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Video Reflection on Dying #7--Looking Back on My Life, part 2: EARLY CHILDHOOD
Claude LeBlanc NOTE: I'm writing these reflections on the lessens learned during my life as I face death due to ALS at the request of my children, but I thought there might be something for others to benefit from. My hope is that you will be blessed by the blessings of my life.
VIDEO TRANSCRIPT
Last time, I stated that I wouldn’t focus much on details, but I’m going to break that already. I was born on May 17th, 1959, at St. Francis Hospital in Lynwood, California, to Bernard and Elizabeth (or Betty Blair) LeBlanc, as the oldest of three sons. My father emigrated from Bouctouche, New Brunswick, Canada, a few years earlier, but my mother was born and raised an Angelino.
I’ll never forget that I was born on a Sunday because my mother reminded me, and my brother Eric (who is 13 months younger), of that fact hundreds of times, being grateful to God for it. In my next reflection I’ll focus on my religious upbringing, but this time I’ll remark on a few general things I remember.
I grew up in what was then known as South-Central Los Angeles, on 71st St. near Main St. We moved to Lynwood when I was two, Cudahy when I was four, and Huntington Park, in our own home, when I was six. At the time, I thought I was having a wonderful early childhood, not aware of any tension. I loved my parents, my brother, and our home. My mother stayed at home while my father worked two, and sometimes three, jobs to allow her to stay home and pay for Catholic school.
I now know that our family life was not as peaceful as I had imagined. My father’s main job (a machine operator at American Can Co. in Vernon) was during the “swing-shift”, from about 3pm to midnight, so we didn’t see much of him during the week, and, as it turns out, both of my parents preferred it that way. He would “make it up” on the weekends by taking us and our friends to many interesting places throughout the Los Angeles area, but rarely did our mother come along.
It’s interesting how our perceptions often differ from reality. My parent’s wounds, many of which I am still discovering, were passed on to me and my brothers within a seemingly normal environment. I’ll unpack this thought in a future reflection.
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