Breuk Iversen ( a l t e r n a t i v e - c o m m u n i c a t o r )
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AutoBio (part 1)
by Breuk Iversen (1964 - )
Born and raised at Sister Elizabeth's (Sister Elizabeth Kenny) Hospital
View Larger Mapin Sunset Park, Brooklyn on Saturday, July 25, 1964 at 7:56 PM. I was born the in Chinese "Year of the Fire Dragon" and am a Leo, another fire sign, with a Capricorn rising under an Aquarian moon. I needed to get that out of the way to quench the curiosity of the astrologically minded, and suggest and justify why I am a self-proclaimed egomaniac.
I was my mother's, Joanne Iversen, first birth that I believe was, surely, the most traumatic experience of her life up until then. Additionally, I distinctly resemble my father, Frank Iversen, with his blond hair, blue eyes (mine are more green), long nordic features, although I never grew to his height, to the point where even strangers recognized me because the resemblance was evident. These two circumstances is what had propelled my life into an emotional whirlwind that had less to do with me as a social animal and more to do with my birthright and rearing circumstances which were way beyond my absolute or immediate control. First, I was born and second, I was the spiting image of my father. Two things that didn't surmount for a sound relationship with my mother.
If growing up in Brooklyn in the 1970s wasn't bad or hard enough, than growing up under my mother's roof was. To make matters worse NYC was in turmoil economically, environmentally, and aesthetically. There where gangs that were big, graffiti was big, crime was big, than growing up under my mother's roof was to me, big. She has a bipolar disorder and was clinically depressed and is where I probably learned to not control my emotions and have life's path take me where it may.
A good example of her emotional outbursts, and utter love as a protective parent was finely exhibited on a hot, sunny early afternoon at the public pool in Sunset Park in the late 1960s. I was a toddler at the time and barely remember what happened but, recall the story, from one of her friends retold to me years later. A teenager was running around the edge of the pool pushing everyone seated pool side into the water, myself included. I must've been 3 or 4 at the time and as the story was told to me, I sunk straight to the bottom, diaper and all. I do remember that we always sat a the north corner of the pool and that this side was only 3 feet deep. My mother after retrieving me from the chorine stenched water proceeded to follow and grabbed the teen and began to bash his head on the pebbly concrete by his hair until several of his front teeth bounced onto the sun drenched cement. I remember hearing yelling and screaming and cheering which eventually dwindled to gasps and muttering chatter.
My mom was a bit heavy handed but, tossing toddlers, infants and others into the pool is just plain stupid. Having your teeth knockout is also not nice to understate her brutality.
My father was a dignified a man if you ever met one. He had a presence about him that was mild-mannered, honorable and content although, not outwardly proud, obtrusive or judgmental by any means. His demeanor was quiet and he was a man that understood he possessed two ears and one mouth and used them proportionally. He was skinny, tall, handsome and gaunt as he aged and one of the best descriptions came from my ex-mother-in-law who, in her best broken English, accurately described him as a Van Gogh self-portrait when she met him in 1998 on my wedding day. He smoked a pack of Pall Mall everyday of his adult life. And if there were two things I'd ask him, if he were alive today. Both his Pea Soup and Loupscous recipes.
My father was not the type of gentleman to get easily angered but, when he did, his wrath and fury were like no other. I've seen him this mad on only four occasions in the entire 37 years I knew him. Once at my mother, and twice at me. On these three incidents all hell broke loose and just for five minutes. The fourth incident was when a bully at school had started with me breaking my pencils and case. My dad simply brought me to meet him on his way home from school on 92nd Street just off Third Avenue. My father requested that he stop teasing and picking on me. The bully (I do recall his first name was Steven), was two years my senior, and an inch or two shorter than my father, had said: "Yeah, what are you going to do?", upon which my father hit him squarely in the jaw knocking him to the ground with a thump that I clearly recall shook the sidewalk. The shock on his face was worth a thousand words. The fall had also broken his wrist which just added to his animated and shocked expression. This incident warranted a visit by Steven, with his casted arm, and his father at our house on 93rd Street later on that evening. My father proceeded to explain what happened and his father smacked his son and proceeded to direct him home. This accompanied an apology from Steven's father. Apparently, Steven had lied about something to his father about the incident.
Back then, parents were parents and kids were kids. This was the 'common sense' approach to social parenting in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn circa 1970. If someone else's parent had taken the liberty of beating you and had good reason to, you wouldn't tell your parents because you would get beat again. It was like you had a parent everywhere monitoring, and watching. I believe it was the tenth generation (Gen. X) of our forefathers that ultimately had a hand in changing this premise. If not forever, then for the last thirty years. Parents don't hit their children like they used to.
Myself falling on the cusp between the baby boomers and Generation Xers. I guess this leaves room for a choice between which generation I want to be apart of. I've chosen to take qualities from both and on occasion used at which ever would be best suited for the occasion and at advantageous points in life. Therapists would consider this psychotic, my mother would say I was just being sneaky and I've always though it just, convenient. The are such anamolies in the marketplace.
That incident was also the last time that I had ever asked my father for help with a dispute because that event had utterly and completely humiliated Steven, which through word of mouth had gotten back to the teachers and kids at school. I felt bad for him. Thereafter, he had a silent respect for me which also wasn't neccessarily a good thing. Having had to have my father enrolled to 'protect' me was not seen as a sign of great strength by my classmates. This lead to a quick self-defense lesson and just how to protect myself.
My mother actually taught me. She told me it was all about 'attitude'. In the first grade, and I can't remember what warranted it, but, I had been called out by another bully named Vito Mileya. I had no interest in fighting him, but, the next thing I knew was that three others in the class had joined in and "called me out". I remember going to the principal's office and requesting to call my parents. My mother answered and I told her what was going on. She said that she would come up to school and assure that the fight was fair and that I would indeed fight all four of them, but only one at a time. Upon leaving school that day I went outside to find my mother waiting right there for me. "Where are they." she said. They were there in two bats of an eye (no pun intended).
First, I fought James Kenny, then Jeffery DiMartino, then Vito. The fourth one, Danny, never showed up. James was easy, I gave him a black eye with one punch and that was that. Jeffery came charging at me running full speed expecting to knock me over with his book bag positioned in center of his chest. I picked up my own bags and pushed into him and knocked him down. The fight with Vito actually hurt. There was punching, kicking and hair pulling before the principal pushed his way through a crowd consisting of what seemed to be the entire school, and pulled the thrashing bodies apart. There is never any winner in these things. Kid gloves.
I asked my mother why she made me fight them. She explained that it would be better to fight them now and get it over with in order to prevent this from continuing for the next six years that I was attending school at P.S.104. The next day I was one of the cool kids and that was good. I couldn't handle all of the attention and just wanted to let alone.
Both of my parents were not heavily schooled. Mom had a couple of jobs growing up dropped out of high school. She was the daughter of a handsome Italian man and her mother a to put it nicely, was a witch. This was true. I remember her throwing me a beating or two growing up and was not particularly sad when she passed. She had tons of strange and unusual objects, smells, foods, boxes and candles about her organized apartment. I'm a weird guy and like weird things, but, this stuff was weird. I remember that there always seemed to be a darkness about the place and when my brother and I visited. We had a hard time making friends. We were the grandkids of the witch.
I do have her crystal ball today. It's not necessarily that fine, it has bubble in it and my mother said the wood was made from the cross that Jesus carried some 2000 years ago. I'm getting it tested and will add that entry here [year] Some comedian commented that "Everyone has one Grandmother from heaven and the other from hell." My mom's mom might've been from the bowels of hell but, what she really was, was death incarnate.
There is one haphazard memory I have of that woman and that was the well-mannered Doberman Pincher she had, had 10 or 12 pups. For a 5-7 year old, I remember waking up early in the morning one day, 4-5 AM, to a pile of wagging tails and excited little whimpering creatures all jumping over one another to climb up onto the bed to receive some of the affection I wanted to give and remember this experience as a moment of true happiness. Even to this day. I reached my hand down to let them lick my hand and try to pet them which just sent the little lovelies into a frenzy. A couple of them that couldn't get close my hand barked loudly in fustration which woke the witch, and I do mean that literally. I remember her telling me in Italian to stop playing with the dogs and go back to sleep. This is just simply impossible, as one may imagine. This is like telling a starving chef not to taste what he's cooking. I did get a spanking for not containing my heart's emotions and desire. To this day I think I like cats better beside the many amenities they afford such as; affection when they want it, cleaning the box of shit in your flat trice a week, the two daily feedings, and not being as verbal. In other words, they don't get you in trouble. It's funny how a little trauma shapes you.
Breuk Iversen • 302 Bedford Avenue, 353 • Williamsburg | Brooklyn 11211 • 718 . 578 . 6613