From what he can remember he was born in New York City. Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, now renamed New York Presbyterian Hospital. It’s on Broadway and 168th Street on that infamous island of Manhattan. The exact height and weight is unknown to him. All he recalls is being told that he was a big baby. He has always been “big.”
Memories of a building somewhere in Manhattan and of a father he doesn’t hate nor love come to mind often. His mom has been there for him as much as possible. She has her faults, as does everyone. He willingness to give and assist others is definitely a fault. It runs in the family with her first born daughter, Ruth. But this isn’t about Ruth, it’s about Israel.
Flashes of a childhood blurringly remembered come through to him as he reflects on times past. There’s a reddish-brown brick building standing tall. His mom pushing him in a stroller. And his dad absent. His dad isn’t a bad person, he just hasn’t been there for much of his life. Not immediately there at least. He doesn’t hate him for it. But he doesn’t have much love for him either. It’s a neutral feeling, as weird as it sounds.
There aren’t much memories of him and his dad growing up. Just those times when they would all go to Macy’s downtown for Christmas, and maybe that one photo he recalls of him and his dad sharing a great bonding moment. That’s all really. The rest is all in photo albums that he barely remember even exist.
As a child he was blond and light skinned. They dressed him up as Casper the friendly ghost because of it. That’s all gone now. No more blond hair, no more locks of fine hair. Now it’s just dark brown naps on a head that sometimes doesn’t want to be had…