One cold night, when he was doing paperwork at the station, some Ukrainian bandits loaded with heavy machine guns tried to take over the police station only to be met with hard resistance from the police officers in the building. What ensued for less than ten minutes was a bloodbath of horror movie proportions that took the lives of many great police officers, leaving behind a trail of pain for their wives, husbands, parents, and children.
One of the brave officers who lost their lives that night was my great-grandfather who had died doing what he believed—protecting and serving his community and doing what he thought was right. The meaningless tragedy is remembered today with a monument bearing all of the officers’ names who lost their lives that night.
When my parents married and decided to have a baby, they formulated an action plan: Escape from the daily grind of a communist regime in hopes of giving me a better life with more possibilities. They decided to settle in Toronto, where a large part of my family had already been living for years. It was the 1980s, a time during which the worker had a voice in the company, pay was high, and new businesses were opening around every corner. My dad was employed as a woodworker, making great money; we lived as a cohesive, loving family with my pit bull, Spotty, as my “brother.”
From an early age, my parents instilled qualities in me that I am grateful to have today. They taught me the honor of hard work and that a good work ethic will get you places. They also taught me that the values of love, compassion, and respect come from the heart, as well as to always “be yourself,” regardless of your situation or location, and to be guided by virtue. At the same time, I received the “no-bullshit gene”; to put it simply, there are a lot of people in this world, and not all of them have my best interests at heart, so if I have to let the “other side” out to protect my family, I don’t think twice about it.
My childhood was perfect; I played sports, had all the toys in the world, and lived in a stable home. I loved to read, and I listened to music all the time. I would draw and be creative, in order to unleash my over-worked imagination, as I lived in my own world half of the time. I was a typical kid who idolized Batman, Superman, Jean Claude Van Damme, and, of course, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and I loved my share of horror movies, including A Nightmare on Elm Street, featuring Freddy Krueger. I will not go into detail regarding the “wannabe Spiderman on the roof ” fiasco. I also played a lot of soccer, as we always had a park or fields near each house in which we lived. I also loved professional wrestling, had the headbands, and would pump iron with my dad; of course, I used little plastic weights.
The first time I got into a situation involving physical confrontation was actually the year we moved to Poland, when I was in kindergarten. The teacher’s son, who was in her class, was feared by the other students for two reasons: he was big and his mom was our teacher. If there was ever a conflict, we assumed that we would be the ones to get in trouble, regardless of who was at fault. He was obnoxious and would break toys that belonged to other kids for his own amusement.
One day during recess (I honestly cannot remember for what reason, but there were a million), we were nose-to-nose, yelling at each other as a crowd manifested around us. I remember pushing him down as I lunged and proceeded with some ground and pound, looping my arms as he assumed the turtle position. I then felt my ear being pulled with force by one of the teachers on duty as I was yanked to the office. I remember the feeling of accomplishment that day; I felt like the king of the hill up until the point I got in trouble. I was sure there would be additional repercussions at home, but I was met with acceptance from my parents.
Occasionally, other kids would mistake my kindness for weakness, but when necessary I would let my voice be heard. I would let a lot slide before resorting to my vast vocabulary to defuse a situation, especially in the diverse city of Toronto. The city is a melting pot of all cultures and personalities, and the elementary school I attended was rough, with gangs and even drugs. It was a Catholic elementary school with some great teachers, but the lack of staff, the old facilities, and the location combined to form a breeding ground of tough situations.
In eighth grade, my best friend’s parents decided to move to London, Ontario, which is approximately two hours away from Toronto. We had the idea of convincing my parents to move to London, too. My parents helped my best friend’s parents with their move, and when they saw the “forest city,” a smaller city of approximately 300,000 people and plenty of greenery, they decided that family life would be better here. Just like that, my parents were making plans to move to London, Ontario.
Since the age of thirteen years I was working in one way or another, from delivering papers to helping my parents at their European deli. I would do everything from taking orders, stocking, cutting meat, cleaning, and, of course, serving our customers. The first years, I really enjoyed working there, but when my parents would fight I dreaded it, especially when I was busy playing soccer, doing homework, attending Polish school, or working in the deli; I was stretched thin. I was now the co-captain of the school soccer team, which meant more responsibility.
After finishing after-school soccer practice, I would walk three and a half miles to the deli and work until around 9:00 p.m. At home, I would do homework and watch television, then sleep to prepare for the next full day. On Saturdays after Polish school, I worked in the deli until closing time, pulling six days per week on this schedule.
Now a senior in high school, I needed cash. I got a job washing dishes at the golf club across the street from the school. Three of my good friends were already working there, and the pay was fairly good. I added the job to my already full plate, and I’m glad I did. On busy nights, we worked hard, but it was fun in a way, especially when my friends were working with me. As kitchen staff, we assisted in food preparation and closing duties. As a reward for my hard work, I was always assigned to the Sunday shift. This shift was the best, as I would get all the leftover buffet food, and trust me—it was well worth it. All the other dishwashers wanted to work the Sunday shift, but I was the one getting it.
All of the hours spent working kept me insulated to some degree from the degenerating politics in my parents’ relationship. Yet I went through a lot of stuff that I pray no one else ever goes through. A lot was said and done, preying on my soul and pushing me to the depths of a dark world. It was even more difficult because I looked up to my parents, and their values are instilled in me even today. Suddenly, my entire world had been turned upside down with what seemed like the snap of a finger.
I remember sitting on the couch at the country club, waiting for my shift to start, and thinking, “What did I do in life to deserve this? Why me, God? Why?” The kids at school had money and easy lives, while I had to completely run on overdrive for most of my life with my family dynamics in ruins. I had to fight to get everything—I had to fight just to exist—so why was it that others had so much handed to them? I sat on the couch where millionaires came to relax and thought to myself, “I am smart, athletic, and, most importantly, good-hearted. I put the needs of others in front of my own and yet I have to struggle with my family life and finances. This just sucks!”
As the months went by, I was working out every day and putting on some serious weight. I started training when I was sixteen, adding forty pounds onto my frame. I worked out for an hour and a half a day, even after work, I took vitamins, ate like a mule, and drank protein shakes religiously after every workout. As a senior, I was a chubby 245 pounds; I had gone from the scrawny guy to the big guy. I was strong and benched over 280 pounds, shoulder pressed ninety-pound dumbbells, but I had a round face and a bit of a gut. I told everyone that I’d be a monster once I lost fifteen to twenty pounds. However, cardio was not my strong suit back then, and I did not lose the excess weight.
I think the weight was a subconscious symbol of pain in life, seeing my parents’ marriage fail and my mom battle with her personal demons. My grades slipped to the point where I was barely attending classes, showing up only to ace the tests so that I wouldn’t fail the class. I chose fun over responsibilities, and even when my entire world was crumbling, I was still somehow slowly pushing through. Some days, I immersed myself in movies and books to escape.
Whatever obstacles presented themselves, I lived through more drama in my first twenty years of life than most people do their entire lives. Somehow, it made me stronger, and maybe wiser to some extent.