Hi there! My name is Eddie Regory. I’m originally from New York City but consider myself a Portland, Oregon native. I love all movies including the stupid ones (life’s too short not to try them) going on long bike rides, animals but especially dogs. Cruise boats (although I always come back ten pounds heavier from all the free food) and visiting my old Portland neighborhood stomping grounds.

I am going to ask you for a huge favor … that is for you to read the Preface below about my new memoir. If you like what you’ve read, help support the dream to spread my story to anyone who might be interested. Give it a chance and let me know your thoughts in the “Contact Author” form. You can also click on the picture that will take you directly to the book.



Alberto rushed at me in the school hallway, pushing me and then punching me square in the face. I cried and ran down Essex Street to Uncle Carlito’s and told him what had happened. He was furious, so he put a razor blade in his leather jacket, grabbed my hand, and said, “I’m gonna go kill me a bully! C’mon!”

Carlito pulled me briskly down the street back to the school. It was hard for me to keep up with Carlito’s stride, but I was determined to see the look on Alberto’s face. Uncle Carlito pushed open the classroom door. The teacher took a step back, and her voice cracked when she asked him to leave, but Carlito was determined to find the bully. I pointed him out.

These were everyday occurrences. The screams, shootings, noise, and bizarre behavior were part of everyday life in the projects. It infected us all, but our strength as a family kept us together.

Even though we were living on welfare in a roach-infested apartment, my mother believed in the future—someday we would live in a better place. But times were tough. More than once, my father took the meat from free lunches that kids threw away to provide us with a meal. My brother was once stabbed while saving my life.

My parents finally scraped together enough money to send us to a place called Portland, Oregon. It was a desperate attempt at a safe new life, but our sudden escape from the ghetto actually meant the beginning of the struggles I faced growing up in Portland.

Here, I write about failures, triumphs, and the changes we went through every day. I write how the loss of my mother at an early age and, years later, the loss of my father were put into perspective by the love and support of a childhood friend who would later become my wife.

This is a story of my internal fight to see my mother’s dream for me come true; it details the stark contrast between surviving the ghetto and facing the challenge of starting a new life in an unknown place. It shows that, like a recovering alcoholic, a person who has lived with violence must forever fight to channel that violence into new tools for survival, and it chronicles the passion and frustration born of such a beginning. It shows that the dream for a better life can come true. I’m an average person, and my story is everybody’s story.