to the music with my Cousin Maria, in high school, as she and I would laugh till our stomachs hurt. You could always find me on the dance floor, instinctively moving to the rhythm of the music. People used to ask me, "How do you know how to dance like that?"

My mother would cut me off, and say, "She got it from me. I was the dancer."

Yeah right! I thought to myself, but really it was a gift from God. I didn’t care what she said as long as she let me go on dancing. "She can move like no tomorrow," they used to say.

My dancing school was located on Passyunk Avenue across the street from the Melrose Diner. My father took me to my dance classes, usually without my mother, often with a couple of his friends. He and his buddies, all dressed in suits with white shirts and dark ties, would drop me off at dance school. One of his friends would carry my pink ballerina case. After they dropped me off, they would all go to the Melrose Diner for lunch, socialize, do business, or whatever. All I knew is that they made a lot of calls from the pay phone booth outside the diner. After dance class I would call my father and he would come to get me, or else he would send somebody to pick me up, we would go back to the diner, and then we would eat together.

I really didn’t like the other kids, a lot of times they made fun of me. They didn’t know what I was dealing with and trying to balance as a little girl. So, I let it not bother me after a while. I adored my dance teacher, who was French, and I cherished the couple of hours when I could escape into something that I won praise for, from my teacher, friends, and family.

I took ballet, tap, acrobatics, and jazz. When it came time for our class recital, I was in three numbers all together. The group numbers were made up of the best students. I was so happy to be first in line and lead the line of dancers out onto the stage. "It’s like Jackie Gleason’s June Taylor Dancers," I thought to myself. The ultimate for me was my solo act, the chicken number, with my favorite costume, all handmade, with yellow feathers and everything.

My father said, "I’ll order flowers for everyone." He loved flowers. I remember him most of the time, if in a suit, having a red carnation in his lapel, and it wasn’t even a special occasion.

Oh, of course, sarcastically my mother said. My father ignored her, not to have her start complaining. My mother and Aunt Mae got corsages. My Uncle Frank and Daddy had flowers for their lapels as well. There were extra flowers ordered just in case. My father never wanted to leave anyone out. He got me a special hand corsage, one that matched my outfit. My mother made sure that everyone thought it was her idea. I thought to myself, "There’s that showoff coming out again!"

All the dancers in the recital had to sell tickets, the more the better. My father would go around selling my dance recital tickets to his crew, neighborhood friends and family.

For once my mother seemed in my corner, helping with my hair and makeup, making sure I got my costume on time and even selling some tickets to her friends. I think she was doing it more for herself to show me off. Then the evening before the recital something happened to her mood. She was not very excited about the expense involved with the show and all the attention I was getting. She thought that everyone was going to praise her for the great work she had done. But that wasn’t the case.

The morning of my recital I woke up in a panic. I hoped and prayed, "God, please let everything be okay." I wanted so much to enjoy this event. I went downstairs and started getting ready for the day. I tried to obey my mother and at the same time stay out of her way. There was a commotion that morning because of all the things my mother had to do. I have to do everything, remember this, remember that, what the fuck do you do? she said. I scurried around like a scared puppy.

She began to lose control and try to undermine all the plans at the last minute. I didn’t know if she meant what she threatened, but I was worried because she often did exactly what she threatened. I just wanted everything to be okay. "Just keep smiling Denise," I thought to myself. My only hope was that my father, his friends, our family, and a few of my mother’s friends would be waiting at the Recital Hall. I knew my mother was always concerned with what people thought so I figured she wouldn’t do anything that might embarrass herself or jeopardize her reputation if they were there. My father made sure there was a great turnout.

At the Recital Hall my mother and I went to the dressing room. I really wanted to be in the bigger room where I thought she would be watched, and I would be safer. There was a bigger room where all the 25 or so girls and their mothers were already getting dressed. "See, you made us late!" she snapped at me. "When are you going to do something right?" Then in a fury she began helping me dress, pushing, and pulling, yanking the zipper up, pinching the skin on my back. She said, If you weren’t such a fat pig maybe I could get you into this costume.

I began to cry, and she snuck a punch to my head. I began thinking to myself, "Maybe the private room would have been better if she was going to hit me, I’d rather it be in private."

I stood looking out to the others in shame thinking, "Did anyone see that? Did she really do that? She never did that before." I couldn’t move, my body was frozen. She was out of control, still pinching the skin on my back. I whispered, "Please, Mommy, don’t embarrass me, not here."

"Oh no, I don’t need to embarrass you. You’re going to do that all by yourself," she whispered. I began to cry again, trying to hold back my tears.

My father and his friends were at the door outside the dressing room, waving to me and holding up a white flower box, all smiles.

She said, "Oh yeah, go to your fucking father, nobody else wants you anyway." I ran to the door holding back my tears. What would be my excuse for crying?

I opened the door and my father leaned down to hug me and asked, "What’s the matter Daddy, are you okay?"

I said "Oh, yeah, I’m just afraid I’m going to mess up. I’m nervous."

Could you believe this, fellas? She’s nervous, my father said to his friends as he bent down to my eye level. "Daddy," he said, "All you have to remember is that when you walk out on that stage you own that room. It’s yours, Daddy, got it?"  As I nodded in agreement, I wasn’t really sure what he meant, but by the way he said it I got a feeling I knew what he was talking about.

It was time to start the recital. "Maybe I really could own that room," like my father said, I thought to myself. I went back to my mother, careful to keep the same scared face that I had left her with, not to let her in on my secret happiness.

I remembered what my father had told me about looking out into the room. I was careful not to look at my mother. I looked only at the people who I knew would smile back with love.

I always dreamed of being a dancer from the time I was three years old. It brought me so much joy. My father would say "Would you look at my daughter, she was born to do this." I would make people happy and get so much praise from others. I felt that I could be a great dancer someday, maybe even a teacher and choreographer. Heck, I even could have my own studio one day, I thought. It was my passion. God’s gift to me, it made me feel the joy and freedom I never felt. I would hear music and it would bring life to my bones. I would say, I could be dead, and music would resurrect my body and bring me back to life, but Ruth killed that dream like so many others by the abuse and her voices in my head.

I still dance today. One thing I could always do is break a dance down to where I could teach almost anyone. Years later I proved this when I did this in college and made side money for it, but it was more about the passion, not the money.

Hearing her voice constantly in my head, "You’re no good, worthless piece of shit," I learned to drown it out more and more. That was the only way I was able to keep going.

Chapter 4

The Bloody Event

I was seven and a half years old. It was the night before my confirmation. My father planned a lavish celebration. It was very important both to the church and to my father. Even though it was not something I really understood, I saw what it meant to him and because he was my father, I obeyed him and cooperated willingly with all his plans.

That evening my mother was kneeling at the side of the tub bathing me and not saying much. I was so excited about the next day’s events at my confirmation party and my new white handmade dress that I didn’t really notice my mother’s mood. "Mommy, today I saw a pair of Buster Brown Shoes," I began.

My mother froze. "Shoes!" she screamed. "You’re never satisfied, you get everything, what the fuck do I get, you ungrateful bitch!" she yelled at me. "He can’t get you shoes; he gambled and gave all his fucking money away to his fucking friends and family. They’re more important to him than you, anyway!" she yelled.

I thought to myself "That isn’t true. I began crying and pleading with her. I didn’t mean it!" I cried. "I don’t want the shoes!"

She punched me in my face and head while I stood naked, cold, and trembling. My head hit the black and white tile wall, and I slipped under the water. She held me down under the bubbles. Her hand was squeezed around my neck. I began to swallow water and could see bubbles coming out of my mouth. Then she pulled me up by my hair out of the water, cursing at the top of her voice, while I trembled and bubbles were flying around us as she screamed, "You’re just like your father! You’re no fucking good! You only think of yourself, you never think of me!" I was too terrified to look at her, so I just kept staring at the Smiley Face on the Mister Bubbles box sitting on the edge of the tub.

As my mother began to immerse me under the water again her violent rage was interrupted by my father coming into the house. He wasn’t expected home that day. She threw a towel at me. "Get dressed you piece of shit and don’t you dare say a fucking word."

Yes, Mommy. I quickly obeyed her.

Don’t call me Mommy.

"What’s going on here?" I heard my father ask outside the door.

My mother snapped at him. "She wants shoes now. If she wants shoes, then she’ll get shoes." I quickly dried myself and put on my robe. I walked out of the bathroom to see her losing control and starting to hit my father. They were fighting in the hallway, and she started screaming, "Hit me, go ahead, hit me! I dare you!"

I tried to separate the two of them with my arms stretched out screaming, "Please Daddy, don’t hit her!"

He said, "It’s okay. It’s okay, Daddy, I’m not going to hit her."

A heavy silence descended on the house. My father had not had supper. Ignoring her, he took me to the kitchen and cooked me some macaroni. I sat watching him as he stirred the gravy. He talked to me quietly about the next day’s celebration, about how I would be his little princess, about how my family and friends were coming to see me in my new white handmade dress, and how he would be so proud of me. He wiped the tears from my face.

Then my mother walked in the kitchen. "You never rented any restaurant for me!" she screamed. He ignored her and carried our dinner to the table.

"Ruth, you better leave me alone," my father replied, turning his back on her.

Leave! she burst out. If anyone is going to get out it’s you, you motherfucker!

How dare you talk to me like that in front of my daughter! he said.

Your fucking daughter! she screamed. "All you care about is your friends and your fucking daughter!"

My father turned to me. "Ignore her, Daddy. Let’s bring your dinner in the parlor so you can watch TV, okay?" I agreed quickly as he picked up my dish.

She was standing by the sink, and I saw her turn. She had a knife in her hand. Before I could react, she lunged toward my father. "No, Mommy!" I yelled and then I saw her plunge the blade into his back. I couldn’t believe it, like a slow-motion scene from someone else’s nightmare. "No, Mommy!" I screamed again.

The plate of macaroni crashed to the floor. As my father was slipping, I saw her lunging toward him again, but this time he managed to get up. There was blood all over the place.

Slipping on the slick pool of blood and gravy, trying to call the police, I pulled a chair over, and I was reaching for the phone, but the phone was too high. I picked up the phone by the wire, and he grabbed it, took the receiver of the telephone, and smashed it across her face. Blood shot from her nose. It was all over the floor and all over me. Then I got down from the chair.

Her breathing sounded like an animal. My fingers just grazed the twisted cord, and I howled in frustration.

You bastard! my mother was shouting. I threw myself at her, terrified she would stab him again. "Mommy, please," I bawled, tearing at her bloody shirt and pants. "I don’t want the shoes, I swear!"

She stopped suddenly and her breathing slowed as she seemed to notice me for the first time. She turned towards me, her face drained and tight. She screamed in my face, "Do you see what he did to me? He’s no fucking good! This is all your fucking fault, do you hear me?" I stood limp and frozen as she held me by the collar of my robe.

I could see the knife’s blade just above my head. I was sure she was going to slash at me, but she let go of me and I fell back against the wall.

In that split second, the back door flew open, and my Uncle Frank stormed into the kitchen. She dropped the knife and walked into the living room and sat on the steps that led upstairs. My Uncle Frank went to my father and helped him up. In the next instant sirens were heard, and cop cars and paddy wagons appeared out front, and the street was filled with