Wethersfield Avenue

Being home with my parents makes me nostalgic of the various places we lived. The first house that I can remember was on Wethersfield Avenue in Connecticut. The house was a pine green duplex. Our family lived on one side of the duplex that had three floors. My paternal grandparents lived on the first floor. My mom, dad, BD and I lived on the middle floor. My 4 uncles and 1 aunt crammed in on the third floor. My dad being the eldest provided for the entire family, as the rest of his siblings were still in their teenage years. My grandparents were fond of procreating.

We had little to very little money; funny thing is I didn’t realize just how poor we were. I thought eating cereal with water was the norm, and actually found it tasty. Once in a while we would splurge and get McDonald’s or Burger King and of course split one large fry between the four of us, I hoarded my share and ate them slowly. I remember maybe 5 occasions where the whole family, including extended family, would order a large pizza, and I would savor my slice. Yes, I always wanted an extra slice, but I was never hungry, my mom would heap my plate full of savory Bengali food. I suppose it was a good thing, I never ate very much junk food; it was always rice and curry at my house. My grandma was very stingy and would always heap my plate full of rice with little dahl; but my grandfather would always sneak me more of his famous dahl. They were good times, lots of great conversation and laughter. We were one big family.

I realize now that we lived in a bad neighborhood. You would think that our neighbor getting shot or a gang member blowing up my uncle’s car that set the house partially on fire would tip me off. I was a naiveté lad. I was blissfully unaware of my surroundings, because it was home.

It’s pretty obvious that I came from the working class. My mom worked for a parachute factory and sewed parachutes; she is an excellent seamstress. I loved the beautiful dresses my mom made for me. My dad had 2 full time jobs, running my grandfather’s restaurant and working as a machinist at a factory. We were fed well.

I had few toys. I had one doll and my brother had a few blocks and a transformer. Our favorite game was the Imagination Game. We would pretend we were on an adventure in our backyard. We would pretend that sticks were our swords. We were on a mission to find treasure, Goonies style. We would make up pretend characters and battle with them. I could play this game for hours, I never tired of it.

We lived this way until I was 9 years old. My uncles and aunt and graduated from high school and my dad felt that he had fulfilled his obligation to them. He and my mom saved enough money to buy their own restaurant and a modest home in a safer town (another story for another time).

I never felt that my childhood was lacking. I had lots of love and lots of home made food. I always felt safe. To this day, it hurts my heart a little when I spend money. My experience has made me less of a materialistic person. I generally shop at Ross or Forever 21 and always buy items on sale. Don’t get me wrong, I admire the clothes at Barney’s New York and I do have one fabulous skirt and suit from there, but even now having the money to afford that lifestyle, I just can’t. Plus with style and flair, you can always throw together a knockout outfit.

I started writing this post because I realize that I am uncomfortable around rich folks (people that grew up with money versus the nouveau riche). I don’t feel like I’m part of their club. It’s hard for me to relate to them. I go to these functions at hubby’s work, and I suppose they think I’m one of them when they hear I’m from Connecticut, little do they know it was the ghetto version of Connecticut, East of the River. I connect better with those who came from working families. Every single friend I have, close friend, comes from the diametric opposite of a privileged background. Struggle makes someone hardy, and many times more real.