I was born on August 3, 1926, at St. John’s Hospital in Long Island City. I was the first person in my family to be born in a hospital.
By 1927, my father’s health had deteriorated to the point where it was impossible for him to do any physical labor whatsoever. Because my family wasn’t quick to visit doctors, no one knew what he was actually suffering from. They simply assumed that the rheumatic fever he had as a child had resurfaced and was causing his present condition. My parents sold the store and looked for an affordable place to live in the neighborhood. They found an apartment in a four-story apartment house on Van Alst Avenue and Clark Street. It was a typical four-room railroad flat: the rooms were lined up in a straight row, like train cars, and you had to go through one room to get to the next. We were on the second floor of the building, above a candy store.
We had a kitchen, two bedrooms, and a living room that was all the way in the back. The front door opened directly into a kitchen approximately fifteen feet square—which was pretty large for those days. The first thing you’d see when you came in was a big, black, ornate coal-burning stove. It dominated the whole room. In addition to being used for cooking, that stove was the only source of heat for the whole apartment, since there was no such thing as central heating in those days. When we first moved in, we didn’t even have hot water. The kitchen was the main hub of activity, and the kitchen table, to the left of the stove, was where the family ate meals, played their favorite card games, and socialized.
Right off the kitchen there was an anteroom that had a small tub where we bathed and also did the dishes. The toilet was in a little room to the left with its own separate door, and this was the only private room in that small apartment.
From the kitchen you walked directly into my mom and dad’s bedroom, then into my sister’s bedroom, which she would eventually share with my grandmother Maria, and in the very back of the apartment was the small living room, where for most of our early childhood my brother and I slept on a pull-out couch. There were also a couple of sofa chairs and an antique buffet that held all our dishes. On very rare occasions my parents would set up a table in the living room, where we kids ate when guests came for dinner. Even though the kitchen stove was large, it never adequately heated the very last rooms. I remember so clearly many a cold winter night trying to get to sleep in that chilly living room. Eventually my dad was able to put a potbelly stove in the living room for extra heat and my brother and I were thrilled: warmth is a wonderful thing.
It became harder and harder for my dad to leave the apartment. My mother had to find work in order to support the family. She eventually found a job as a seamstress in the garment district. The El train took her from Ditmars Boulevard into downtown Manhattan, where she worked all day long and then came home at night to take care of us. But her work was never done. In those days seamstresses brought piecework home from the factory to earn extra money. Mom brought dresses home every night, and for as long as my father was able to lift a finger, he helped her do the alterations on a sewing machine they had set up in a corner of the kitchen. In the morning she took the finished work back to the factory. This routine was repeated every day of my early childhood.
My father was a very poetic, sensitive man, full of love and warmth, and I vividly remember being cradled in his giant arms until I fell asleep. Even to this day, when I think of my father, I see the “huge” man of my earliest memories. His arms were strong and his hands were big and his eyes were deep, dark, and soulful. When I looked into those eyes, I felt there wasn’t a problem in the world that he couldn’t solve.
My father inspired my love for music. He derived tremendous pleasure from singing to anyone who would listen, just like he did when he was a child. He had a beautiful voice. He used to sit on the front stoop of our house and sing a cappella to my brother and me, in the gentle, sensitive voice I can still hear. He loved Italian folk songs and he used to sing one song written in the twenties called “My Mom,” which has always had a very special meaning for my brother and me.
My father was fascinated by the whole idea of show business, and when I was three years old, he took us to see one of the first talking pictures, The Singing Fool, in which the vaudeville star Al Jolson sang “Sonny Boy.” In a way, you could say that Jolson was my earliest influence as a singer. I was so excited by what I saw that I spent hours listening to Jolson and Eddie Cantor on the radio. In fact, I staged my first public performance shortly after seeing that movie. At one of our family gatherings, I went into my aunt’s bedroom and got her makeup. I covered my face with some white powder in an earnest attempt to imitate Jolson. Of course, Jolson covered himself in blackface, but, hey, I was only three, and I was making the best of what I had to work with. Then I leaped into the living room and announced to the adults, who were staring at me in amazement, “Me Sonny Boy!” The whole family roared with laughter. I loved that attention, and I guess that’s when I was bitten by the showbiz bug.
My father also loved art and literature. When we were old enough, he’d read to us from great classics, like Of Human Bondage by Somerset Maugham. The characters in these books helped us develop an appreciation for all the different kinds of people around us. My father was a real humanist. Astoria had quite a diverse population, and we learned at an early age to respect people for who they are, and not to judge them by the color of their skin or the way they looked. He had great regard for courageous individuals like Mahatma Gandhi and Paul Robeson, and he passed this on to his children.
He also loved to watch the sky. He told me that there were a lot of lessons to be learned by studying nature. I remember one starry night, when we were outside looking up into the vast darkness, he pointed to a star that seemed to me to be incredibly close to the moon. I was afraid that the star would crash into the man in the moon. My father explained to me that the moon and the stars were millions of miles apart. He pointed out that things aren’t always what they seem and that I should always learn the facts before jumping to conclusions. I’ve never forgotten that bit of advice.
One summer night my father took me by the hand and we walked along the East River. We looked into the northern sky. All of a sudden it lit up like a Christmas tree. There was an eerie glow, a multitude of pastel colors and designs. He told me that I was seeing a natural light show called aurora borealis, but I couldn’t believe my eyes. He knew that there were certain times when, if the weather conditions were just right, you could actually see the northern lights right there in Astoria, Queens. Of course, today the city is so lit up by electricity that you can barely see the stars.
That moment made such an impression on me that shortly afterward I had a dream that I was walking through glorious mountains hand in hand with my father. The valley was ablaze with all those different colors. I was mesmerized. I couldn’t believe the size of the mountains and the peaceful beauty of it all. I’m convinced that dream inspired me to become a painter. It still inspires me today.
My father also had deep compassion for human suffering, which he instilled in his children. His sensitivity made his shoulder a very popular one to cry on, and he eventually became, in a sense, a psychologist for the whole family. Everybody came to him with their problems, and he’d try his best to come up with solutions. He sat my relatives down and gave them practical advice, and everyone respected him for that. Friends and relatives also knew that they could count on him for a helping hand when they were down on their luck. He always brought people into our house who needed a place to stay and he never expected anything in return.
My mom once told me about the time someone broke into our grocery store. The guy was drunk, and in his clumsy attempt to rob the store he made such a racket that my dad went downstairs to see what was going on. When he turned on the lights, he found the guy out cold, sprawled over some egg crates. He called the police, but when they arrived, they told my father that if he pressed charges they’d have to lock the guy up. My father looked the would-be thief straight in the eyes and said, “Do you have a job?” And the guy said, “No.” My father replied, “Well, you have one now if you want it. How would you like to work for me?” He gave him a job right on the spot. You can’t beat that kind of thoughtfulness. It wasn’t charity; it was an example of the kind of human spirit that kept people going. After all, we were all in the same boat.
Italian tradition dictates that family is the most important thing in life and that Sunday is the most important day of the week, so every Sunday our entire family gathered at my grandparents’ house. They cooked all morning, and as soon as we arrived at noon, we’d sit down at the dinner table. There were so many different courses: antipasto, soup, and spaghetti—al dente, of course—with tomato sauce. Then we had meat or fish with vegetables, and to top it all off, desserts that seemed to go on forever. Sometimes we had picnics in Astoria Park. All the relatives were there, and after dinner the uncles took out their guitars and mandolins. The grown-ups made a circle around us and played their instruments while Mary emceed, Johnny sang, and I rounded out the entertainment by being a comedian. We had so much fun, I couldn’t wait for the next Sunday get-together.
By the time the Great Depression started at the end of 1929, my father’s health had gone from bad to worse. He had developed some sort of phobia that was never really properly diagnosed. One Easter Sunday at a very crowded Mass, Dad passed out. After that episode his condition became severe. It got to the point where he couldn’t ride the subway or go anywhere where there was going to be a crowd. He just couldn’t handle it. On top of all this, the stress of his inability to support the family, and of having to sit home and watch how hard my mom had to work to make ends meet, affected him badly. He started having trouble with his heart, which was already severely weakened by his childhood rheumatic fever. The doctors told him that it wasn’t safe for him even to climb three steps. Eventually he couldn’t even leave the house. He hated being confined, and that made his mental condition and his heart condition even worse.
My father’s mother, Maria Benedetto, came to live with us so she could take care of us kids while my mom was at work. She was a wonderful lady and loved her grandchildren dearly. She was very religious and was never without her rosary beads, and her ever-present crucifix hung on the wall above her bed. I remember her praying to her favorite saint every morning. Since she couldn’t speak any English, she prayed in Italian, and this ritual was very mysterious to me; I used to love to watch her and try to figure out just what she was praying about. My mother later told me that she had been asking for a quick and painless death when her time came. And wouldn’t you know it, she fell ill on a Friday afternoon and that Sunday she died quietly in her sleep, just as she had prayed for.
I was only five years old when she died, but I clearly remember my feelings. Like most people in those days, my family never talked about things like death and dying, so it was left to my childish imagination to try and work it out. I was very confused. On more than one occasion, late at night when I was half-sleep, I stared into the darkness and saw an image of a person approaching my bed. As the figure got closer I made out my grandmother’s features. She gently approached me, then sat calmly on the edge of my bed. With her warm, delicate hand, she stroked my forehead and reassured me that everything would be all right with my life. This really scared the hell out of me every time it happened. I’d jump out of bed and run screaming to my mom and dad, convinced that I’d been visited by my grandmother’s ghost. My mother had to get up very early in the morning and go to work, so she’d explain to me that I was dreaming, then shuffle me back to bed. I still get chills thinking about these “visits” and with my family’s superstitious heritage running through my veins, I’m not totally convinced I was dreaming.
My other grandmother, Vincenza Suraci, became ill around the time her sister passed away. At that point, Uncle Frank and Aunt Emma were living downstairs from Grandma and Grandpa. Emma, despite the family’s initial resistance, had become an all-around favorite. She taught herself Italian so that nobody could talk behind her back or plot against her. She learned to cook just like an “Italian wife,” treated us like angels, and pretty soon nobody, not even Grandma, could find a bad thing to say about her. Grandpa used to like Italian card games, and Emma learned them so she and her father-in-law could play together. They played for hours on end.
When Grandma was ill, even though Grandpa had a nurse for her, the daughters and daughters-in-law each took turns keeping her company every day. Even my mother, who had a sick husband, took a day every weekend and did her part.
Vincenza was a very hot-tempered, determined lady. She was always starting some kind of disagreement with somebody in the family, and when she got sick, she wasn’t about to leave this earth without a fight! She was ill for about two years and then she had a stroke and was in a coma for months. She never regained consciousness and died in 1933.
Fortunately, Grandpa Antonio Suraci lived another ten years. He was very funny and a lot of fun to be with. He was a real guru, a gentle giant with big red cheeks and a white beard. All the kids in the neighborhood thought he was Santa Claus. He sat on the stoop smoking his pipe all day long, and I sat with him. He couldn’t speak English very well; in fact, he was a quiet man who hardly ever said a word, even in Italian. He always seemed deep in thought.
He smoked a pipe that he filled with Ivanhoe tobacco, and when he ran out, he’d send me to the candy store for more. Because of his accent he pronounced the name “Ivan-a-hoe.” “Nino,” he’d say, “I need some more Ivan-a-hoe.” So when I went to the store, that’s exactly what I asked for: I’d say, “My grandfather needs some more Ivan-a-hoe tobacco, please,” and all the old men would break up laughing.
My grandfather made a smart move bringing the family to Astoria. It was a perfect place to grow up. Instead of being surrounded only by Italian Americans, as we might have been if we’d stayed in the city, the neighborhood was ethnically diverse. There were Irish, Polish, Greek, Italian, and Jewish families living side by side. I remember the Irish families were especially fond of the Mills Brothers, and Irish quartets hung out on street corners and sang traditional rhythm and blues songs like “Paper Doll.” It was kind of surreal.
My young life in Astoria reminds me of Dead End, the classic Humphrey Bogart movie that introduced the Dead End Kids. When we were children, we hung out just like those kids you’d see in the movie and we got into just as much mischief Once I nearly burned down the whole house! I found some matches lying around and I didn’t know what they were, so I started playing with them. Next thing you know, the living room curtains were ablaze!
Luckily, somebody on the street saw the flames in the window and ran up and started pounding on our door. My grandmother was in the kitchen and quickly came to the rescue, so nothing was damaged except the curtains. I still remember the screaming and the blare of the fire trucks. Boy, did I learn my lesson! I got a whipping I’ll never forget.
I was quite a handful and used to scare the devil out of my mom. I had this habit of walking backward down the street; don’t ask me why. Somehow it fascinated me to look at things as I was moving away from them. One day I was walking along backward and BAM! I got hit by a car. I was knocked out, and when I woke up at home, I had a huge bump on my head.
As it turned out, the car was driven by the New York commissioner of highways. Now, if a city official hit a child today, the parents would probably sue for millions of dollars. But my mom and dad didn’t see it that way. I wasn’t really hurt, and anyway it was my own fault. They said, “Why should we get somebody in trouble? Our son shouldn’t have been out in the street like that. He should have been looking where he was going.” They didn’t press charges or try to collect any money, even though they were very poor and this was during the Depression. They took the responsibility for me and I loved them for that. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the last time such a thing would happen. I was hit two other times—once by an ambulance. How I survived I’ll never know!
My brother, Johnny, and I were very close, so close in fact, that he and I were convinced we had ESP. We used to have fun playing these little mind games. We’d go into different rooms, concentrate on something, and then write down what we were thinking, and most of the time, we’d have written the exact same thing. It was really strange, and kind of scary, but it was a lot of fun.
John insists that I have the power to will things to happen. He remembers one particular Thanksgiving. We were preparing the holiday dinner, but we didn’t have money for a turkey. Mom was crying because she felt she’d let us down. I was overwhelmed with emotion; I simply couldn’t stand to see her suffer that way another minute, so I told her the local movie theater was raffling off turkeys, and somehow I convinced her that if she gave me a dime to go to the movies, I would win that turkey.
I ran down to the box office with that dime and bought my ticket, which had a raffle number printed on the back. I took my seat, but I didn’t even watch the movie. I just sat there clutching that ticket stub. The number on my ticket—I remember it so clearly—was four. I visualized that number over and over again in my head. I’m not really superstitious, but I kept saying, “It’s going to win, it’s going to win. It’s got to win.” The movie ended, and an elderly gentleman told everybody to get their ticket stubs ready. All the tickets were in one of those big bingo tumblers. The man spun it around, reached in, and sure enough, he called out in a loud voice, “Number four.” Next thing you know, I was dragging this turkey down the street to my front door, just like a scene out of a Dickens novel. When I showed up at home, the whole family looked at me like I was a magician. John just shook his head in disbelief.
John and I both loved music from the time we were little boys. In fact, for a long time it looked like John was going to be the star singer of the family. His voice was so pure and angelic that my parents thought he might have a future as a singer, so they scraped together the money to give him formal singing lessons. When his teachers heard the quality of his voice, they decided that he should study bel canto singing, a style of singing developed by the nineteenth-century Italian composer Vincenzo Bellini. Bel canto, which literally means “beautiful singing,” treats the human voice like a musical instrument. This style emphasizes purity of tone and ease of projection, rather than the melodramatic, emotional performances that were popular in opera at the time. Johnny was so good that he was chosen to perform in the children’s choir of the Metropolitan Opera, and was even given solo spots. You can imagine how proud my father was.
Our Uncle Frank was very involved in the local Republican party. In the mayoral election of 1934, Frank helped deliver the Astoria vote to Fiorello La Guardia. Later, Frank became commissioner of libraries for all of Queens and ran for the state senate. On many occasions, he arranged for Johnny to sing arias at various political functions. Johnny became known as “The Little Caruso.”
I was aware of all the attention Johnny was getting, and I asked my folks if I could take lessons too, but this was during the Depression and they couldn’t afford it. But I was determined. I listened to the radio and emulated the singers I heard. I loved opera and the way my brother sang, but pop songs really made me happy. For me it’s still the best music in the world: of the moment and full of life. When I was around six or seven years old, the local Catholic church staged a show with all the neighborhood kids. I did my impression of Eddie Leonard, a famous comedian and singer who went back even farther than Jolson, and sang his version of “Ida (Sweet As Apple Cider).” I was getting my taste of performing too.
Unfortunately for Johnny, by the time he was thirteen or so, his voice started to change. Some people in the neighborhood were jealous of his success, and this gave them the opportunity to say things like, “Poor Johnny, his voice isn’t the same.” I think this psyched him out. Instead of riding out the change in his vocal range, he just gave up singing altogether.
But nothing could discourage me. In grammar school I had a teacher who divided the class into “golden birds,” the kids she felt could sing, and “black crows,” those she felt couldn’t. When she heard me sing, she said, “You’re definitely a black crow,” and I thought to myself, “What is she talking about?” When somebody tells me I can’t do something that I believe I can, that’s when I rise to the occasion. Besides, my whole family encouraged me to sing, even if they couldn’t pay for lessons.
I never really enjoyed school much when I was a kid, but I did like playing the prince in my first grade’s production of Snow White. There was one teacher who really loved me. She thought I was a cute kid, especially when I showed up in my little prince outfit. I don’t remember her name, but she treated me like I really was a little prince, and it made me believe that I was special. Her acts of kindness will never be forgotten. It’s funny how one positive person like that can mold your whole attitude and change your life.
A couple of years later I had another teacher who really believed in me. Her name was Mrs. McQuade and she helped me get what may have been my first public performance. She arranged for me to sing at the local Democratic club. That undoubtedly annoyed my Uncle Frank, who eventually ran for state senate on the Republican ticket, but I was unconcerned with politics: this was my first gig! Since I was only nine years old, my older sister Mary had to come with me because I was too young to walk home alone.
Mrs. McQuade later helped me when I got to sing side by side with Mayor Fiorello La Guardia at the opening of the Triborough Bridge in 1936.
Construction of the bridge that would link Queens to Manhattan and the Bronx had begun on October 25, 1929—the second day of the stock market crash that set off the Great Depression. Over the next several years construction was repeatedly stopped and started. By 1932 it still hadn’t been completed, and the people of New York City were tired of the inefficient and corrupt administration of Mayor James Walker. It was time for a change, and the civic-minded Italian-American Fiorello La Guardia appealed to the voters.
Mayor La Guardia was an extremely popular man and he endeared himself to New Yorkers by always being sensitive to common people’s day-to-day concerns. I remember once during a newspaper strike, my brother and I listened to La Guardia do a dramatic reading of our beloved Dick Tracy comic strip on the radio. He said that no one should be deprived of their favorite Sunday comic just because the newspaper men couldn’t work things out.
La Guardia fought against racism and economic inequality. He ran for mayor in 1933, and during his campaign he promised that if elected he’d complete the construction of the Triborough Bridge. He won the election and kept his promise: the bridge opened on July 11, 1936. A grand celebration was planned. Mayor La Guardia would officially open the bridge to traffic and invite everyone to walk across with him in a show of unity and progress. I don’t know how she did it, but Mrs. McQuade arranged for me to sing at the opening ceremony. There I was in a white silk suit, standing next to Mayor La Guardia when he cut the ribbon! After his speech I led a throng of hopeful people across the brand-new bridge, singing the song “Marching Along Together.” Everybody sang along—even the mayor.
I was ten years old when I marched across the Triborough Bridge. My dad wasn’t there; he was too ill. He had finally been diagnosed with an “enlarged heart.” Today doctors could treat his illness, but in 1936 they were at a loss. Dad just got weaker and weaker. He still tried his best to help Mom with her piecework, and he looked after us when she went off to her job in the city. I remember him being at home with us all day long, which was quite a role reversal for that time. He even taught my sister how to cook.
My father’s body ached so badly at night that he could hardly bear to have the bedsheets touch his limbs. He spent a lot of time in and out of the hospital on Governors Island; sometimes he’d have to be rushed there in the middle of the night. For some reason his heart would swell up and push against his lungs, which would fill up with fluid, making it almost impossible for him to breathe. I was always so confused and frightened when this happened. Every time he had an attack the house would be in chaos, but one night I woke up to find everyone in a complete uproar. Somehow, this time it was different; I could feel my mom’s panic. I remember shouting over and over, “Oh, my God, Ma, what’s happening?” But no one answered me. It was very late at night, everyone was running around like crazy, and once again they rushed my father to the hospital. This time he was diagnosed with congestive heart failure, and he contracted pneumonia. He soon lapsed into a semiconscious state.
I went to the hospital every day to visit him. The shades in his room were drawn, and there was a simple lamp by his bed. I sat next to him in the dim light just holding his hand and hoping more than anything that he would get better. After an agonizing three days he regained consciousness and seemed so alert that the doctors told us he had pulled through and would be able to come home. The next morning we readied his bedroom and marched down to the hospital. But when we arrived, the doctor came out to the waiting area and gathered us together. He told us that my father had suffered another bout of congestive heart failure and had died in the night. We were devastated. My father was only forty-one years old. I couldn’t believe that this wonderful, beautiful man was really out of my life and that I would never see him again. I was heartbroken. My eyes welled up with tears and I wept.
The news hit us all like a ton of bricks, and I wasn’t sure my mom was going to get through this tragedy. That night the family gathered at the house, and there was complete pandemonium. My aunt Millie, in her grief, came up to my brother and me and shouted, “You killed him; you two killed my brother!” I was stunned. I had just lost my dad, and now, of all things, I was being blamed for his death. My mom was too distraught to reassure me that this was not the case, so I was left with the horrible impression that I had killed my father, and I suffered with this for a very long time.
The whole situation was so painful that this entire period of my life is a bit out of focus. I barely remember my dad’s funeral. To top it all off, after the funeral my father’s brother, Dominick, decided that now that my mom was a widow at thirty-six, with three kids to take care of, it would be better for her if I came to live with him upstate in Pyrites. That way, he said, she would have one less kid to worry about. I looked around in amazement as my uncle spoke, waiting for someone to veto this ridiculous proposition, but everyone thought it was a good idea. Everyone, that is, except me. Even my mom consented, and off to Pyrites I was sent.
Pyrites was a small, working-class mill town in 1936, about fifteen miles from the Canadian border. My Uncle Dominick and his wife Dominica owned the general store and farmed, and since it was summer, I helped out with the chores. Uncle Dominick never had kids, and he didn’t know the first thing about how to treat a child. He wasn’t a bad guy, but he wasn’t particularly sensitive, either. One afternoon I was hanging out with my aunt in the kitchen while she was ironing, and she asked me to sing to her. So there I was, leaning against a chair, singing, when in came my uncle. He started yelling at me, “Why don’t you do some work around here? Why don’t you milk a cow or something!” And with that he kicked the chair out from under me. He yelled at me all the time and he made me sleep on the floor. This kind of treatment certainly wasn’t what I was used to, and I missed my family desperately.
Fortunately, we had other relatives up in Pyrites. Our cousins the Futias lived next door. They had some wonderful kids my own age, including my favorite cousin, Mary Lou. I spent as much time with the Futias as I could. I hated going back “home” to my uncle’s house.
That fall I went to school with Mary Lou and her brothers and sisters. I didn’t like it much better than I had in Astoria, but I got to do some fun things. One time the whole school put on a play, and all the kids dressed in costumes representing the different nations of the world. Mary Lou and I were made up like we were from Japan. We were supposed to sing a song together called “Sing-A-Lee, Sing a Low-Down Tune,” but the teacher was so taken with my singing that I did most of the song by myself. After the show, all the parents gathered around me and asked me to sing. They thought I was “sophisticated,” since I had just come from New York, and they wanted me to do all the latest songs, like “Pennies from Heaven.” They dug into their pockets and gave me dimes and quarters to sing for them, which was extraordinary, since this was during the Depression.
Having lived in the city my whole life, my time in Pyrites was my first real exposure to nature. I’d never seen so much open space, so many trees and flowers, lakes and rivers, and just because it was so different from Astoria, I instantly liked it. I experienced a sense of freedom unlike anything I’d ever felt before. One of my favorite things to do was ice-skate on the beautiful St. Lawrence River. It was so peaceful there. I’d go for miles and miles. The river froze solid—people drove big trucks right over the ice, that’s how thick it was.
After about nine months—a whole school year—my mom decided she missed me so much she wanted to have me back, so plans were made for my return.
I found out later that not long after my father’s funeral my Uncle Frank had decided my mother needed a vacation, and he took her and my Aunt Emma to the country for a week. He also decided that my family should move to a smaller and more affordable apartment. Although Mary was only sixteen at the time, it was left to her to make all the arrangements for the move, and have everything ready when my mom returned. So all by herself Mary found us a new apartment right across the street from Grandpa’s house on Thirty-second Street. Frank and Emma lived downstairs from my grandparents, so the family was now very close. Mary decided that she would share a room with my mother, and John and I would once again share a pull-out couch in the living room. I don’t know how she was able to handle so much responsibility at sixteen, but the move went smoothly. Mary has always been an amazing person.
When I returned from Pyrites, my family was already moved into the new apartment. It was one more shock in a very traumatic year, but I think I understood why we needed to make the move. With my father gone and my mother working all day, Mary was left to watch after John and me, and it was much easier on her for us to be in a smaller apartment, right across the street from my grandparents. My sister is a beautiful, wonderful woman whose whole life has been devoted to family. She was a surrogate parent to John and me, and she’s always been my main source of emotional support.
My mom kept working all day at the factory, and as before, she did piecework all evening. We’d meet her every night at the subway station so that she wouldn’t have to carry that big bundle of dresses by herself, and in the morning we’d do the same thing in reverse. Even though she got paid by the dress, she’d sometimes pick one out and throw it aside. When I asked her why she did that, she told me, “I only work on quality dresses.” She wasn’t intentionally teaching me a lesson about integrity, but many years later, when producers and record companies tried to tell me what type of songs to record, in the back of my mind I could see my mother tossing those dresses over her shoulder. This has always been my inspiration for insisting on singing nothing but great songs.