The Insidiousness of Unprocessed Trauma

He came to America from Italy after the Second World War, along with his brother, sister, and mother. His own father had come a few years earlier, setting up roots and establishing a foundation for the family. He came by ship. He once recalled the different people he met during the voyage and how it opened his eyes to how big the world really was.

My father was an interesting man—flawed as we all are, but with no serious vices. He was whip smart, gaining a master’s degree in political science from Columbia University—no small feat for an Italian immigrant who learned the language by going to the movies. I remember how he recited the entire Bill of Rights from memory when I had forgotten my history book at school. But despite all of his wonderful qualities—his wit and humor, his alacrity and intelligence, his dedication to his children—there’s another quality that enters my mind when I reflect upon him: unrealized talent.

My father had the intellect, charisma, and organizational capabilities to be highly successful. Instead, he carved out a career running seniors’ dances out of a catering hall in Brooklyn. It was a weekend business that paid cash. It provided a solid living, but he never saw beyond the four walls and dance floor. I remember going with him to Costco once. Looking at the square footage, he said, “Wow, imagine the dance we could run in here!”

My father was often criticized by some people for being “lazy.” His older brother fared better, returning to Europe in the 1960s and doing business in over 12 countries, acquiring a significant volume of capital holdings and real estate. When I met with him in Italy shortly before his passing in 2022, he reflected upon my father’s dance business.

The original lease for the small club where my father began his career was on Canal Street in New York City, a property he received from his brother when he decided to leave and pursue more meaningful opportunities. “That lease killed him,” my uncle Mario said. That business and its subsequent enterprises—which my dad cultivated quite effectively—provided my dad with a level of comfort that kept him from truly utilizing his talent. I never understood why he accepted these limitations—until many years later.

Growing up, my father would tell me stories. Many of them were inventive children’s tales—“The Good Ape and the Giant” was a staple. He would captivate me with his improvisation. Whenever he said, “To make a long story short,” I would interject, “Keep it long!”

But as I grew older, he told darker stories. Casually, he recounted the horrors he observed during the Second World War. He spoke of a young boy who found an undischarged German grenade. Not knowing what it was, the boy played with it, and it blew up in his face. My father heard the explosion and saw the aftermath. He also saw another little boy accidentally run over by a military truck on a mountainside. There were other tales, including those about the deprivations he experienced during a food shortage. My father always lamented that he would have been taller if he’d had better nutrition during his formative years.

After coming to the States and becoming a citizen, in 1952 he was sent off to fight in the Korean War. He often talked about that trauma as well: an explosion that killed several of his friends; a fellow soldier bitten by a venomous snake and dying in front of him; a superior officer accidentally shooting a soldier while cleaning his gun. There was a lot of trauma and I never understood how much it affected him.  I don’t think he fathomed it, either.

Looking back, I see that my father never quite processed these painful experiences. It’s clear to me that he dealt with depression throughout his life, likely as a result. His brother had many of the same experiences, including service during the Korean War, and I often wondered why they didn’t affect my uncle in the same way.

During Korea my uncle served as a war photographer, recording the horrors of war. Is it possible that exploring man’s inhumanity to man through the safe prism of a camera lens helped my uncle put his traumas into perspective? Who knows? But it may have been therapeutic. My uncle also had some issues with depression, but not as debilitating.

Upon reflection, my main takeaway is that internalized trauma affects people in insidious ways. Perhaps if my father had seen a therapist at some point and sorted out his experiences, he would have been able to change his internal vibration and stave off his depression - he may have been able to heal and have the success he was so clearly capable of. He was not a failure by any means, but if the average person only realizes a fraction of their potential, an exceptional person may never even skim the surface. And he was exceptional in so many ways.

He was a good person with unrealized talent. Just like you and me.