In my belief system, there is no sin that God cannot forgive you for as long as you ask with an earnest heart. I know that some people might have a problem with believing that a murderer or a pedophile might receive a pardon for their sin, but I am not here to argue the basis of my beliefs. That being said, just because you may be forgiven of a sin, doesn't mean that you will be free and clear of the consequences of it. If you commit murder, your sin will be forgiven but you may still wind up facing a long stay in prison or execution. This is a true story of a seven year old who committed a sin that though he may have been forgiven for, it had ramifications that effected his whole life. There will be no dresses or makeup or dolls or anything remotely transsexual in this story, so you may want to turn back now. Here, in front of all who care to see, is my confession. This is my sin, this is why my life is so utterly miserable, and this is why I deserve everything that has come my way.

Those who know me, even remotely so, know a bit of my background, but it bears repeating for those who are unaware or may have simply forgotten. I was born on January 22nd 1975 at Elmhurst hospital in the borough of Queens, New York City. The people that produced me were Vivian Leonard (at least at that time that was her name) and Keith Leonard. I was born a boy and named after the sperm donor. The fact that I was born a boy is not my sin, though it has caused enough problems of its own.

I lived in the care, if you can call leaving a baby alone in a house while you go out and drink and smoke pot care, of these two individuals for a few short months until the senior Keith decided he had enough of Vivian and tucked his tail between his legs and made a run for it. Vivian, deciding that I, the younger Keith, was not the answer to fixing a failed marriage, looked for a way to remove me from the scene. The fact that Vivian's and Keith's marriage didn't work out was also not my sin and may have been a blessing in disguise.

The womb provider wanted to put me up for adoption, wanted me completely out of her life so that she could live unencumbered. My Aunt Rosalie wanted to raise me as her own. That was not acceptable from my mother's standpoint, probably not wanting a constant reminder of her failed union, and there was actually a court battle over whether or not I would be an orphan. As fate would have it, my Uncle Salvatore (we are good Sicilian stock) was already a foster parent and was able to take me into his home while the court proceedings raged. Can you imagine that? Not only did the bitch that bore me not want to raise me, but, when someone else was willing to provide love and security, she didn't want that as well. As you could imagine, the court proceedings caused a rift in the family, and for a while various family members didn't talk to one another. The fact that my family had its little feud is also not my sin, if it weren't me they would find something else to fight over like who ate the last meatball or who slighted who at the last family gathering by not saying hello enthusiastically enough.

You needed this background information in order to get a grasp of the events that were about to happen or you would be so utterly lost because the whole situation sounds like some badly conceived story that if I saw in on the internet I would quickly log off and utter, out loud, the word “bullshit.” Unfortunately this bullshit happens to be real and it also happens to be my life.

I was seven years old, still living in New York City, still living with my Aunt Roe from the time I was three, and generally a happy kid. My aunt provided for me, almost to the point of being spoiled and I was as well behaved as a hyperactive little kid could be. Life, though it may be confusing for some, made sense to me and I didn't question things. I just did what kids did; I went to school, I did my homework, I played, and I watched The Dukes of Hazard and The Muppet show religiously. I didn't question the situation I was in, nor did I ever feel the reason to. But that would change, and life around me would change as well.

Like I said. I was seven years old. It was early spring, maybe March or April, and the weather outside was mild. I don't know the exact day, other than the fact that it was on a weekend when the event happened. A day like that deserves to be remembered, only so one could hope to forever blot it out of their memory.

I was in my room. That is where everything started. No, let me change that. That is where I discovered where everything started. My, for lack of a better word and with much disdain, mother was over my house. Isn't that odd for a seven year old to say “my mother was at my house.” Not saying something like “me and mom were at our house”. Saying my mom was at my house makes me sound like I'm a middle aged house wife and not like a seven year old little boy.

Anyway. My mom was at my house. Really apartment, but no one ever uses apartment to describe where they live. It wasn't that odd for my mother to come over. I don't know when the visits actually started. I know she didn't visit me when I was three and my aunt and I lived on Harmon Street. I know she didn't come around when my grandfather lived with me and my aunt (he wound up moving to Florida), so I guess the little visits happened a little after when I was four and a half. Usually, I found out later, the visits started when my mom found need for me. Most of the time there would be a man involved in that need. Kind of weird just to type that, but the world back then isn't the same as the world is now. I was I guess a little caveat in my mom's man trapping schemes. Not only do you get me, but you get a son. Doesn't matter. The fact that my mom was around wasn't all that odd, I knew who she was, I knew she gave birth to me, I knew I didn't live with her and I didn't really care. Life was how life was. Normally when my mom came over we would wind up doing stuff like going to the park or the movies or to her boy friend's place. Guess I was an attractive accessory.

So I was in my room which was all the way at one end of the railroad apartment, the one with the window that faced the street. I don't know exactly what I was doing, but, for the sake of the story I will insert what I would normally be doing. I was sitting on my huge wooden toy chest, legs Indian style. I had a little box fan that was on one edge of the toy box, facing away from me as I sat behind it. It was my propeller and the toy chest was my plane and I was pretending to be a pilot. I don't know why I never made the fan face me so I could feel the wind in my face, I guess in my seven year old mind propellers didn't work that way. So there I was, pretending to be a pilot with my aunt and my mother (listed in order of importance) were in the kitchen. Little did I know that life was about to change.

I don't know what started the argument. I probably didn't even hear the beginning of it being three or four rooms away. I'm sure the conversation started low and almost civil, not loud enough for a seven year old boy who was playing behind a fan to hear. But, as arguments go, it grew louder and louder. It got so loud that it interrupted my playing and I turned the fan off to hear it better.

I didn't know what the argument was about, but I am most certain it was about me. Being a seven year old and knowing that a fight was going on a few rooms away, I did what most kids would do, I walked in on it. My goal was to be peace keeper, hoping that my presence would make the adults in the house talk at a more relaxed tone and hash things out as adults. I didn't have an inkling that I would become a part of the argument. I'm not saying that I started yelling and screaming at the adults, that I made points and counter claims. I was part of the argument in a different way, I became a weapon, an object to be used to inflict pain in any way that I could. It would've been better if my mom just lifted me by the ankles and bludgeoned my aunt with me, but that would have caused less pain.

My aunt and my mother were yelling at each other in the kitchen. They were both sitting at the table, my mother sitting closest to the door, that would be important. I was standing at the other side of the table from my aunt, closest to the partition that separated the kitchen from the living room and actually closest to the door leading out of the apartment than either of them.

The argument, by the time I had made my presence known, had reached its crescendo. In a blur, my mother stood up, put on her blue wind breaker (the fact that she wore the wind breaker and that it is so prevalent in my mind offers me the only clue that this happened in spring), and said something nasty to my aunt.

“Keith,” my mother said to a confused seven year old. “Let's go.”

I was in shock, I suppose, because I certainly wasn't processing any information at the moment, and felt my mom grab my wrist as she led me out the door. It was like a whirlwind. I never left the apartment so fast. It seemed like an instant that my mom and I were out the door. Her face was stern, firm and unflinching. I don't think I ever seen her so determined and didn't think it was my place, or even safe, to question what she was doing. We were down the three steps of the stoop and walking up Himrod Street towards Underdunk avenue. We must have been walking at a breakneck speed because we were half way up the block before my Aunt came out of the apartment.

“Keith,” she called out to me. “Keith.”

My eyes still feel with tears as I can still hear her calling me across the years.

“Keith!”

I turned my head ever so slightly so I could see her.

My mother had my wrist still and held it tight. She gave it a little tug. “Don't look back,” she commanded

And I obeyed. I don't know whether out of confusion or out of fear, but I didn't look back, I didn't stop, I just stupidly walked away from the person who raised me and who loved me. It was then, at that very precise moment, that I had sinned.

I didn't realize that I was being kidnapped. I didn't know what the hell was going on. I do know that I was taken to a strange place. I was introduced to a person to 'Aunt Helen,' who was somehow related to the man that my mom would shortly marry.

The place was odd and foreign and I felt very uncomfortable being there.

“Keith, Keith,” my aunt called through time and space. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't have been able to find my way back home.

It was there that the brainwashing began. My aunt stole me from my mother, I was told. That my mom loved me and always wanted to take care of me. And then the kicker, that she and Richie were about to get married and that we would be a normal family with a real mom and a real dad. Up until then I didn't know that I wasn't normal, but what seven year old can argue with “don't you want to be like all your friends and have a real family.”

If this was some sort of fantasy I could go on and on about how we lived incognito, how in order not to be recognized that I was put in a wig and a dress. But, I wasn't even afforded that luxury and whoever has read this far has been denied the joy of hearing of finery.

The next day I was returned. But because of my one sin, another was about to occur. That is the way sin works, it kind of steamrolls on you. If you catch it early enough or don't commit it in the first place you might have a chance to contain its effect. I was not strong enough as a seven year old to realize this.

I was home for maybe a week. My aunt was sitting at the kitchen table. I don't know what she was doing, but I know what I did was about to wreck both of our lives.

“Aunt Roe,” I said softly. Sin had planted this idea in my head and I was going to see it through.

“Yes Keith,” she answered as she looked up at me.

“I want to live with my mom and with Richie so we could be a real family.”

God, I should've just grabbed a knife and stabbed her in the heart. It would have been less cruel.

“Are you sure that's what you want?”

I nodded my head yes and with that I sealed my fate. One sin begets another and though there may be atonement, there is sometimes punishment that goes along with it. I have been feeling the effects of that punishment for almost thirty years and I will continue to do so until my last breath is expelled. I had sinned and the agony I have endured is much deserved.