First Days

I was born of Spanish parents

Well, not exactly…

My father’s parents came from the Dominican Republic, but he was born in New York City. From the stories he tells it seems that growing up in the Big Apple, even way back then, was far from easy. He joined the Navy at age 16 and served during WWII, sometimes aboard ship, more often in Naval aircraft. I have heard a few war stories, some funny, some tragically sad, but this is my story so I’ll let him write his own memoirs. I know that he was a tough guy growing up (born of necessity living in NYC and also of his family situation, which I do not know much about but gather that it was generally lousy). I have seen a picture of him in a boxing ring knocking out a fellow boxer. This is significant because if you talk to my older siblings (I’m the youngest) they describe a father that is foreign to me: tough, demanding, aloof; my experience was significantly different.

Somewhere’s along the way, someone convinced Dad he had a flair for art. He went to art school after leaving the Navy and pursued a career in commercial art. I’ve never known him to do anything else for a living; not that I think less of him for only doing art, for there was an immense amount of variety, challenge, and creativity involved. I have the same creative bent, but excepting the occasional dramatic stint it goes largely unfulfilled.

My mother was born in the state of Maine, the youngest of 6 girls on a farm. Her father was born in the US of Scottish heritage, but her mom came from Sweden. I talked with Mom not long ago about her experience growing up: it had its ups, downs, struggles, and highlights, but it was generally hard living on a farm and her parents were not the warmest people on the planet. Like the weather in Maine, they were pretty chilly. Sometime after she graduated from high school she went to work in Washington DC (in the Pentagon, no less), which is where she met my father, and they were married 3 months later.

They had 7 children in the next 15 years. Jean and Arnold were born in NYC. Roger and Michael followed in Binghampton, NY. The first 4 were “planned”. The next 3 were not. Rita was born in the back seat of a car in Missouri. They didn’t make to the hospital in time. Dad had to stop the car along the highway, help Mom deliver the baby, drive them the rest of the way to the hospital. He was deathly sick for the next 2 days as a result of the experience.

Dennis (#6) was born back in Binghampton. I’m not Catholic, but I am indebted to the Catholic Church. Right after Dennis was born, Mom was scheduled (while still in the hospital) to have her Fallopian tubes tied, thus rendering her unable to have more kids. Apparently the hospital administration caught wind of it and put the kibosh on it, being a Catholic hospital against contraception at the time. As a direct result, I had the opportunity to join the human race. A couple years later, Dad got a job as Art Director for a company in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. So, the family picked up and moved (again) to a small town outside Cedar Rapids called Marion.

I was born (at a very young age) in St Luke’s Methodist Hospital, Cedar Rapids IA, on September 13 at 3:55am. I weighed in at 7lbs and 15oz. Coming up with a name for the 7th kid wasn’t so easy, but in the end I was named Jon Bryan. I found out very recently that I was named after a guy named Jon whom my father golfed with. All this time I thought they had picked my name out of the air.

The back of my birth certificate showing my footy prints and something else I dunno - butt print?

I found a picture of me at 9 months in an apparent attempt to escape from my highchair:



Someone had written on the back of the photo "J.B. - our future president - at 9 mos". Looks like Mom's handwriting. She died in 2011, so she never got to see me become President.