DON'T POKE THE BEAR

“Don’t poke the bear.” We’ve all heard the expression, preached it, and subscribed to the mindset that we are powerless against those we perceive to exert dominance over us. Bears are formidable creatures, embodying an immense strength that elicits both fear and respect. For over a decade, I have kept silent in fear of poking Tommy Manzo, my stepfather of fifteen years—a proven to be dangerous man, who won the loyalty of my blood family.

I could write a novel as to what made Tommy such a complicated man to be raised by, but instead I’ll speak to how I came to fear a man who promised to keep me safe and what it feels like to lose the love of my extended family. Many of these family members were also figures I feared to confront, leaving me emotionally stranded.

Tommy has known me since birth. My mother's sister, Caroline, is married to Tommy’s brother Albert, making us "family" from the start. It wasn’t until I was six years old that my mother and Tommy began a romantic relationship that eventually led to marriage. The long history of these relationships created a deeply embedded belief in the connection of our modern family. We had trust in who Tommy was as a man.

Tommy was an enigma—an extravagantly generous and charismatic figure who captured the affection of everyone around him, earning the loyalty of church members, politicians, and law enforcement alike. To know Tommy was to love him. Yet beneath this veneer of charm lay a complexity of darker undercurrents, raising questions about the true intentions of his relationships and the reality behind the façade.

Behind closed doors he was an unavailable husband, a notorious cheater, and a workaholic. I watched as he dangled the promise of a better future in front of my mother while stripping away her confidence, breaking her down and using me as leverage in his manipulations. The hope of a single mother lies in finding a partner that loves their child. I now recognize these heartbreaks as sacrifices that my mother endured in loving me more than she loved herself.

My relationship with Tommy only ever scratched the surface, his dysfunctions prevented any real understanding between us. To me, he was a shadowy figure of a father who expressed love through transactional gestures. A forced seat on his lap and an awkward kiss on the cheek earned me a crisp $100 bill—a currency of affection I never asked for. He objectified me in his own strange ways as his beloved “daughter.” Tommy did love me, but his love for me was about himself. He was a financial provider, restoring some comforts lost after my parents' divorce, but he wielded that power with a knowledge of what he could take away.

In 2012, my mother found the courage to leave her nearly twelve-year relationship with Tommy. Our family was imperfect, but certainly not hostile. At first the divorce was amicable as he was accepting of his failures as a husband. My mother found a temporary apartment of her own while I continued to live between the family home and my college dorm.

The psychological warfare started when Tommy realized that my mother had begun to move on. Forcibly removing me from our home without notice. "Forced out" barely captures the reality; he violently shook me awake on a sleepy winter morning, giving me just thirty minutes to "get the fuck out." In that chaotic moment, I lost not only my home but also irreplaceable heirlooms collected over generations along with my childhood keepsakes. I mourn not only for myself, but for my future children, as these tangible connections to my family history have been stolen from us.

Tommy’s rage continued to manifest into acts of unspeakable violence, beginning with a calculated physical attack in 2015, aimed squarely at my mother’s new husband. A spineless act of jealousy and retaliation. This was followed by a harrowing home invasion in 2017, an attempt to instill terror in both my mother and her husband.

The unsettling truth was that the only person capable of being involved in such horrors was Tommy. For the years following he would insistently try to contact me, wielding me as a pawn in his twisted games and holding me emotionally hostage. These incidents were terrifying and involved the people closest to me. The memories of them cast a long, daunting shadow over our lives, each of us carrying our own experience of trauma and pain.

In April of this year, I sat in court listening to Tommy’s attorneys plead not guilty, weaving mine and his relationship into their defense narrative. They painted his actions as misguided attempts to protect me. As I listened to the testimonies from mob associates, friends, and law enforcement, the magnitude of his obsessive rage became painfully clear. His reach was unnerving, employing private investigators and violent men to track our movements over the course of many years. I found myself covered in a veil of shock and shame, struggling to reconcile how I could be raised by a person capable of such harm. Tommy’s guilt was ultimately established in the court of law, leading him to a prison cell.

The fallout from my mother’s marriage to Tommy is a complex tapestry of emotions and betrayals. While strangers often offer empathy upon hearing our story, I find myself at a perpetual loss to understand how the man who tormented my mother garnered the support of my own family.

Caroline was more than an aunt to me; she often rocked me to sleep as a child and stepped in as a second mother, welcoming us into her home during the uncertain period following my mother’s separation from my father. Yet, in a staggering betrayal she would later choose the side of my mothers abuser and go as far as writing a character letter in defense of Tommy. What could compel someone to form an alliance with a felon over their own blood? Some might describe it as, “thick as thieves.” Meanwhile, my mother’s sister Cookie continued to be employed by him and even appeared in court in his support. A troubling lack of loyalty despite having once shared a home with us and bearing witness to Tommy’s darkness.

Other family members chose the path of silence—offering neither empathy nor acknowledgment, their complacency an acceptance to his crimes. I have been severed from a once-beloved village of aunts, uncles, and cousins, all because of these fractured alliances. My phone is yet to ring, perhaps this shows how cunning of a man Tommy is or how shallow humans can be.

For the last decade I have felt trapped within the layers of my own story, existing in silence and hesitating to confront those I feared. My mother, her husband and I have persevered despite these hardships, turning our pain into purpose and our trauma into truth. It wasn’t until I began to unpack these emotions that I thought to ask myself: Who really is the bear? Is it the people we fear, or is it fear itself?

Bears are docile in nature. They are passive creatures, the leaders of constructive rest and are notably peaceful amongst their tribe. Often minding their own business, until they are poked. A bears anger emerges when they are forcibly positioned to protect themself and their family. It is an honorable and purposeful rage.

In understanding the true spirit of the bear, I realized that Tommy was never the bear; I am. A devoted daughter coming to the defense of her mother and a keeper of truth who has been poked for far too long.

This piece is a declaration, a refusal to live in accordance to those who I once perceived to hold power over me. I share this truth not only for myself but for my mother and for all of those who quietly endure their pain. I invite you to reclaim your power if you feel you've lost it. Be the bear.

Artwork By Carol Grigg

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