i exist because of the vietnam war.

my father, patrick, was an infantryman, sent there in 1967. one of 11 children from an extremely poor irish neighborhood in the slums of philadelphia, he was young, scrubbed and ready for a fight. his enthusiasm lasted all of a day, when upon arrival he saw children with guns. so he used his humor to survive. and in so doing, he met a very funny man named david. they became buddies. best friends.

david got a lot of mail from his family; patrick got nothing. in one of his letters home, david told his sister about his new irish mate with no mail, so she wrote patrick a letter herself. he replied. a correspondence was born. six months after patrick and david wended their way back to the states, patrick and barbara got married. about a year and a half later, the day the Mets won the world series in 1969, i was born.

alas, the marriage itself did not last. but the notion of turning death into life, hopelessness into hope, dark into light? that stuck.

a few years ago, after finally reconnecting with my father after a lifetime of figurative distance, i asked if he had any photographs of me from when i was young, as i had almost none. i knew he had been into photography and film -- while other kids saw "bambi," i got to see "dr. strangelove"; "the godfather"; "annie hall." so that christmas, under the tree was an album he and my stepmother had put together, a picture book of my childhood. is there such a thing as a  new memory? and when i turned the page and saw this photo, circa 1972, i started to cry (in a good way). there i was.

here i am.