Now at sixty-two, I often look back across the decades, reflecting on a life shaped by love, silence, music, and the quiet strength of being different. I grew up in a large family—two brothers and five sisters—but what makes it unique is this: I was raised by six mothers. My birth mother, of course, and five older sisters, each of whom took on a motherly role in some way. I was the youngest—“the Benjamin,” they called me.
Alone in a Full House
From a very young age, I often felt like an outsider in my own family. My sisters were much older—my closest sister was seven years ahead and already in school when I was still in diapers. My older siblings were entering adulthood, busy with courtships or marriage. One of my brothers had a mental disability and could only relate to the world as an eight-year-old might. The age gap between me and the rest meant I was alone, more often than not, wandering the garden, talking to myself, or sitting quietly with my thoughts.
I didn’t have friends in those days. At the time, I thought it was because I wore thick glasses or had childhood urinary issues—things children can be cruel about. I was labeled “cross-eyed” or “smelly,” and the teasing kept others at a distance. But now I know the real reason. At sixty, I discovered I am both gifted and highly sensitive—traits no one understood in the 1960s, least of all a young boy like me.
Schooling Without Belonging
School was never a sanctuary for me. I learned to read and write, yes, but I felt no connection to my classmates or teachers. I was always told I was “too serious for my age,” and my interests—news, complex books, and classical music—only deepened the distance. In truth, I didn’t feel lonely as much as I felt… separate. I retreated into music. It gave me truths the world couldn’t. From classical compositions to Dire Straits and the gospel of Elvis Presley, music became my refuge.
At nineteen, I faced an unimaginable double loss—my sister passed away at thirty-five, and soon after, my mother died at sixty-four. For years, those numbers haunted me. Thirty-five. Sixty-four. And yes, forty-two too—Elvis’s age at death. I never thought I’d outlive them.
Born of a Different Time
My parents were born during the First World War, in 1916 and 1917. They were not educated but were people of discipline, routine, and hard work. We were raised in a “pre-war” household—do your duty, speak little, complain less. My elder siblings were pulled from school early to help at home. Their goal was security—marry, settle, survive.
And me? I didn’t belong to that era or mindset. I didn’t understand it then, but I couldn’t simply blend in. I didn’t want to escape reality; I just wanted to find my own. And so, I did.
Becoming Myself
I took paths my family never imagined—first in hospitality, then into sales, eventually climbing into operational management. I didn’t fully “understand” it all, but somehow, I thrived. Maybe my gift made it possible. In adult education, I was honored as “Teacher of the Year.” A recognition I never sought—but quietly, deeply appreciated.
Today, almost all my family—my parents and most siblings—are gone. But I have a loving wife, Monique, our loyal Labrador Pip, and our two playful cats, Ross and Joey. Together, we live a peaceful, grounded life. A life built on resilience, difference, and the joy of finally being understood.
