We managed to, through a family connection, acquire another basement apartment in Bushwick, which we refer to as “Hart Street”. It wasn’t much, but a huge step up from where we had come from. Each now with a separate bedroom, my brother and I began building our new home. Our private backyard area served as an outdoor sanctuary. Our living room, mostly empty, remained a common area with a TV and computer included. I used some of my tax money to purchase my first iMac, a night-and-day comparison to the Windows systems I had grown accustomed to over the years. Proudly, we’d drive to Atlantic City in an old grey Honda Civic, bringing our dad back to NYC as two independent men finding their way to success. My dad was proud, and he made sure we knew. No strangers to a life of struggling, we started to find common ground as men, and the father-son relationship began to take a new form. Soon after, I would receive word from family that the church had officially disfellowshipped me from the congregation, and I was subject to exile. From one moment to the next, people I had known for the majority of my life were now obligated to ignore my existence, and I only found comfort in the trifecta the three of us had formed. I was finally ready to move on with my life.
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