A Funny Thing Happened on My Way to the Birth Canal…

Hello and Welcome to the crazy misadventures of my childhood—17 cities in 7 states, 15 schools before my 18th birthday, and one perpetually packed suitcase. Consider this your boarding pass.

Before we begin, let’s acknowledge the obvious: my father was born and raised in a different era with an entirely different rulebook. He was complicated. Some of his choices… well, you’ll see. I’m telling these stories as truthfully as possible because you simply cannot untangle our lives without blurring the lines between work and home. In our family, those lines never just blurred, they dissolved.

Revisiting my childhood doesn’t always put my Dad in the best light. Yes, he was handsome, suave, sophisticated… and absolutely terrible at relationships. He loved women (a lot of women) and had a talent for blurring personal and professional boundaries. Some of his relationships were long-term, many were short-term, and most were dramatic enough to merit their own soap opera.

Yet none of them compare to the saga of Frank and Eleanor/Chris…he being the gasoline, she being the match. This first Hotel Brat Revisited post covers The Hilton Years: pre-brat to brat-birth, and my introduction to my parents’ very unique love/hate story.

Seatbelts on? Here we go….

The Woman With a Thousand Names

My mother, known to me as Chris Rota, entered the world of 1958 New York City as Eleanor Galanis: barely 20, with two children, a Florida address, and dreams of becoming a model. While visiting her husband’s family in New York, she was talked into stopping by a modeling agency… and somehow ended up named Miss Subway March/April 1958. (If that sounds random, it’s because it absolutely was.)

Eleanor and James Galanis, my mother and half brother. I was told that this was a picture used by Parents’ Magazine…but am still researching.

I don’t know much about my mother before or after the brief eight years she was in my life, but I do know this: in 1962 she divorced her husband, and some time between then and 1966, she abandoned her children in Florida, returned to New York to chase modeling dreams, and began spending her time with photographers and models. One of these detours eventually led her into the orbit of…

Taken at the New York Hilton sometime around 1964

The Rising Star at the Hilton

…my father, Frank A. Rota.

By 1966, he was a rising star at the New York Hilton Rockefeller Center, a young Food and Beverage Manager balancing a skyrocketing career and a struggling marriage. His second wife—described by my grandmother as lovely, sweet, and very Italian—had been married to him long enough that both families expected a bambino or two. When none appeared, the families blamed each other’s “equipment.”

Then my father announced I was on the way.

Divorce. Drama. Cue the next episode.

Though I never learned exactly how my parents met, I imagine their first encounter involved time stopping and the room warming by at least 10 degrees. He was handsome, impeccably dressed, and magnetic. She was petite, blonde, and heartbreakingly beautiful. They were fire and gasoline.

And the trouble with Eleanor was only beginning…

The trouble with my Mother…

It turns out my mother had a long-standing drinking problem—possibly beginning in her teens. She lacked motherly instincts and had, shall we say, creative interpretations of morality when it came to raising children.

My father loved nightlife until the day I was born. He always said the last time he drank whiskey and smoked a cigar was while celebrating my arrival. Before that, he lived fast, worked in the hottest clubs in New York, and knew everyone worth knowing.

My mother adored that world. She loved the parties, the glamour, the VIP treatment at places like Toots Shor’s. She felt like someone when she was on my father’s arm. But while she leaned into the nightlife, my father desperately wanted the American Dream—house, kids, pets, lawn mower, the whole Norman Rockwell kit.

When her secrets began surfacing, the fallout was explosive.

There had to be a KABOOM…

I imagine their early relationship was intense from day one—not slow, not careful, but the kind of connection where everyone around them knew to take cover. She had left Florida and two children behind. He was unhappily married and bitter about the whispers that maybe he was the reason there was no baby at home.

My mother grew up rough, with alcoholic parents who neglected her and forced her to grow up too fast. She was stunning—too stunning to ever go unnoticed. Men were both her audience and her downfall. Her first husband was 10 years older… so was my father.

Her dream of fame seemed to give way to the dream of being with my father. And he—obsessed, captivated, maybe even in love—was determined to build a perfect family with her, despite multiple glaring red flags.

Women were my father’s kryptonite before and long after Eleanor. He grew up under the fierce rule of my grandmother, Carmela Rota…made tough by tragedy and determined to protect her son at all costs. We’ll explore that mother-son saga another time, but suffice it to say: his need to “rescue” women met her need to be rescued, and the combination was nuclear.

Surprise!

So it may not shock you that my mother freely admitted she didn’t prevent the pregnancy, and was hoping to give Frank the one thing he wanted most: a child. Trouble came when she was expected to behave the way my father and my grandmother, (and society), expected her to. She was savvy enough to give my father the news when she was in her fourth month, perhaps hoping to delay lockdown. She was not prepared, however, for the boredom of waiting for my father to get done with his normal 12 hour day/night. She started sneaking out with friends, but made the mistake of being seen, and worse, drunk.

Everything changed when he received a phone call that my mother had been found at the bottom of her apartment building’s stairs. She was showing, Social Services was called, and the situation escalated quickly.

Enter Carmela

We will explore the mother/son relationship that was forged in violence and loss in a future post, but for now, suffice it to say my Father’s need to “rescue” women combined with my mother’s vulnerability would have been a heady brew.

Most of my early childhood stories were delivered like communion—quiet, solemn fragments. And by the time I was old enough to understand them, my father had destroyed many of the documents that would have explained everything.

When my dad heard about the “fall,” he called my grandmother, who instantly knew what to do. She had been obsessed with the Gloria Vanderbilt custody story back in the 1930s. Somehow, she managed to secure a judicial ruling granting custody of me to her and my father before I was even born.

My mother could return home, but she could not be alone. A social worker visited regularly, and a nurse or relative was always present to make sure she didn’t drink.

It was dramatic, extreme… and effective.

I made it!

For the Record

For the Record

A rare January heat wave hit NYC when I was born, and dad always bragged that he wore shorts when he picked me up from the hospital… Indeed, the record still holds.

Partners in Baptism

It was odd to me that my Dad allowed friends of my mother to stand as Godparents. The first time I saw my Baptism card, I made the mistake of asking. Let’s just say he was not a fan.

Collateral Damage

During a visit in 2017, my father casually mentioned he had “gotten rid of” the custody documents. A flood had ruined photos and papers anyway. In a rare moment of honesty, he answered some of my questions.

I asked about the second wife—the one my grandmother had described as kind and lovely.

Me: “How did you tell your wife you were having a baby with someone else?”

FAR: “Well, I walked in, told her to sit down, I had some news. ‘Turns out I’m going to have a baby… so I’m gonna pack some stuff and take off.’”

Me: “What did she say?”

FAR: “What could she say? Better to tell her quick so she could get on with her life.”

Me: “Did she? What happened to her?”

FAR: “Didn’t marry again. Took care of her parents.”

Me: “So you just packed your stuff and walked out?”

(He finally looked sheepish.)

FAR: “I told her to have a good life, that she was a good girl, and I was sorry it happened.”

(Pauses.)

“And then I told her to make sure she called her mother.”

Best Foot Forward

Whatever happened during the pregnancy should have ended their relationship. But for eight years, my father kept trying to fix what was broken, or to make her care enough to fix it herself.

He deeply loved my mother. But it was a toxic love, the kind that makes sense only when you understand the hell they put each other through, leaving a trail of collateral damage behind them.

And I had a front row seat to it all….

Thank you for taking the time to visit, please don’t hesitate to reach out!

Don’t forget to check out our sister blogs Everyday Hospitality & Lines on a Resume

COMING SOON

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COMING SOON 〰️