Bullied and believing that some kindness still exists, a different kind of courage and a beautiful bittersweet remembrance. It is good to have a witness.
My oldest brother was twenty-five when he had the life stabbed out of him, but I was only eight. I’ve always known that he was murdered in Paris in 1969. What I didn’t learn until recently was that his whole life was only a dress rehearsal for that ugly final act.
My other brother Johnny, who’s thirteen years older than me and knew my oldest brother far better than I did, has helped me fill in a lot of the blank, bleak details.
Dad met mom at a USO Dance in Philly, accidentally knocked her up, and was in Europe fighting the Nazis when informed that he’d gotten her pregnant. Their first baby was born out of wedlock.
His legal name was Alton Howard Goad, Jr., but all we ever called him was Bucky.
Bucky was different from 99 percent of us because he couldn’t hear or talk. My mother…
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