July 18, 1944

Everyone has a birth date, a commencement of life, ora specific time when knowledge, feelings, and growthappear and mature. My physical nascence was March 13, 1940.On that Wednesday morning, I was ushered into the worldnot through the warm and fluid uterine canal but lifted frommy mother's womb with the sharp edge of a physician's scalpel.Later in life I would discover that I was a cesarean section baby.My mother, a thirty-year-old housewife and mother of threeboys, simply did not have the physical ability to deliver methrough the normal birthing process. She was in the advancedstages of ovarian cancer. Twenty months later, she died at agethirty-one.

For the next three and a half years, my father took on thechore of raising four boys. My two oldest brothers, Chuckand Bob, often performed roles of surrogate parents for meand my brother Jim. My father emigrated from Thunder Bay,Ontario, Canada. He left the poverty of the farm in this nativewestern Ontario province during the '20s. Farming was not inhis dreams. He tried bootlegging during the Prohibition Era,running a ship across Lake Superior. He gained neither wealthnor fame in this illegal venture. Family stories relate that myfather was missing in action for four months on one of his runs.Chances are that he was nabbed by one of Eliot Ness's agentsand did time in an American hoosegow.

Poverty, the Depression, hard work, the loss of his first wifewho died in childbirth, and being a widower with four boys andno family roots in America took its toll. Three and a half yearsafter my mother's death, my father died of chronic myocarditison June 29, 1944. He lived forty years and twenty days.

Our parents left us naked and our love bruised andbeaten because they died. Each of us manifested our emotionsdifferently—anger, loss, fantasy, and indifference. It would takeyears to confront this family tragedy and come to a realizationthat we were not to blame. It was the damn gene pool.

In twenty days, we suddenly and tearfully traveled from LosAngeles, California, to Utica, New York.

When orphans are created, adults appear. Their motivesmay be charitable, a hand of God, of guilt, or of a prayingmantis eager to devour the lesser and unsuspecting. From out ofnowhere, a legal guardianship was established in the Californiacourts replete with a court-appointed attorney. My brothers andI did not know our newly appointed guardian or his lawyer.

Upon my father's death, the authorities were at a loss asto where to place four orphaned boys aged four to fourteenyears. Placement options were presented to the court. "Let'splace them with the family." Fortunately or unfortunately,"the family" resided in Canada. Eliminate the "family" idea.Next, "Let's place them in the Masonic Home in West Covina,California." Fortunately or unfortunately, our father was aFreemason from Buffalo, New York, and never demitted toa California lodge. Eliminate the "West Covina" thought.Another novel concept: "Let's place them for adoption."Fortunately, my fourteen-year-old brother said, "Hell, no."No Boys Town for us. Finally, "Let the legal guardian assumephysical custody of the boys, after all, he is a Mason." Theguardian respectfully declined the court. He demurred. "Sendthe boys to the New York Masonic Home and leave the father'sestate in California." As always, the praying mantis would claimfour more victims—this time with a legal guardian and a lawyer,with the blessings of the court.

We crossed the continental United States by steamlocomotive. I remembered the Pullman cars. My two oldestbrothers slept in the top bunk while Jim and I bunked downbelow. We were chaperoned by our legal guardian, ElmerJuckett, and another adult. (Remember, orphans have that effectof attracting adults.) Years later, my brother Jim told me thatthe other adult was the actor Melvyn Douglas. I don't have aclue why he accompanied us other than he was an adult.

We arrived in Utica on July 18, 1944. That day was mybrother Chuck's fifteenth birthday and one day before mymother's would-be thirty-fourth birthday. July 18, 1944, wasmy other birthday; the day of a new emotional DNA thatwould identify me for the rest of my life.

After a couple of days of medical quarantine and tests, wewere driven up to the camp. I don't ever recall seeing a pinetree, let alone thousands that stood as sentinels along the road.My trees were orange, lemon, avocado, loquat, and fig. I wasfrightened beyond belief and held on frantically to my brothers,seeking comfort and refuge. My brothers stared out of the carwindows as we drove deeper into the Adirondack forest.

At midmorning we arrived at the camp and were greetedby a grandparent-like couple. "Call me Mr. Wiley," he stated."And this lady is Mrs. Wiley. We are in charge of everyone andeverything." Each of us was assigned a permanent lot number inthe Book of Orphans, Volume III. My number was 881. To myutter distress and fear, the separation of brothers occurred. Mytwo oldest brothers were dispatched to the "barn." They weremy surrogate parents for the past three years. My brother nextin age went in another direction; where, I did not know. I wasescorted, screaming, stuttering, and bawling to the nursery. Thiswas my third painful experience of family separation in fouryears. No explanation was given except "This is the way thingsare done around here."

The nursery was located behind a row of pine trees in frontof the lake. It was attached to a larger building called the dininghall, which had a building similar to the nursery attached onthe other side. The three buildings were painted white withforest-green tin roofs, each with multiple window panes infront. All together, the trio of buildings gave the appearance of avery large white-and-green winged insect.

Ascending the concrete steps, turning right, I entered my newparentless home. There were about eight or nine children eitherolder or younger milling about, playing with dolls, teddy bears, orbuilding blocks. I don't remember any of them smiling or beinghyper as children usually are. I was on my own, like it or not.

I wandered out to the porch area in the window-encasedfront of the building. There I spotted a swarthy child about myage with the darkest eyes playing with tin soldiers. I held up myleft arm with my hand cupping the back of my head to keepthe swarthy child from witnessing my sobbing and stuttering.He heard me, declared a temporary armistice in his warfare, andstated, "Hi, I'm Johnny. Do you want to be the Americans orthe Germans?"

I didn't know what a German was. I was from California,but I knew who Japanese were and that we were at war withJapan. I knew that our neighbors down the street in San Diegowere forcibly removed from their home in 1942. I retorted, "I'mK-k-ken-ny. Doo-doo y-you wa-wanna be the `Mericans or theJaps?

At that moment, over tin-soldier war, I met a new brother.He was not, as my California experience thought, a Mexican.Johnny was a Greek and my new brother.

While engaged in our metallic warfare, interchangingGermans for Japanese as the fallen enemy, leaving the Americansunscathed, I could hear a distant drumroll. There was a pausein the drums and then a command: "Salute, one!" Then thedrumroll continued closer and louder. My thoughts were thatthat these drumbeats only made our war games more realistic.

Suddenly, Johnny jumped up and ran to the window andin stride told me, "The big kids are coming, we're going to havelunch!"

Confused and frightened, I too ran to the window. As thedrummers turned right at the end of the row of pine trees withthe big kids marching behind from tallest to shortest, a fightbroke out between two big kids. It didn't take me long to spotone of the combatants. My brother Chuck was fighting with astocky, curly-headed boy. The other big kids broke up the brawl,and order was restored.

The big kids were big boys and big girls. I never saw somany boys and girls in one spot before. Once again, I began tostutter, "Whooo are th-these b-boys 'n girrrls?"

We were ushered into the dining hall from thewhite-and-green right wing to the white-and-green thorax. Thenursery kids were directed to sit and dine on the raised stageof the dining hall. From that vantage, I saw that boys and girlswere segregated by age and gender. I looked for my brothers inthis crowded yet expansive room.

I spied both Chuck and Bob seated together with otherolder boys. I ran off the stage, made a beeline for them, andjumped onto Chuck's lap. Attempts by the "charity plantation"boss to return me to my proper seat were rebuffed by bothbrothers with a third who would bite the boss's ankles. Theboss, not wanting to instigate another big-kid melee, relented.The boss must have gone on vacation. I sat in my brothers' lapsfor two more weeks.

I asked Chuck who he was fighting. He scowled. "Somewop."

"What's a wop?" I asked again.

"You know, Kenny, a dago, a greaseball, an eye-talian,"Chuck retorted.

I didn't know those words.

Hours later my first day at the camp ended. My head wasburied in the pillow, sobbing and wanting for my brothers. Icouldn't remember my parents.

A wop? I have two new brothers—a Greek and an Italian.My emotional DNA was beginning a dramatic transformationon July 18, 1944.

Separation

The most powerful, fearful, and harshest word comingin, going out, and in between at the Home wasseparation. You came in being separated from a parent or both.The circumstances were beyond your control, but you weresaddened or felt guilt nevertheless. The circumstances were neverfully explained or understood. Worse yet, the sadness or guilt wasnever addressed. You simply had to cope with a very complexissue. And you left separated from your second family. I don'tbelieve it was ever the intention of the Home's administration toexplain or assist you with the issue of separation.

Upon admission, you were issued a number. Your name,your date of birth, your parents' names, your father's Masoniclodge affiliation, and your religious denomination were enteredinto the Book of Orphans. You were sent to the hospital for acursory medical examination, and two days later, you enteredthe segregated population of kids. Older siblings went to theplace where other older siblings lived, either boy or girl. Youngones of tender years regardless of gender went to the nursery.You were officially separated, and you continued in that livingarrangement until the day you left.

I entered the Home at a tender age of four years. When ourmother died, my two eldest brothers, Chuck and Bob, served asthe surrogate parents to my brother Jim and me. They taughtme to talk and walk. They changed my diapers and babysat mein a motherless home. They played and laughed with me whileholding their own sorrows within. They fed me in the morningand put me to bed at night. They taught me to swim and tookme to the San Diego Zoo, which was a block away from ourhouse. All that ended when our father died. We entered theHome and became separated.

Upon admission, there was no counseling administered oradvice given as to your new surroundings—your new life. Itnever occurred to those in charge that you came as damagedgoods and were in need of repair. You had to fix things yourselfor do the best you could. I don't believe there was anyonequalified within the administration who could offer meaningfulassistance or guidance. Instead, rules would suffice as yourguide. There were no houseparents or mentors. There wereonly matrons and patrons. This rule-laden arrangement wasreinforced on a daily basis by mass feeding, identical clothing,and on-time uniform activities and practices. In some twisted,ironic way, as you came more and more separated from yourformer life and natural siblings, you began to coalesce withother children and coexist with the new rules. I embraced theformer but was ill at ease with the latter.

Those living parents who placed their children in the Homewere forbidden to visit them for three months after placement.Perhaps this was the administration's plan for "final separation"from parental influence. One father was seen looking throughthe wrought iron fence along the Bleeker Street boundary insearch of his children. He did this on a weekly basis after drivinga distance of two hundred miles each way. Finally, his resolvegave way to the weekly driving grind, not to mention the costof travel and lodging and the toll on his emotions. This form ofseparation was more akin to the final solution than a logical planof placement in a caring children's home.

Being unable to live physically closer to my older brothersin essence denied me recollections of my early childhood yearsand the relationship I had with my parents. I never got to askthe simple questions that a curious child would inquire: Whatwas our mother's favorite color? Did she miss Grandma stillin Canada? What did she and Daddy do for fun? Who didshe like best? Where did Daddy work? Did he take you guysfishing? Where did I learn to speak Spanish? Why did Mommyand Daddy die? Are they in heaven? These childish questionslanguished, and then time eroded their sentimental value untilthey finally slipped away unnoticed and unanswered. Myseparation from the past was completed.

I never knew of siblings being roommates despite theircultural or preadolescent patterns. It seemed to me that brothersrooming together would be natural, even if there was a disparityin ages. For some unknown colossal blunder, this fraternal eventnever took place. When I became older, I was told by one of thegirls that they were never roommates. Charlotte and Mary weretwins. They entered the Home at twelve years of age togetherwith their older brother Carl. The brother, naturally, was sent toWiley Hall, where the older boys resided. By nature's act, one ofthe twins began her menstrual period while the other was stillin prepuberty. Those in authority opined that the menstruatingtwin live with the older girls and the other be separated to theyounger. The administration completed a successful but idioticmitosis of twins.

The only time I was able to capitalize on separation was aftermy eldest brother, Chuck, voluntarily left the Home to join theUS Navy in 1945 and, in 1947, my second brother, Bob, alsovoluntarily left to join the US Air Force. Neither brother reallyliked the Home much. They were old enough to figure outthe system and wanted out. Strangely, each joined a rule-ladenorganization. However, each liked the idea of a meager paycheckand the opportunity for promotion—something that the Homedid not offer.

My third brother, Jim, wanted to assume the big-brotherrole with great eagerness, sometimes to my detriment. He wastoo damn fussy and picky as to what I should and should notdo. My refusals and stubbornness only went so far. He wouldbecome frustrated and would threaten to punish me. I had beenin the Home long enough to know that there was no militiato come to your aid. So I did the next best thing and told mybrother that I would write to Chuck and tell him what wasgoing on. At the time, Chuck was stationed on the island ofGuam, a million miles away. It would take three weeks for aletter to go each way. Jim, fearing possible wrath from Chuck,was kept at bay for almost two months. By that time, thingscooled off between my brother and me. Having a brother inthe Pacific and another flying around the world to unknownplaces helped to create a modicum of harmony for the last twoPettit boys. I enjoyed a fear-free environment while my brother'senvirons were fraught with his anticipation of remote brotherlyretribution.

While I created my own rules of engagement for a fear-freeenvironment, my belief was that the Home went in an oppositedirection. The administration created an environment of fearwith its unwritten "get kicked out of the Home" mentality.Discipline was expected from every individual working or livingwithin the Home. If you violated any rule or policy, punishmentwas administered. The discipline was haphazard and tendedto be on the harsh side. You were ordered to stand on one leg,to have your mouth taped shut, to crawl through the mill, tobe paddled, or restrictions were placed on your activities andwhereabouts. Discipline did not fit the violation. It was one sizefits all. Discipline was not progressive but rather sudden andfinal, like a guillotine. The ultimate was being dismissed fromliving at the Home and to fend on your own.

What was stunning about this final solution was that itwas done so dispassionately and with ease. Never mind theage of the violator or his fears about being separated fromanother family. Never mind about the feelings of those siblingsleft behind. Never mind about the feelings of the parent whowent through unbearable hardship when placing the childwithin the protection of the Home. Never mind the futureof the child kicked out of the Home. Never mind about theoath that the superintendent took concerning the welfare ofwidows and orphans. The rules were the rules no matter howarbitrary they were or disproportionate when meted out. Therewas no appeal process to a higher authority, or at least, we werenever informed; and the superintendent's authority was neverquestioned or reviewed. He applied the golden rule. That is, hekept the gold and created the rules.