This will not come as a shock to the many people I know who are also in “helping” professions, but I’m not sure the rest of the general public are as aware…There are times when you can become SO drained, SO exhausted, and SO unable to find the right words anymore that you literally feel as though you are a huge pitcher that once was brimming over with fresh water, but now has been sucked completely dry. Despite this, you keep shaking yourself upside down, yearning to find the last DROP you have left available, the last reserve.
In my family, I was the “fixer”. Any kind of conflict that I had any control over, (which in reality, was NONE), I would try to be the listener, the mediator, the peacemaker. The outcomes of these efforts were rarely what I was aiming for, yet I persisted. As a matter of fact, this trait has carried on with my family of origin, into my 40’s now. Evidently, I’m a very slow learner as the majority of these efforts have proven to be futile. However, this trait also carried over to my friendships, my major in college and grad school, and ultimately, my profession as a school psychologist.
So firstly…the profession. I love my job, and I am convinced that I am doing exactly what God wants me to do. Yet, in my 14th year, I find myself running out of steam. I have no idea if it’s the length of time I’ve done this, the economy, the dismal budget cuts to our school districts and our entire state, the stories becoming more horrifying, or the pitcher simply being empty. The demands are endless. I’d be lying if I said I was never thanked, as a matter of fact, I’ve been thanked quite a bit, by grateful teachers and parents. I’ve gotten thank you cards. I’ve even gotten GIFT cards. This year, I’m helping to mentor new psychologists, and truth be told, I am loving every minute of it. To know that I’m helping to reduce their stress, giving them perspective, and helping them to grow as professionals is incredibly rewarding. Plus, they’re just a group of fabulous people I feel honored to have gotten to know. One of them keeps sending me cards to thank me, the last one had a Hershey bar in it. It’s hard for me to accept thanks…in fact, I gave her hard time about the last card. I believe my words were, “Stop sending me cards, you dork!” (We’ve also become friends). But in those moments, every bit of my heart I pour into this job is worth it.
Then…there are the other times. There are times when kids tell me stories of life in their homes that are SO horrifying it would make your hair curl. Incredibly cruel, heartless words that parents (and some teachers, although thankfully rarely) say to children as young as 5. Children who are told they are worthless, children exposed to porn, children who are told they were mistakes and should have never been born. There’s only a certain amount of information we can report to CPS, and even when we do, action is rarely taken. This isn’t always their fault…they too are subject to insane budget cuts and are criminally understaffed. Then there’s the physical and sexual abuse. Even when the information doesn’t come directly from the child, and I’m simply reading someone else’s report, lately I’ve had to stop reading some of them. I can remember cases in which I was 100% positive abuse was happening, I had ample evidence. They visited the home, the child became scared, and recanted and said he made the whole thing up. The case was closed, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Then there are the kids caught between their parents in dreadful divorces and custody battles, the ugliness of which can truly be astounding. What is worse than seeing a child in pain, any kind of pain? And it’s my job.
Then there are the times when I’m not thanked by the adults I work with, but am yelled at instead, or talked about behind my back, as in, “She doesn’t do ANYTHING.” As if the other days of the week when I’m at my other two schools, I’m actually at a spa. Teachers (again, thankfully few) have been downright hostile when results from an assessment didn’t turn out the way they wanted. Parents have stood up and left a meeting out of pure anger and frustration. I’ve had parents curse me out. I've had numerous parents, whose children's only problem is they drew the short straw and got crappy parents. Yet it's always someone else's fault, the teacher's, the school's, the principal's, mine. I've had a mother tell me regarding her unruly daughter's behavior, "She's your problem during the day, you deal with it." I’ve had to sit in meetings with my colleagues for hours upon hours, during which it becomes painfully clear that the parent is not playing with a full deck, yet holds all the cards legally. It’s like being held hostage.
Then there are the other parents, the ones who stayed together and did everything right. It's my job to identify disabilities in order for children to receive special education. So I am the one who gets to tell a parent for the first time that their child is Autistic, or Emotionally Disturbed, or Mentally Retarded. I've gotten a lot of practice and I'm good at it. I don't use a lot of technical language or jargon, and try to talk to them as a peer. However, no matter how I spin it, I'm telling them something is wrong with their baby. And to watch as my news makes a parent cry, as a parent, it hurts my soul every single time. I've seen people in my profession become cold and apathetic and I understand why it happens. But I've told myself, the second this stops affecting me emotionally is the day I need to do something else for a living.
I come home to my own beautiful family at the end of the day, and the remainder of the day and evening are rejuvenating and relaxing. This is where the wine would come in, but I don’t drink. Ahhhhh, home!! Yeah, not quite. Our kids have after school activities, homework that needs correcting, laundry that needs to be folded, fights that need to be broken up. This is normal, I accept this. But when you’ve been virtually emptied during the day, there are times mustering up the energy to be fully present for my OWN children is an honest challenge. But I do it, and I do it because they deserve it, and I won’t cheat them out of my attention because a bunch of stranger’s children have received the lion’s share. I won’t do it. No one will ever be more important than they are.
Then there’s my personal life. Obviously it’s wise to spend some time with my spouse, lest he begin to feel neglected, and we’re the glue that holds our family together, and he’s my best friend. Then there are my other friends, and I’m blessed with many. But they also have major things going on in their lives, and as the fixer, I’m available again, to listen, to pray, to be there. I wouldn’t change that, I love them. It’s more time though, more out of the pitcher. I have so many people, friends from childhood and college, family members, and friends from my church rattling around in my head at any given time that it becomes dizzying. My prayers rarely stop…illnesses, divorces, deaths of parents, difficult relationships, joblessness, and foreclosures…good grief. I will continue my prayers and my care though, because it’s who I am. Do I care for myself in the same manner? Of course not! Everyone else comes first, I don’t eat as well as I should, I don’t exercise, I don’t have a lot of time to myself for yoga, or quiet prayer, or meditation. I have friends who wake up at 5am for this purpose and I admire them. It’ll never happen with me, sleep is the thing I savor the most these days. How sad is that??
So, am I spread thin? That’s putting it mildly. Am I alone? Absolutely not. To my friends who will be reading this, please remember those of us who pour our hearts out every single day in our professions. The pastors, the teachers, the counselors, the psychologists, the social workers, the doctors, the nurses, the list goes on and on. Our pitchers are often bone dry, and great weariness and fatigue can set in easily. Set aside some time to thank someone, or include them in your prayers. We need them!!
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Intelligence? Meh...
Intelligence is overrated. It's necessary to get through school, into college, and hopefully into a meaningful career. But as I've matured (ha!), I have learned that the ability to relate to other people and to really listen and talk to others as equals is a much more meaningful and important skill. I'd rather spend my time with someone with a kind, open heart and empathy than someone with a 148 IQ in a heartbeat. I come from a very intelligent family, and ironically, intelligence tests are something I give and interpret as part of my job. Within my own family of origin, I'd probably score the lowest. Not dumb, not Forrest Gump...but relatively lower than my other family members. However, I believe that the skills that I have honed in dealing with people, ALL kinds of people, is so much more valuable than mere intelligence.
I remember telling a first year school psychologist, "you can know theories, tests, stats, and laws forwards and backwards, but if you don't know how to talk to people, you won't do well in this career."
So I can't help my 10 year daughter with her math homework, so what? People know they can trust me, people know they can talk to me, and that I will listen with undivided and rapt attention. The people who have been given to me as gifts from God in my life have the same skills. Did they go to college? Do they work in a gas station? I don't care. Beautiful people are hard to come by, and I'm not referring to people who are beautiful on the outside, although I know many who are both, lucky suckers!
Praise Jesus for helping me to recognize this skill in myself, as well as blessing me with so many wonderful people who do the same for me, every day. What is intelligence anyway? Who cares?
I remember telling a first year school psychologist, "you can know theories, tests, stats, and laws forwards and backwards, but if you don't know how to talk to people, you won't do well in this career."
So I can't help my 10 year daughter with her math homework, so what? People know they can trust me, people know they can talk to me, and that I will listen with undivided and rapt attention. The people who have been given to me as gifts from God in my life have the same skills. Did they go to college? Do they work in a gas station? I don't care. Beautiful people are hard to come by, and I'm not referring to people who are beautiful on the outside, although I know many who are both, lucky suckers!
Praise Jesus for helping me to recognize this skill in myself, as well as blessing me with so many wonderful people who do the same for me, every day. What is intelligence anyway? Who cares?
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Did my freshman year in college really happen?
LORD, I was a lousy student! I was the poster girl for the classic underachiever in high school. I was bright and capable of so much more than I actually produced. I was probably the only student in the high school who was GATE identified, and took AP classes in English and History, but finished high school with a whopping 2.5 something GPA or something equally unacceptable. I still have my transcripts, but I'm kind of afraid to know the actual figure. I did well in English because I loved it. I gave minimal effort towards everything else, although I had random, floating A’s that would appear when I suddenly felt behooved to try. My mathematical brain had been hermetically sealed since a humiliating experience in the 5th grade. Consequently, I failed Algebra I twice, including summer school. The third time I took it, I’m pretty sure my teachers threw their hands up and gifted me with a D just to get me out of their hair. Thankfully I passed Geometry, and in those days, that’s all you needed to graduate. I nearly did not graduate from high school at all, for a reason so stupid it still makes me laugh at myself on a regular basis. I failed gym. And then I failed gym. And then I failed gym again. Who the heck wants to change your clothes and then run around when you could sit in the sun and talk to your friends? My friends were smart enough to do the bare minimum to get through it. During my senior year, I was thrown a bone I totally didn't deserve…I got to be a TA for one of the coaches for PE credit. I kept his desk organized and I entered scores and stats into a ledger. I discovered one of the athletic office ladies was stealing from the hopper from the candy sales. I passed PE, and graduated from high school. Standing aside my friends who graduated with honors and earned scholarships, I got an actual diploma.
Looking back, it probably would have helped somewhat if I had actually attended school from time to time. I remember clearly our AP English teacher telling my best friend Renee on one of the many days I was absent, “If you talk to her, remind her that school is every day.” This is a phrase she still teases me with to this day. I was “sick” frequently. When we were able to drive, forget it…it would be McDonald's or Winchell's donuts during 1st period Spanish. Renee and I would routinely arrive 10 minutes before the period was over. We had a lovely little Japanese lady who taught Spanish, and every day we’d try to come up with new excuses. “The car broke down!” “We ran out of gas.” “We forgot homework and had to drive all the way back and by the time we got here…” Oh, that poor lady. She bought none of it of course, but would listen, roll her eyes and say, “Pobre sitas!”, which is roughly translates to “poor babies”. She passed us with C's, I have no idea how.
It also probably would have helped if, ummm, my parents had paid the slightest bit of attention to what I was doing with regard to school. I do remember my mom getting me an Algebra tutor at one time that I hated. He only came once. Beyond that, both of my parents appeared clueless regarding how I was doing at school. At one point, my mom did discover that I had been cutting classes on a regular basis and came up with a consequence. “If I find out you ditch class one more time, I’m disconnecting your phone.” Side note: I had my own phone line. I did not deserve my own phone line. These were the old days before call waiting, and I got my own phone line for one reason only. My mother wanted to occasionally use the phone, and that wasn’t happening with me on it at least 3-4 hours a day. 798-2729 should have never been, and certainly didn’t help my study skills since it was in my bedroom. Disconnecting my phone would have been like cutting off my arm at the time, but here’s the sad part. I was so 100% sure that my mother would not take the time to call the high school to see if I was attending my classes, that I cut class the very next day. I was right, she never called to check, and I continued to ditch. I’m not blaming my parents for my scholastic failures, I was totally responsible. I just intend to do things differently with my own kids.
So I continued to have my undeserved phone line in my own room, something that I would now consider for my own children in high school, maybe, if they are earning a 4.0 or above. Oh wait…they won’t need such a thing because they’ll have cell phones by then. In any case, they have the disadvantage of having a me as a mother who: A: Is so determined that my children do not follow in my footsteps in this particular area and am so adamant that they work up to their potential that it sometimes makes my head spin, and B: I work in the same school district in which they attend, and due to the remarkable technological advances of the present day, I can check to see if they attend each and every period by computer. I can check to see if they’ve gotten into any trouble. I can even see their report cards before they’re officially distributed. They’re screwed. Mwah ha ha ha!!! They’re going to college, come hell or high water, hopefully one they can choose from several options.
I’d always thought that I would go to UCSB in Santa Barbara, which was my ultimate goal. For some inexplicable reason, I thought it would just “happen” without having to work for it at all. Seriously. At some point during my senior year, I remember accepting that this dream was not going to happen and being crushed and confused. I wish I could remember how I found this place, but I learned about a small, Catholic, private, junior college in Palos Verdes. I applied, and was miraculously accepted. It was very expensive, and I wanted OUT of the house. I got to go away to “college”!
Marymount College Palos Verdes is not Loyola Marymount, which is actually a very good reputable school. Marymount College, where I attended, was a bit of a joke. I quickly learned that it was where rich parents sent their rich children who had been just as lazy and irresponsible as I had been. Maybe after two years, their kids would get their heads together and be able to transfer to USC, and the parents would no longer have to hang their heads in shame. I was in for the biggest culture shock of my young life. I was about as prepared for the people I was about to encounter as I would have been if I’d been dropped off for my freshman year in Mongolia. The first day I pulled into the parking lot of the school in my brown 1982 Datsun 210 amongst the Mercedes, BMW’s and Porches, I knew I had landed on a foreign planet. Although it was before the show’s existence, it was very much like a scene from Beverly Hills 90210. Every school I had ever attended in Pasadena was totally diverse and integrated, with every possible culture represented. My dad and mom’s neighborhoods were the same. I had friends who were Black, Hispanic, Japanese, Chinese, you name it. It was normal, and I thought the world was that way. I got to Marymount and everyone was WHITE. Really, really white. Wait, I stand corrected…there were some black students, I think there were 12, many of whom comprised the basketball team. Not only was everyone white, everyone was a kind of white I knew nothing about or had experienced. Rich. Arrogant. Racist. Entitled. Okay, okay, I’ll just say it. Assholes. I didn’t know how to talk to these people! The college itself sat up in Palos Verdes Estates, an unbelievably beautiful community with enormous mansions with expansive views of the ocean. The “dorms” were actually apartment buildings down the hill in San Pedro, a tad less upscale of a community than Palos Verdes. The apartments themselves were really nice, two bedroom, two bath, 4 students to each apartment. My first three roommates could not have been more different. A beautiful, wild party girl from Hawaii. A low-keyed, slightly arrogant chick from Alaska. And then a girl from Chula Vista with whom I shared a bedroom and bathroom, and the most descriptive word I can use for her is "stupid". That girl was just not a smart person, and she was a slovenly as she was dull. Very quickly, the beautiful Hawaiian girl found another Hawaiian girl and wanted to switch apartments. She was replaced by an absolutely beautiful black girl (one of the 12) who was somewhat stand-offish. We became friends ultimately, but it took a long time. In the meantime, we experienced grocery shopping, paying bills and utilities, and cleaning our own apartment for the first time. It was…interesting.
The college itself was filled with people I just could not relate to. I became friendly with some, mostly who lived in the same apartment building, but they knew nothing of my background or upbringing. As a result, some would let the most offensive, revolting racist jokes fly in my presence. I was shocked and offended, and I let the joke teller know. The next time we were all together, he began to tell another joke and then said, and I swear I am not making this up, “Well, I can’t tell this in front of her (me), she likes black people.” Why, yes, this is correct. As a matter of fact, I know every single one of them and like them all equally. I'm their white ambassador. For the love of God! One of my closest friends from high school, Mona, helped me move into my apartment during this time, and she happens to be black. She came around a corner holding some of my hand weights and genuinely frightened some of our fellow students. Rarrrrrr!!! Here comes a big beautiful black woman carrying weights, she’s probably going to jump us, run for your lives!!! We both got a pretty big kick out of it, actually. What had I done in deciding to go there? There was a period of time when I was writing letters to my best friend Renee and in each one there would be “An Actual Marymount Quote For The Day” segment. I only remember two. One young man, upon entering our apartment building to visit a friend had to show the supervising adult his ID. Sniffing with disgust, he said, “Oh my God, I could sell my WATCH and buy this building!” I remember that kid, and I hope someone eventually kicked his ass. The other was when I asked a classmate if she was ready for finals. This poor little thing said, “Oh my God, I was up doing lines all night just to stay awake and study!” ?????? Really? Is cocaine a study aid? I do know that cocaine was absolutely everywhere, I wrote to my friend that when you turned on the faucet in our apartment building, cocaine came out instead of water.
However, wonderful things were around the corner. I would like to thank two beautiful women for saving me that year. Cheryl was from Seattle, and we kept bumping into each other…she lived in the building, and we had some of the same classes. She was sweet and friendly and, amazingly, did not snort cocaine, so that was a plus. We became friends very quickly. Second semester, I changed apartments and roomed with her and her two other roommates, who were also very sweet, nice girls. We had a blast together. Granted, we drank like fish, so I don’t want to appear overly virtuous just because we didn’t snort cocaine.In fact, we concocted our own "cocktail" of Crystal Light and Bacardi. Yuck...makes me shudder, even to this day. I remember one night we were all at the beach, drunk, and trying to find each other as it was really dark. I yelled, “Where are you?” She yelled back, “Just turn left and keep walking!” I replied, “If I do that, I’ll walk into the ocean!!” There was a trip to Tijuana, that I probably wouldn't have a lot of recollection about due to the level of intoxication, other than the fact that I still have pictures. Yikes. There I am, 1988 or 1989, in my acid washed jeans and gigantic hair, flipping off the camera in almost every picture. Sniff... I'm so proud. During that trip, we were staying in some horrific motel and we came across a big spider or roach and I promptly sprayed in with my hairspray (which, according to the pictures at least, I had an endless supply of), and lighting it on FIRE. Oy. In the morning, we all woke up horrifically hung-over, but we thought we'd misplaced one of our friends. "Where's Jon?" Off in a corner, we heard a pathetic whimper, "I'm in hell..." A memorable experience for sure.
I also remember planning a trip to Catalina Island with some other folks, and Cheryl knocking on my door (this must have been first semester) and I’d overslept, and was hung-over (shocker). I tried to get out of it, but she made me go. The boat ride over was a little rough, but it ended up being one of the best days I remember from that bizarre year. We rented a little motorboat and went fishing in the harbor, actually caught some fish, and brought them home and grilled them up for dinner. It was delicious, and just one of those beautiful, perfect days. On my 19th birthday, she and our other roommates made me a cake and then she and I went to see “Say Anything” in the theater. We still quote lines from the movie to each other, actually, since it took place in Seattle and so much of it was filmed in Altadena, blocks from my dad's house. Crazy coincidence!
The other close friend I made I had at least one class with, but I honestly don’t remember exactly how we became friends. Lisa was from Boise. She lived in the building too, and in getting to know each other, we discovered that she also came from a much more middle class, integrated upbringing, and that Marymount was throwing her for a loop too. We became very close, so close in fact that she often joined my family at my dad’s house for holidays when she couldn’t afford or didn’t want to go home. She was regarded as family by my father, and they bonded quickly. This support was invaluable at the time, as she didn’t have a particularly close relationship with her own father at the time. She actually lived with us for a number of weeks one summer while we were both working part time jobs and trying to save money. She is a dear, dear friend to me, and flew from Idaho for my father’s funeral last year.
Cheryl and I only lasted a year at Marymount. I went back to Pasadena and attended the City College, planning to transfer to a 4 year school when I had enough credits. She retreated back to Washington and finished her schooling at Washington State. Lisa from Boise stuck it out for another year, during which we kept in constant contact, as Marymount was only about 45 minutes away with no traffic. After that, she transferred over to Loyola Marymount, the “real school”,and completed her degree there.
Without the friendship of these girls, I would have lost my mind, quit school entirely, or perhaps tried cocaine myself. The three of us never did, as we watched our other friends, one by one, get sucked into the trend. As a matter of fact, and Cheryl just reminded me of this, a number of these kids ended up getting hauled off to rehab my their parents. In fact, we got into the habit of singing "Another One Bites The Dust" every time we'd hear of another one. It was almost as though it was a crazy, rich white college kid rite of passage, going to rehab. Cheryl also reminded me of how tempted we were to run through the parking lot at the college and intentionally set off all the car alarms. Keep in mind when this was, the only cars that had alarms in 1988 were very expensive ones, and most of these kids had expensive cars of their own, or were driving their parent's cars after they'd decided to "upgrade" after a year of driving it. We never did it, but I sure wish we had!
I think we all kept each other strong, and reminded each other where we came from. We remained fairly grounded and kept each other from turning into strange, snobby pod-people. I am still very close to both of them to this day, and we’ve been friends for more than half our lives now. They were both to be in my wedding, but Lisa had a baby, and his first birthday was on the same day as my wedding. She was crushed, but I understood. Cheryl flew all night to Sacramento from Miami (where she had been living at the time), and was exhausted. She made it through the rehearsal, but I know she was fried. She stayed with my dad and I in our apartment, and on the morning of my wedding, she got up early and drove around in a city in which she’d never been to find a supermarket. She bought me yogurt, bagels, and juice, and made me eat them. THAT is a friend. I remember when Cheryl was in a long term relationship, and was horribly mistreated. That was the first time I actually felt like getting on a plane and getting into a physical fight with this dude, and I've never been in a physical fight. She is just a nice person. The word doesn't do her justice, but there are those people out there that are just sweet and good natured and don't have a mean bone in their body. So this jerk treating her badly wasn't just about hurting my friend, it was like a crime against humanity to me! She met a wonderful guy not long after this, got married, and had two of the most beautiful children I have ever seen. I'm so glad she got these things in her life, because in her goodness, she absolutely deserves every bit of it.
When my father passed last year and I was down at his house a couple days after, it occurred to me I hadn’t called Lisa yet. I sat at dining room table in my father’s house at which she and I had numerous home cooked meals and long hilarious conversations with my him and gave her a call. It was a Tuesday. She answered with, “Hey girl, this is bad news, isn’t it?” I validated her question, and she said, “You know, it’s weird. I was thinking about your dad on Sunday all day, I couldn’t get him out of my head. I almost called you.” I was silent for a few moments and said, “Lisa. He died on Sunday.” She and my dad loved each other so much, and they had a special connection. She was able to visit him in his last year of life, which I am so very grateful for. Lisa's son is 15 now, and while I have not had the privilege of seeing him for a number of years, he sounds like an incredible young man, and I know how proud she is. If I could choose one word for her, it would be strong. She has been through a lot of tragedy and heartache, but perseveres no matter what. I admire her more than she could possibly imagine.
So…my underachievement and laziness lead me to two of the best people, as well as the best friends I have ever had. Grace abounds. I’m convinced that God puts certain people in our lives for specific reasons. I don’t have the joy of seeing or talking to them that often, but they are always there in spirit, and I know that. Ten years could go by, and we pick up right where we left off. Those kinds of friendships don’t come along often. To the two of you, you know who you are, I love you SO much. Thank you for helping me keep my sanity. So had I applied myself and gotten into UCSB or Cal, I never would have met them. My life would be a much less rich place without them in it. God knows what he’s doing.
The irony, of course, is in having been such a joke of a student, I ended up in a professional career in education. Maybe it isn't ironic, maybe it's the reason why. I wanted to be a good counselor because I'd experienced such ineffective hacks calling themselves counselors as a kid. Maybe I want to encourage kids to reach their full potential in school despite family turmoil and possible disabilities because I never took advantage of the gifts I had to fully reach my potential. In any case, I know all of this was within God's hands, and I wouldn't change a bit of it now.
And just in case anyone was wondering, I really do like black people. ;)
Looking back, it probably would have helped somewhat if I had actually attended school from time to time. I remember clearly our AP English teacher telling my best friend Renee on one of the many days I was absent, “If you talk to her, remind her that school is every day.” This is a phrase she still teases me with to this day. I was “sick” frequently. When we were able to drive, forget it…it would be McDonald's or Winchell's donuts during 1st period Spanish. Renee and I would routinely arrive 10 minutes before the period was over. We had a lovely little Japanese lady who taught Spanish, and every day we’d try to come up with new excuses. “The car broke down!” “We ran out of gas.” “We forgot homework and had to drive all the way back and by the time we got here…” Oh, that poor lady. She bought none of it of course, but would listen, roll her eyes and say, “Pobre sitas!”, which is roughly translates to “poor babies”. She passed us with C's, I have no idea how.
It also probably would have helped if, ummm, my parents had paid the slightest bit of attention to what I was doing with regard to school. I do remember my mom getting me an Algebra tutor at one time that I hated. He only came once. Beyond that, both of my parents appeared clueless regarding how I was doing at school. At one point, my mom did discover that I had been cutting classes on a regular basis and came up with a consequence. “If I find out you ditch class one more time, I’m disconnecting your phone.” Side note: I had my own phone line. I did not deserve my own phone line. These were the old days before call waiting, and I got my own phone line for one reason only. My mother wanted to occasionally use the phone, and that wasn’t happening with me on it at least 3-4 hours a day. 798-2729 should have never been, and certainly didn’t help my study skills since it was in my bedroom. Disconnecting my phone would have been like cutting off my arm at the time, but here’s the sad part. I was so 100% sure that my mother would not take the time to call the high school to see if I was attending my classes, that I cut class the very next day. I was right, she never called to check, and I continued to ditch. I’m not blaming my parents for my scholastic failures, I was totally responsible. I just intend to do things differently with my own kids.
So I continued to have my undeserved phone line in my own room, something that I would now consider for my own children in high school, maybe, if they are earning a 4.0 or above. Oh wait…they won’t need such a thing because they’ll have cell phones by then. In any case, they have the disadvantage of having a me as a mother who: A: Is so determined that my children do not follow in my footsteps in this particular area and am so adamant that they work up to their potential that it sometimes makes my head spin, and B: I work in the same school district in which they attend, and due to the remarkable technological advances of the present day, I can check to see if they attend each and every period by computer. I can check to see if they’ve gotten into any trouble. I can even see their report cards before they’re officially distributed. They’re screwed. Mwah ha ha ha!!! They’re going to college, come hell or high water, hopefully one they can choose from several options.
I’d always thought that I would go to UCSB in Santa Barbara, which was my ultimate goal. For some inexplicable reason, I thought it would just “happen” without having to work for it at all. Seriously. At some point during my senior year, I remember accepting that this dream was not going to happen and being crushed and confused. I wish I could remember how I found this place, but I learned about a small, Catholic, private, junior college in Palos Verdes. I applied, and was miraculously accepted. It was very expensive, and I wanted OUT of the house. I got to go away to “college”!
Marymount College Palos Verdes is not Loyola Marymount, which is actually a very good reputable school. Marymount College, where I attended, was a bit of a joke. I quickly learned that it was where rich parents sent their rich children who had been just as lazy and irresponsible as I had been. Maybe after two years, their kids would get their heads together and be able to transfer to USC, and the parents would no longer have to hang their heads in shame. I was in for the biggest culture shock of my young life. I was about as prepared for the people I was about to encounter as I would have been if I’d been dropped off for my freshman year in Mongolia. The first day I pulled into the parking lot of the school in my brown 1982 Datsun 210 amongst the Mercedes, BMW’s and Porches, I knew I had landed on a foreign planet. Although it was before the show’s existence, it was very much like a scene from Beverly Hills 90210. Every school I had ever attended in Pasadena was totally diverse and integrated, with every possible culture represented. My dad and mom’s neighborhoods were the same. I had friends who were Black, Hispanic, Japanese, Chinese, you name it. It was normal, and I thought the world was that way. I got to Marymount and everyone was WHITE. Really, really white. Wait, I stand corrected…there were some black students, I think there were 12, many of whom comprised the basketball team. Not only was everyone white, everyone was a kind of white I knew nothing about or had experienced. Rich. Arrogant. Racist. Entitled. Okay, okay, I’ll just say it. Assholes. I didn’t know how to talk to these people! The college itself sat up in Palos Verdes Estates, an unbelievably beautiful community with enormous mansions with expansive views of the ocean. The “dorms” were actually apartment buildings down the hill in San Pedro, a tad less upscale of a community than Palos Verdes. The apartments themselves were really nice, two bedroom, two bath, 4 students to each apartment. My first three roommates could not have been more different. A beautiful, wild party girl from Hawaii. A low-keyed, slightly arrogant chick from Alaska. And then a girl from Chula Vista with whom I shared a bedroom and bathroom, and the most descriptive word I can use for her is "stupid". That girl was just not a smart person, and she was a slovenly as she was dull. Very quickly, the beautiful Hawaiian girl found another Hawaiian girl and wanted to switch apartments. She was replaced by an absolutely beautiful black girl (one of the 12) who was somewhat stand-offish. We became friends ultimately, but it took a long time. In the meantime, we experienced grocery shopping, paying bills and utilities, and cleaning our own apartment for the first time. It was…interesting.
The college itself was filled with people I just could not relate to. I became friendly with some, mostly who lived in the same apartment building, but they knew nothing of my background or upbringing. As a result, some would let the most offensive, revolting racist jokes fly in my presence. I was shocked and offended, and I let the joke teller know. The next time we were all together, he began to tell another joke and then said, and I swear I am not making this up, “Well, I can’t tell this in front of her (me), she likes black people.” Why, yes, this is correct. As a matter of fact, I know every single one of them and like them all equally. I'm their white ambassador. For the love of God! One of my closest friends from high school, Mona, helped me move into my apartment during this time, and she happens to be black. She came around a corner holding some of my hand weights and genuinely frightened some of our fellow students. Rarrrrrr!!! Here comes a big beautiful black woman carrying weights, she’s probably going to jump us, run for your lives!!! We both got a pretty big kick out of it, actually. What had I done in deciding to go there? There was a period of time when I was writing letters to my best friend Renee and in each one there would be “An Actual Marymount Quote For The Day” segment. I only remember two. One young man, upon entering our apartment building to visit a friend had to show the supervising adult his ID. Sniffing with disgust, he said, “Oh my God, I could sell my WATCH and buy this building!” I remember that kid, and I hope someone eventually kicked his ass. The other was when I asked a classmate if she was ready for finals. This poor little thing said, “Oh my God, I was up doing lines all night just to stay awake and study!” ?????? Really? Is cocaine a study aid? I do know that cocaine was absolutely everywhere, I wrote to my friend that when you turned on the faucet in our apartment building, cocaine came out instead of water.
However, wonderful things were around the corner. I would like to thank two beautiful women for saving me that year. Cheryl was from Seattle, and we kept bumping into each other…she lived in the building, and we had some of the same classes. She was sweet and friendly and, amazingly, did not snort cocaine, so that was a plus. We became friends very quickly. Second semester, I changed apartments and roomed with her and her two other roommates, who were also very sweet, nice girls. We had a blast together. Granted, we drank like fish, so I don’t want to appear overly virtuous just because we didn’t snort cocaine.In fact, we concocted our own "cocktail" of Crystal Light and Bacardi. Yuck...makes me shudder, even to this day. I remember one night we were all at the beach, drunk, and trying to find each other as it was really dark. I yelled, “Where are you?” She yelled back, “Just turn left and keep walking!” I replied, “If I do that, I’ll walk into the ocean!!” There was a trip to Tijuana, that I probably wouldn't have a lot of recollection about due to the level of intoxication, other than the fact that I still have pictures. Yikes. There I am, 1988 or 1989, in my acid washed jeans and gigantic hair, flipping off the camera in almost every picture. Sniff... I'm so proud. During that trip, we were staying in some horrific motel and we came across a big spider or roach and I promptly sprayed in with my hairspray (which, according to the pictures at least, I had an endless supply of), and lighting it on FIRE. Oy. In the morning, we all woke up horrifically hung-over, but we thought we'd misplaced one of our friends. "Where's Jon?" Off in a corner, we heard a pathetic whimper, "I'm in hell..." A memorable experience for sure.
I also remember planning a trip to Catalina Island with some other folks, and Cheryl knocking on my door (this must have been first semester) and I’d overslept, and was hung-over (shocker). I tried to get out of it, but she made me go. The boat ride over was a little rough, but it ended up being one of the best days I remember from that bizarre year. We rented a little motorboat and went fishing in the harbor, actually caught some fish, and brought them home and grilled them up for dinner. It was delicious, and just one of those beautiful, perfect days. On my 19th birthday, she and our other roommates made me a cake and then she and I went to see “Say Anything” in the theater. We still quote lines from the movie to each other, actually, since it took place in Seattle and so much of it was filmed in Altadena, blocks from my dad's house. Crazy coincidence!
The other close friend I made I had at least one class with, but I honestly don’t remember exactly how we became friends. Lisa was from Boise. She lived in the building too, and in getting to know each other, we discovered that she also came from a much more middle class, integrated upbringing, and that Marymount was throwing her for a loop too. We became very close, so close in fact that she often joined my family at my dad’s house for holidays when she couldn’t afford or didn’t want to go home. She was regarded as family by my father, and they bonded quickly. This support was invaluable at the time, as she didn’t have a particularly close relationship with her own father at the time. She actually lived with us for a number of weeks one summer while we were both working part time jobs and trying to save money. She is a dear, dear friend to me, and flew from Idaho for my father’s funeral last year.
Cheryl and I only lasted a year at Marymount. I went back to Pasadena and attended the City College, planning to transfer to a 4 year school when I had enough credits. She retreated back to Washington and finished her schooling at Washington State. Lisa from Boise stuck it out for another year, during which we kept in constant contact, as Marymount was only about 45 minutes away with no traffic. After that, she transferred over to Loyola Marymount, the “real school”,and completed her degree there.
Without the friendship of these girls, I would have lost my mind, quit school entirely, or perhaps tried cocaine myself. The three of us never did, as we watched our other friends, one by one, get sucked into the trend. As a matter of fact, and Cheryl just reminded me of this, a number of these kids ended up getting hauled off to rehab my their parents. In fact, we got into the habit of singing "Another One Bites The Dust" every time we'd hear of another one. It was almost as though it was a crazy, rich white college kid rite of passage, going to rehab. Cheryl also reminded me of how tempted we were to run through the parking lot at the college and intentionally set off all the car alarms. Keep in mind when this was, the only cars that had alarms in 1988 were very expensive ones, and most of these kids had expensive cars of their own, or were driving their parent's cars after they'd decided to "upgrade" after a year of driving it. We never did it, but I sure wish we had!
I think we all kept each other strong, and reminded each other where we came from. We remained fairly grounded and kept each other from turning into strange, snobby pod-people. I am still very close to both of them to this day, and we’ve been friends for more than half our lives now. They were both to be in my wedding, but Lisa had a baby, and his first birthday was on the same day as my wedding. She was crushed, but I understood. Cheryl flew all night to Sacramento from Miami (where she had been living at the time), and was exhausted. She made it through the rehearsal, but I know she was fried. She stayed with my dad and I in our apartment, and on the morning of my wedding, she got up early and drove around in a city in which she’d never been to find a supermarket. She bought me yogurt, bagels, and juice, and made me eat them. THAT is a friend. I remember when Cheryl was in a long term relationship, and was horribly mistreated. That was the first time I actually felt like getting on a plane and getting into a physical fight with this dude, and I've never been in a physical fight. She is just a nice person. The word doesn't do her justice, but there are those people out there that are just sweet and good natured and don't have a mean bone in their body. So this jerk treating her badly wasn't just about hurting my friend, it was like a crime against humanity to me! She met a wonderful guy not long after this, got married, and had two of the most beautiful children I have ever seen. I'm so glad she got these things in her life, because in her goodness, she absolutely deserves every bit of it.
When my father passed last year and I was down at his house a couple days after, it occurred to me I hadn’t called Lisa yet. I sat at dining room table in my father’s house at which she and I had numerous home cooked meals and long hilarious conversations with my him and gave her a call. It was a Tuesday. She answered with, “Hey girl, this is bad news, isn’t it?” I validated her question, and she said, “You know, it’s weird. I was thinking about your dad on Sunday all day, I couldn’t get him out of my head. I almost called you.” I was silent for a few moments and said, “Lisa. He died on Sunday.” She and my dad loved each other so much, and they had a special connection. She was able to visit him in his last year of life, which I am so very grateful for. Lisa's son is 15 now, and while I have not had the privilege of seeing him for a number of years, he sounds like an incredible young man, and I know how proud she is. If I could choose one word for her, it would be strong. She has been through a lot of tragedy and heartache, but perseveres no matter what. I admire her more than she could possibly imagine.
So…my underachievement and laziness lead me to two of the best people, as well as the best friends I have ever had. Grace abounds. I’m convinced that God puts certain people in our lives for specific reasons. I don’t have the joy of seeing or talking to them that often, but they are always there in spirit, and I know that. Ten years could go by, and we pick up right where we left off. Those kinds of friendships don’t come along often. To the two of you, you know who you are, I love you SO much. Thank you for helping me keep my sanity. So had I applied myself and gotten into UCSB or Cal, I never would have met them. My life would be a much less rich place without them in it. God knows what he’s doing.
The irony, of course, is in having been such a joke of a student, I ended up in a professional career in education. Maybe it isn't ironic, maybe it's the reason why. I wanted to be a good counselor because I'd experienced such ineffective hacks calling themselves counselors as a kid. Maybe I want to encourage kids to reach their full potential in school despite family turmoil and possible disabilities because I never took advantage of the gifts I had to fully reach my potential. In any case, I know all of this was within God's hands, and I wouldn't change a bit of it now.
And just in case anyone was wondering, I really do like black people. ;)
Friday, February 4, 2011
1980ish...or, The Year My Family Imploded
This needs editing, my apologies...but I had to get it out of my head, I haven't been able to sleep, thinking of what I wanted to write.
The problem with being so diligent about keeping journals since the age of 10 is, well, you get to go back and read them. Some are absolutely cringe-worthy. But some of them are so sad, hearing the voice again of my little girl self, so confused about everything that was changing around me.
The chronology of all of this may be wrong, most is from memory. But I do know that these things happened in relatively quick order. My mother was running for city office of some kind, and our home became her election headquarters. My sister had a psychotic break and was committed to a mental hospital. My brother was kicked out of our mother's house and went and lived with our dad. I decided, in the midst of all of this madness, that I wanted my dad to have joint custody of me. And, living in a four bedroom house with only two people left, my mother decided to rent out the spare rooms to strangers. I was around 10 when all this went down.
When my sister was a senior in high school, she was accepted as an exchange student and spent the second semester in Japan. She became very close with her host family, particularly her host mother. However, when she returned, she had a rude awakening. Her friends had moved away to college already, and beyond Japan, she hadn't really made any solid plans. She was also having a lot of confusion about personal issues in her life, and she needed her mother. But our mother was running for office...out of our home. She didn't have the time for my sister that she so desperately needed at the time. I remember, clearly, my mother asking my sister to make an appointment to talk with her. I'm not blaming my mother for the events that followed, no one knows what would have happened if things had gone differently. But my sister began to act very strangely, erratically. She hid in my closet and while I was listening to records one night, burst out speaking something in French and scared me to death. She was feeding my dad's dog spices to see how he reacted.. She stopped making sense. My dad was flummoxed, and had no idea what to do, so I'm pretty sure he just drank more. I knew about a lot of things earlier than I should have and was exposed to things that were inappropriate, mostly at my dad's house. He should have tried to enforce some sort of sane boundaries, but it was probably easier for him to just keep drinking. At some point, my sister was sent to live with our grandparents, who were wonderful and nurturing, but she was already in the middle of this storm of a breakdown. After this behavior had been going on for awhile, my mom decided to take her to a mental hospital, a day that she still describes as the worst day of her entire life. My sister was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder (Manic-Depression back then) with Schizophrenic episodes. I had no idea what was going on or why. I have a VERY vivid memory of going to visit her in the hospital with my mom. In the waiting room, (lobby?), there was an older woman, curled up into a ball under a table, giggling to herself. I remember thinking, "what happened to her??" We walked down the hallway to my sister's room, and she was not in a good state. Knowing what I know now, she was cycling in her manic stage...she had a rubber stamp of Susan B. Anthony, and she had made some kind of cosmic connection in her mind between herself and the civil rights leader. She began stamping everything in sight, including the walls, and she was constantly talking, ideas, theories, nonstop...none of it was logical. That evening, they had to move my sister back into the intensive care unit, ironically called La Siesta. The grounds of this hospital were incredibly beautiful, with amazing gardens overflowing with flowers. As we walked through these gardens accompanied by a nurse, I looked up at my mother and saw an expression that I can't describe, but don't want to ever see again. She looked like she aged ten years in ten minutes, just complete despair and pain. We left my sister there and went home. I don't remember anything else about that evening, the drive home, or what my mom may have said or not said to me. But I was so scared that night. Who was this person we just visited? Is this going to happen to me too? But it also planted the very first seed of curiosity about psychology for me...I wanted to understand. Too much for a ten year old to digest at the time, but the interest did begin that evening.
My mom lost the election.
Somewhere around that time, my mom lost control of my brother, who was around 14 or 15 at the time. He was sneaking out at night, not adhering to ANY rules, and there was one night when my mom swung to hit him and he caught her arm in mid-air and lowered it back down to her side. She realized he was bigger, and stronger. So the decision was made that he go live with my dad. "Decision". So many interpretations of what happened, and I'll never know the exact truth, I wasn't there. My mom has said that she discussed it with our dad and they both agreed it was the best thing. My dad has said he showed up on his doorstep with his suitcase. My brother maintains that he was "kicked out" something I think he's still wounded from, deep down. I was left with mom. My sister had gone crazy. My brother was kicked out. Crap, what was going to happen to me? Hmmmm...okay. My 10 year old self decided that I wanted my dad to have joint custody of me. Mom was often gone in the evenings, dad was always home. I missed my brother. It made complete sense to me. Mom was NOT having it, and we were going to go to court over it. I actually wrote a letter to Dear Abby about this, and recently while cleaning out our dad's home after his death, my brother found the letter. I remember writing it, and deciding not to send it. I never knew my dad must have found it at some point and saved it. In it, I described my brother being kicked out because my mom thought he was "impossible, but I don't think that's true." I also described how my dad, my brother, and myself all wanted me to have equal time with my dad, but my mom did not. I signed it "10 in Pasadena" and "P.S. And please don't suggest counseling, because it's already messed everything up."
Oh my GOD, that counseling...it was supposed to be for me. It was through Fuller Seminary, and it was two interns, they may have been married. They did not have the foggiest idea what they were doing, that was clear to me, even then. After maybe one or two sessions, they decided that my counseling needed to become family sessions. Ummm, powder keg, anyone? I don't remember if my dad ever went, he may not have. My sister didn't because she was still hospitalized. But I do remember one session with my mom, brother, and I. My brother was SO ANGRY with her. I remember he kept banging the arm of the chair he was sitting in, so I started doing the same on my chair. The focus quickly transitioned to the conflict between them...then these amateurs decided that they needed to get both mom and dad in there to talk about the divorce...7 years ago! They were hired to help me...and I was totally pushed aside and essentially forgotten about, which proved to be a common theme in my childhood. Counseling didn't last long.
We never went to court. My mom threatened to say certain things about my dad that were untrue, and my dad didn't want to put me through that, so he dropped it. She told me later, "I fought for you!" I just couldn't figure out why. I know she loved me, but she was never home, not even in the evenings. I spent a lot of time by myself during this time, the typical "latch key kid" of the early 80's. Did she just not want to lose all three of her children in a year? I would have been there half of the time, dad only lived ten minutes away, but it was not to be. She then made another major decision...she would rent out the vacant rooms in our home! Then I wouldn't be alone at night, someone would be there, and she could generate some additional income. I was never asked how I felt about it. And for the next 7 years, until I was 17 years old, I lived with strangers, at least they were to me. There will be a longer chapter to come about those years. I need to try to remember all their names, there were men and women. Let me say that no harm ever came to me as a result of living with these people...but BOY it could have. It couldn't have been easier, the stage was practically SET for it. God was looking out for me, and I spent a lot of time in my room. Books, friends, and music became my constant companions, and are what kept me sane.
So reflections...my sister recovered, but in subsequent years was hospitalized two more times. We've talked a lot over the last several years, and determined that we never really got much of a chance to get to know each other growing up. She is 8 1/2 years older than I am, and we're about as different as two women can be. When I was a baby, she doted on me, and I have lovely pictures to prove it, but I don't remember. She still sometimes calls her own 11 year old daughter by my name because she resembles me at that age. We're at a good place now, but it took a long time. As we've become closer, she's shared her own stories about what it was like at those hospitals, and they are horrifying. She described hallucinating in the shower that the streams of water were knives and the water running down her body was blood. As an orderly rushed in to help her when he heard the screams, she was convinced he was going to rape her. She told me of forced medications, Thorazine and Lithium, and having her jaw completely and painfully lock as a side effect. She told me of waking up one day and realizing it was about 2 days later. Her descriptions of complete loss of control and human dignity hurt my soul now. She was sick, I remember. But I wish she hadn't had to experience such horror, and I know she's still holds some resentment toward our mom for initially putting her there.
Now, at 40, I'm trying to see things from my mother's perspective. If my first born child was acting the way my sister was, and I'm sure there is a LOT I don't remember, I probably would have done the same thing. She didn't know what else to do! My dad was of no help, the situation seemed to paralyze him. I'd like to say if they'd caught it earlier and gotten her into counseling and perhaps on some less severe meds, it could have been avoided. But things were different back then, and she still may have had her break from reality, despite the interventions. My brother probably WAS impossible. I remember the fights that went late into the night. She couldn't raise him alone, that was clear, but maybe that could have been handled differently too, by facing the problems head on and trying to work them out, and maybe have him spend more time with our father instead of all of his time. But I do know that my brother still deals with some deep-seated abandonment issues as a result of being kicked out. I don't think either of them have ever truly worked through that, maybe it isn't possible. My mom has historically not been very comfortable or skilled at talking things through. However, as close as my dad and I were, and as much more attention I likely would have gotten, I can't help but wonder what kind of person I would be if I'd been raised by him more so than I was. He spoiled me mercilessly. I had NO rules. As I got older, we drank together and he knew I drove drunk frequently. Would I have ended up more of a mess than I did? As much as I still have a major problem with the mere notion of leaving your ten year old daughter alone in a house full of strangers, I do believe it taught me independence and resiliency. I had to grow up very quickly, and that may not have happened otherwise. Now granted, no rules were enforced there either, no one was home to do so at my mother's house, these weird adults sure as shit weren't going to try and tell me what to do, and I got away with a lot. And finally, in addition to being a combination of horrified and fascinated, what happened with my poor sister IS what lead me to be a psychologist. That, and the fact that through the years, I went to counseling a lot, and realized how many of the counselors out there SUCKED. The intern experience wasn't the only one...when I was 13 or so and my sister was being hospitalized again, I saw another counselor. I remember describing the evening when we had to take my sister back to the intensive care facility at the first hospital and how scared I was, and the counselor interrupted me with , "You were scared a monster or something would come out of the bushes?" Are you serious? "No. I was scared about what was happening." She asked, "Were you scared of the dark?" "NO!" I was scared that my sister had become the monster, you stupid shithead!! I knew that at 13...what an idiot. So BAD counseling led me to want to become a good one.
My own sweet daughter is 10 now, which is probably why this is all coming up and out of my brain with the force of a fire hose. I can't imagine her going through what I did, and I'm so thankful she'll (hopefully) never have to deal with such turmoil at such a young age. Does all adversity lead to lessons and new directions and healing? Not all of it, no. Am I okay? Generally speaking, I like to think so. But big, big mistakes were made, by many involved parties. Despite this I have to believe that good came out of that horrific year. I just have to.
The problem with being so diligent about keeping journals since the age of 10 is, well, you get to go back and read them. Some are absolutely cringe-worthy. But some of them are so sad, hearing the voice again of my little girl self, so confused about everything that was changing around me.
The chronology of all of this may be wrong, most is from memory. But I do know that these things happened in relatively quick order. My mother was running for city office of some kind, and our home became her election headquarters. My sister had a psychotic break and was committed to a mental hospital. My brother was kicked out of our mother's house and went and lived with our dad. I decided, in the midst of all of this madness, that I wanted my dad to have joint custody of me. And, living in a four bedroom house with only two people left, my mother decided to rent out the spare rooms to strangers. I was around 10 when all this went down.
When my sister was a senior in high school, she was accepted as an exchange student and spent the second semester in Japan. She became very close with her host family, particularly her host mother. However, when she returned, she had a rude awakening. Her friends had moved away to college already, and beyond Japan, she hadn't really made any solid plans. She was also having a lot of confusion about personal issues in her life, and she needed her mother. But our mother was running for office...out of our home. She didn't have the time for my sister that she so desperately needed at the time. I remember, clearly, my mother asking my sister to make an appointment to talk with her. I'm not blaming my mother for the events that followed, no one knows what would have happened if things had gone differently. But my sister began to act very strangely, erratically. She hid in my closet and while I was listening to records one night, burst out speaking something in French and scared me to death. She was feeding my dad's dog spices to see how he reacted.. She stopped making sense. My dad was flummoxed, and had no idea what to do, so I'm pretty sure he just drank more. I knew about a lot of things earlier than I should have and was exposed to things that were inappropriate, mostly at my dad's house. He should have tried to enforce some sort of sane boundaries, but it was probably easier for him to just keep drinking. At some point, my sister was sent to live with our grandparents, who were wonderful and nurturing, but she was already in the middle of this storm of a breakdown. After this behavior had been going on for awhile, my mom decided to take her to a mental hospital, a day that she still describes as the worst day of her entire life. My sister was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder (Manic-Depression back then) with Schizophrenic episodes. I had no idea what was going on or why. I have a VERY vivid memory of going to visit her in the hospital with my mom. In the waiting room, (lobby?), there was an older woman, curled up into a ball under a table, giggling to herself. I remember thinking, "what happened to her??" We walked down the hallway to my sister's room, and she was not in a good state. Knowing what I know now, she was cycling in her manic stage...she had a rubber stamp of Susan B. Anthony, and she had made some kind of cosmic connection in her mind between herself and the civil rights leader. She began stamping everything in sight, including the walls, and she was constantly talking, ideas, theories, nonstop...none of it was logical. That evening, they had to move my sister back into the intensive care unit, ironically called La Siesta. The grounds of this hospital were incredibly beautiful, with amazing gardens overflowing with flowers. As we walked through these gardens accompanied by a nurse, I looked up at my mother and saw an expression that I can't describe, but don't want to ever see again. She looked like she aged ten years in ten minutes, just complete despair and pain. We left my sister there and went home. I don't remember anything else about that evening, the drive home, or what my mom may have said or not said to me. But I was so scared that night. Who was this person we just visited? Is this going to happen to me too? But it also planted the very first seed of curiosity about psychology for me...I wanted to understand. Too much for a ten year old to digest at the time, but the interest did begin that evening.
My mom lost the election.
Somewhere around that time, my mom lost control of my brother, who was around 14 or 15 at the time. He was sneaking out at night, not adhering to ANY rules, and there was one night when my mom swung to hit him and he caught her arm in mid-air and lowered it back down to her side. She realized he was bigger, and stronger. So the decision was made that he go live with my dad. "Decision". So many interpretations of what happened, and I'll never know the exact truth, I wasn't there. My mom has said that she discussed it with our dad and they both agreed it was the best thing. My dad has said he showed up on his doorstep with his suitcase. My brother maintains that he was "kicked out" something I think he's still wounded from, deep down. I was left with mom. My sister had gone crazy. My brother was kicked out. Crap, what was going to happen to me? Hmmmm...okay. My 10 year old self decided that I wanted my dad to have joint custody of me. Mom was often gone in the evenings, dad was always home. I missed my brother. It made complete sense to me. Mom was NOT having it, and we were going to go to court over it. I actually wrote a letter to Dear Abby about this, and recently while cleaning out our dad's home after his death, my brother found the letter. I remember writing it, and deciding not to send it. I never knew my dad must have found it at some point and saved it. In it, I described my brother being kicked out because my mom thought he was "impossible, but I don't think that's true." I also described how my dad, my brother, and myself all wanted me to have equal time with my dad, but my mom did not. I signed it "10 in Pasadena" and "P.S. And please don't suggest counseling, because it's already messed everything up."
Oh my GOD, that counseling...it was supposed to be for me. It was through Fuller Seminary, and it was two interns, they may have been married. They did not have the foggiest idea what they were doing, that was clear to me, even then. After maybe one or two sessions, they decided that my counseling needed to become family sessions. Ummm, powder keg, anyone? I don't remember if my dad ever went, he may not have. My sister didn't because she was still hospitalized. But I do remember one session with my mom, brother, and I. My brother was SO ANGRY with her. I remember he kept banging the arm of the chair he was sitting in, so I started doing the same on my chair. The focus quickly transitioned to the conflict between them...then these amateurs decided that they needed to get both mom and dad in there to talk about the divorce...7 years ago! They were hired to help me...and I was totally pushed aside and essentially forgotten about, which proved to be a common theme in my childhood. Counseling didn't last long.
We never went to court. My mom threatened to say certain things about my dad that were untrue, and my dad didn't want to put me through that, so he dropped it. She told me later, "I fought for you!" I just couldn't figure out why. I know she loved me, but she was never home, not even in the evenings. I spent a lot of time by myself during this time, the typical "latch key kid" of the early 80's. Did she just not want to lose all three of her children in a year? I would have been there half of the time, dad only lived ten minutes away, but it was not to be. She then made another major decision...she would rent out the vacant rooms in our home! Then I wouldn't be alone at night, someone would be there, and she could generate some additional income. I was never asked how I felt about it. And for the next 7 years, until I was 17 years old, I lived with strangers, at least they were to me. There will be a longer chapter to come about those years. I need to try to remember all their names, there were men and women. Let me say that no harm ever came to me as a result of living with these people...but BOY it could have. It couldn't have been easier, the stage was practically SET for it. God was looking out for me, and I spent a lot of time in my room. Books, friends, and music became my constant companions, and are what kept me sane.
So reflections...my sister recovered, but in subsequent years was hospitalized two more times. We've talked a lot over the last several years, and determined that we never really got much of a chance to get to know each other growing up. She is 8 1/2 years older than I am, and we're about as different as two women can be. When I was a baby, she doted on me, and I have lovely pictures to prove it, but I don't remember. She still sometimes calls her own 11 year old daughter by my name because she resembles me at that age. We're at a good place now, but it took a long time. As we've become closer, she's shared her own stories about what it was like at those hospitals, and they are horrifying. She described hallucinating in the shower that the streams of water were knives and the water running down her body was blood. As an orderly rushed in to help her when he heard the screams, she was convinced he was going to rape her. She told me of forced medications, Thorazine and Lithium, and having her jaw completely and painfully lock as a side effect. She told me of waking up one day and realizing it was about 2 days later. Her descriptions of complete loss of control and human dignity hurt my soul now. She was sick, I remember. But I wish she hadn't had to experience such horror, and I know she's still holds some resentment toward our mom for initially putting her there.
Now, at 40, I'm trying to see things from my mother's perspective. If my first born child was acting the way my sister was, and I'm sure there is a LOT I don't remember, I probably would have done the same thing. She didn't know what else to do! My dad was of no help, the situation seemed to paralyze him. I'd like to say if they'd caught it earlier and gotten her into counseling and perhaps on some less severe meds, it could have been avoided. But things were different back then, and she still may have had her break from reality, despite the interventions. My brother probably WAS impossible. I remember the fights that went late into the night. She couldn't raise him alone, that was clear, but maybe that could have been handled differently too, by facing the problems head on and trying to work them out, and maybe have him spend more time with our father instead of all of his time. But I do know that my brother still deals with some deep-seated abandonment issues as a result of being kicked out. I don't think either of them have ever truly worked through that, maybe it isn't possible. My mom has historically not been very comfortable or skilled at talking things through. However, as close as my dad and I were, and as much more attention I likely would have gotten, I can't help but wonder what kind of person I would be if I'd been raised by him more so than I was. He spoiled me mercilessly. I had NO rules. As I got older, we drank together and he knew I drove drunk frequently. Would I have ended up more of a mess than I did? As much as I still have a major problem with the mere notion of leaving your ten year old daughter alone in a house full of strangers, I do believe it taught me independence and resiliency. I had to grow up very quickly, and that may not have happened otherwise. Now granted, no rules were enforced there either, no one was home to do so at my mother's house, these weird adults sure as shit weren't going to try and tell me what to do, and I got away with a lot. And finally, in addition to being a combination of horrified and fascinated, what happened with my poor sister IS what lead me to be a psychologist. That, and the fact that through the years, I went to counseling a lot, and realized how many of the counselors out there SUCKED. The intern experience wasn't the only one...when I was 13 or so and my sister was being hospitalized again, I saw another counselor. I remember describing the evening when we had to take my sister back to the intensive care facility at the first hospital and how scared I was, and the counselor interrupted me with , "You were scared a monster or something would come out of the bushes?" Are you serious? "No. I was scared about what was happening." She asked, "Were you scared of the dark?" "NO!" I was scared that my sister had become the monster, you stupid shithead!! I knew that at 13...what an idiot. So BAD counseling led me to want to become a good one.
My own sweet daughter is 10 now, which is probably why this is all coming up and out of my brain with the force of a fire hose. I can't imagine her going through what I did, and I'm so thankful she'll (hopefully) never have to deal with such turmoil at such a young age. Does all adversity lead to lessons and new directions and healing? Not all of it, no. Am I okay? Generally speaking, I like to think so. But big, big mistakes were made, by many involved parties. Despite this I have to believe that good came out of that horrific year. I just have to.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Bye, Dad. Letter to him and speech at memorial.
This will give you all an idea of how long we watched him suffer and how many goodbyes we actually had! Sorry, some of it is redundant!
December 24, 2007
Dear Daddy-
This is a hard letter for me to write in a lot of ways. I’ve started it several times, and it never sounded right. But I think now is the time. I know that you are rounding the home stretch here in life, and as you do, I need you to know some things. Without you, as my father and my friend, I would have been an entirely different person. I have so many things to thank you for that invariably, I will complete this letter and then remember more. But I will try my best now:
*Thank you for my love of the theater. I will never forget going to the LA Theater Center with you to see what seems like dozens of plays. Some of them good, some of them not so good. But you have helped me be able to let theater and art into my soul, and make me feel, as nothing else can.
*Thank you for teaching me to laugh at life, especially the ironic and absurd. I can’t imagine my life without that ability. One of the best illustrations of that would be that dreadful Homecoming date I had when I was 16. Upon telling you of the horror, you tried to stifle a laugh, but just couldn’t hold it back. Then I started to laugh. Laughing at crap is the only thing that gets me through some days, and you are the one who taught me how.
*Thank you for being a playful parent. I have so many memories of you playing with us and being silly…not giving us something to do, but actually getting down on the floor and playing. I pray that I will be able to continue that with my own kids.
*Thank you for loving my friends. I don’t think you realize how much you have meant to them. Friends of mine who have only met you once always ask about you. And friends who you have known for a long time regard you as their second father. I hope you know that. Yours was the house where everyone loved to come, and always felt safe and welcomed.
*Thank you for demonstrating courage by quitting drinking and coming out as a gay man. You could have continued to hide, but you had the guts to say “fuck it” and be who you really are. That’s amazing to me, and I remember that when I feel stifled.
*Thank you for always being on my side. You always have been, even when I was the one in the wrong.
*Thank you for giving me freedom when I was young, freedom I probably didn’t earn or deserve, but helped me in the long run figure out who I was and am. You allowed me to make mistakes and learn from them.
I will think of more things later, I am sure, and regret that I didn’t remember them in time to add them into this letter. But I think you know how much I love you. You are the main person Dad, who knows me, the real me. Some others come close, but not exactly. You are my cornerstone. You are the person who has always been able to make me feel better, helped me to talk my way through a problem, or helped me to evaluate relationships. I will miss you so terribly, and when I can’t just pick up the phone and call you, it’s going to be very hard. But know this: I have never, for one day in my entire life, doubted how much you love me. Do you know how precious and rare that is? I am so lucky and blessed to have had you as a father. And although your body might be gone sometime soon, I know that you will always be with me. And although I would prefer it if you didn’t actually “haunt” me, I would like it if you would visit and tell me what Heaven is like, because I’m going to want to know!
I love you more than words can express, Dad. Thank you for everything you have done.
-Your youngest child.
Memorial service, April 17, 2010:
This is really overwhelming. Walking up here, the first things that pop into my mind are to try not to fall off my heels and wondering if my dad thinks this outfit works. The irony also strikes me because right now I’m wishing I’d taken some of my dad’s classes to get ready for this.
He had been really ill for some time and we’d all been bracing for the inevitable. We’d talked a lot about what he wanted to happen after he’d gone and how he wanted things handled. He’d told me he wanted to have a party at his house after the service and he said, “I don’t know, you think we should cook? Maybe we should hire a caterer and keep it light.” I said, “ummmm, Dad? You’re going to be dead. I think we can handle the details!” If there were two things my dad loved, it was a captive audience and a good party. I hope today he will have both.
In December of 07, I wrote him a letter that he and I jokingly referred to as the death letter. Joking aside, I wanted to make sure he knew how I felt about him and to still be coherent enough to fully absorb it. I’d like to share parts of it: Thank you for giving me my love of theatre and the arts, and helping me let it become part of my soul. Thank you for being a playful parent. I have vivid memories of you playing with us and being silly, and I hope that I can continue that with my own children. Thank you for giving me the freedom (maybe sometimes too much) to make my own mistakes and learn from them. I made a lot, and I’d like to think I’ve learned a lot. Thank you for welcoming, knowing, and loving my friends as though they were your own. Yours was the house where everyone wanted to come. A lot of them are here today, not just to support me, but because they loved you. Many of them regarded you as a second father, at a time in their lives when they really needed one. Thank you for always picking flowers from the yard to put in my bedroom when I would visit from college. That always made me feel so incredibly wanted and anticipated. Thank you for showing me what it felt like to be loved unconditionally, respected, and listened to. I think that knowledge had a lot to do with who I ended up marrying.
Of all the traits I got from my dad, one of the most valuable and definitely the one I use the most is the ability to laugh at the ridiculous and the absurdity of life and find humor in unexpected situations. When I was 15, I had a horrific date to the Homecoming dance. He was over an hour late picking me up, wouldn’t dance with me, and scheduled dinner after the dance so we had to leave early. Then he got on the wrong freeway to go to dinner, and by the time he figured it out, everything was closed. All I got to eat that evening was a Winchell’s donut. I went home feeling terribly sorry for myself. Later that weekend, I went up to dad’s house, ready to share my tale of woe and fully expecting 100% sympathy and comfort. That’s not what happened. About halfway through, I noticed he was stifling laughter. When I got to the part about the donut, he busted out into a full belly laugh, and then I did too. Without that ability, I don’t know how I would handle my chosen career, or being a parent, or just life in general.
A few years later, we drove together to move me up to SFSU for college. He got me settled in the dorms and I drove him to the airport to fly home. A few days later, he called to see how things were going. I said, “good.” There was a pause on the phone and he said, “You’re never coming home, are you?” I replied, “I don’t think so.” I’ve now been living in Northern California for 20 years. How did he know that after a few days? But he did, he could hear it in my voice, it was a better fit for me. When I was 24 and in grad school, I met my husband Mike. We’d dated for only 2 or 3 weeks, and I told my dad, “I think I might marry this one.” He said, “You know, he sounds different. I bet you will.” 15 years together and two awesome children later, again, he was right. He was my cornerstone, and he just knew me.
I thought about readings and poems to share, but in my day to day life, I think more in terms of song lyrics. My dad was so dramatic and moody and could go from being down to elated pretty quickly. About a week before he died, I downloaded a CD of Colin Hay’s. There’s a song called Beautiful World that reminds me so much of him. My favorite verse is this: “And still this emptiness persists-perhaps this is as good as it gets. When you’ve given up the drink and those nasty cigarettes, now I leave the party early, at least with no regrets. I watch the sun as it comes up, I watch it as it sets. Yeah, this is as good as it gets.”
To my ever present, often outrageous, high maintenance, hysterically funny, always available, sometimes embarrassing, sincerely warm, and endlessly supportive Daddy. I love you and I miss you. Thank you so much for everything you’ve given me, I can’t fathom who I would’ve become without you. I’d say rest in peace, but I don’t think you’re resting. I know you’re acting, dancing, singing, and laughing. Have a wonderful time!!
December 24, 2007
Dear Daddy-
This is a hard letter for me to write in a lot of ways. I’ve started it several times, and it never sounded right. But I think now is the time. I know that you are rounding the home stretch here in life, and as you do, I need you to know some things. Without you, as my father and my friend, I would have been an entirely different person. I have so many things to thank you for that invariably, I will complete this letter and then remember more. But I will try my best now:
*Thank you for my love of the theater. I will never forget going to the LA Theater Center with you to see what seems like dozens of plays. Some of them good, some of them not so good. But you have helped me be able to let theater and art into my soul, and make me feel, as nothing else can.
*Thank you for teaching me to laugh at life, especially the ironic and absurd. I can’t imagine my life without that ability. One of the best illustrations of that would be that dreadful Homecoming date I had when I was 16. Upon telling you of the horror, you tried to stifle a laugh, but just couldn’t hold it back. Then I started to laugh. Laughing at crap is the only thing that gets me through some days, and you are the one who taught me how.
*Thank you for being a playful parent. I have so many memories of you playing with us and being silly…not giving us something to do, but actually getting down on the floor and playing. I pray that I will be able to continue that with my own kids.
*Thank you for loving my friends. I don’t think you realize how much you have meant to them. Friends of mine who have only met you once always ask about you. And friends who you have known for a long time regard you as their second father. I hope you know that. Yours was the house where everyone loved to come, and always felt safe and welcomed.
*Thank you for demonstrating courage by quitting drinking and coming out as a gay man. You could have continued to hide, but you had the guts to say “fuck it” and be who you really are. That’s amazing to me, and I remember that when I feel stifled.
*Thank you for always being on my side. You always have been, even when I was the one in the wrong.
*Thank you for giving me freedom when I was young, freedom I probably didn’t earn or deserve, but helped me in the long run figure out who I was and am. You allowed me to make mistakes and learn from them.
I will think of more things later, I am sure, and regret that I didn’t remember them in time to add them into this letter. But I think you know how much I love you. You are the main person Dad, who knows me, the real me. Some others come close, but not exactly. You are my cornerstone. You are the person who has always been able to make me feel better, helped me to talk my way through a problem, or helped me to evaluate relationships. I will miss you so terribly, and when I can’t just pick up the phone and call you, it’s going to be very hard. But know this: I have never, for one day in my entire life, doubted how much you love me. Do you know how precious and rare that is? I am so lucky and blessed to have had you as a father. And although your body might be gone sometime soon, I know that you will always be with me. And although I would prefer it if you didn’t actually “haunt” me, I would like it if you would visit and tell me what Heaven is like, because I’m going to want to know!
I love you more than words can express, Dad. Thank you for everything you have done.
-Your youngest child.
Memorial service, April 17, 2010:
This is really overwhelming. Walking up here, the first things that pop into my mind are to try not to fall off my heels and wondering if my dad thinks this outfit works. The irony also strikes me because right now I’m wishing I’d taken some of my dad’s classes to get ready for this.
He had been really ill for some time and we’d all been bracing for the inevitable. We’d talked a lot about what he wanted to happen after he’d gone and how he wanted things handled. He’d told me he wanted to have a party at his house after the service and he said, “I don’t know, you think we should cook? Maybe we should hire a caterer and keep it light.” I said, “ummmm, Dad? You’re going to be dead. I think we can handle the details!” If there were two things my dad loved, it was a captive audience and a good party. I hope today he will have both.
In December of 07, I wrote him a letter that he and I jokingly referred to as the death letter. Joking aside, I wanted to make sure he knew how I felt about him and to still be coherent enough to fully absorb it. I’d like to share parts of it: Thank you for giving me my love of theatre and the arts, and helping me let it become part of my soul. Thank you for being a playful parent. I have vivid memories of you playing with us and being silly, and I hope that I can continue that with my own children. Thank you for giving me the freedom (maybe sometimes too much) to make my own mistakes and learn from them. I made a lot, and I’d like to think I’ve learned a lot. Thank you for welcoming, knowing, and loving my friends as though they were your own. Yours was the house where everyone wanted to come. A lot of them are here today, not just to support me, but because they loved you. Many of them regarded you as a second father, at a time in their lives when they really needed one. Thank you for always picking flowers from the yard to put in my bedroom when I would visit from college. That always made me feel so incredibly wanted and anticipated. Thank you for showing me what it felt like to be loved unconditionally, respected, and listened to. I think that knowledge had a lot to do with who I ended up marrying.
Of all the traits I got from my dad, one of the most valuable and definitely the one I use the most is the ability to laugh at the ridiculous and the absurdity of life and find humor in unexpected situations. When I was 15, I had a horrific date to the Homecoming dance. He was over an hour late picking me up, wouldn’t dance with me, and scheduled dinner after the dance so we had to leave early. Then he got on the wrong freeway to go to dinner, and by the time he figured it out, everything was closed. All I got to eat that evening was a Winchell’s donut. I went home feeling terribly sorry for myself. Later that weekend, I went up to dad’s house, ready to share my tale of woe and fully expecting 100% sympathy and comfort. That’s not what happened. About halfway through, I noticed he was stifling laughter. When I got to the part about the donut, he busted out into a full belly laugh, and then I did too. Without that ability, I don’t know how I would handle my chosen career, or being a parent, or just life in general.
A few years later, we drove together to move me up to SFSU for college. He got me settled in the dorms and I drove him to the airport to fly home. A few days later, he called to see how things were going. I said, “good.” There was a pause on the phone and he said, “You’re never coming home, are you?” I replied, “I don’t think so.” I’ve now been living in Northern California for 20 years. How did he know that after a few days? But he did, he could hear it in my voice, it was a better fit for me. When I was 24 and in grad school, I met my husband Mike. We’d dated for only 2 or 3 weeks, and I told my dad, “I think I might marry this one.” He said, “You know, he sounds different. I bet you will.” 15 years together and two awesome children later, again, he was right. He was my cornerstone, and he just knew me.
I thought about readings and poems to share, but in my day to day life, I think more in terms of song lyrics. My dad was so dramatic and moody and could go from being down to elated pretty quickly. About a week before he died, I downloaded a CD of Colin Hay’s. There’s a song called Beautiful World that reminds me so much of him. My favorite verse is this: “And still this emptiness persists-perhaps this is as good as it gets. When you’ve given up the drink and those nasty cigarettes, now I leave the party early, at least with no regrets. I watch the sun as it comes up, I watch it as it sets. Yeah, this is as good as it gets.”
To my ever present, often outrageous, high maintenance, hysterically funny, always available, sometimes embarrassing, sincerely warm, and endlessly supportive Daddy. I love you and I miss you. Thank you so much for everything you’ve given me, I can’t fathom who I would’ve become without you. I’d say rest in peace, but I don’t think you’re resting. I know you’re acting, dancing, singing, and laughing. Have a wonderful time!!
Friday, January 21, 2011
Honey, I have something to tell you...
January 21, 2011
Today would have been my father’s 81st birthday, and he’s been gone now for 11 months exactly. Such a strange sensation. On the way to karate last night, I mentioned this fact to my ten year old daughter, and she was concerned about me being sad. I said, “Well, his 80th birthday was pretty miserable. I’ll bet birthday parties in Heaven are pretty cool.” She likes this idea. Onward to the next story...
I moved to San Francisco to complete my years of undergrad at San Francisco State University when I was 20 years old, but frequently came home to visit. I came home for Spring Break when I was 21, and upon arrival, Dad said, “Honey, I have something to tell you.” Okay…I sat down in his room and waited. “I’m an alcoholic, but I’ve quit now and am going to AA.” The fact that he was an alcoholic wasn’t groundbreaking news, we all knew it, really. He drank for as long as I could remember. He was never a mean drunk, in fact, he was often a funny, entertaining drunk. When I was really little, I remember him drinking Olympia beer, which I don’t even think they make anymore. I remember bringing him can after can with the upside down horseshoe on it from the kitchen when I was little. Later, when I began drinking myself, I discovered this was absolutely horrible beer…it tasted like carbonated dishwater. Regardless, it was cheap beer, and he drank a lot of it, for a very long time. I remember one instance when I had a friend over, maybe in 3rd or 4th grade and my Dad was sitting in a chair, finishing his beer. He then balanced the empty beer can on his bald head, which my friend found hilarious. With a captive audience, he began to rock his head from side to side, making the can wobble, but he never let it fall. He thought it was funny. We thought it was funny. So what’s the problem?
Years later he turned to wine. With such fine taste in clothes and antiques, you’d think he’d choose a fine wine, or at the very least, an acceptable wine. Nope. My Dad chose the HUGE jug of Gallo “Burgundy”. Again, as I began to drink, found out how dreadful IT was as well. I would equate Gallo Burgundy with drinking battery acid. It made sense as the years went on…if you drink THAT much, you’d go completely broke if you bought the good stuff. As I grew up and got to high school and then college, his drinking did begin to bother me more and more. There were endless evenings when I was staying with him that I had to go take the wine glass out of his hand, sometimes still somewhat full, because he’d passed out in bed while drinking. I would then put the glass on his bedside table, take his glasses off (if he’d been reading or watching TV), and turn everything off. Dozens and dozens of times I did this. I became even more concerned so I started to monitor how much he was actually drinking by keeping an eye on the ever-upscale and classy JUG of Burgundy on the kitchen counter, to see how quickly the line went down. It wasn’t until this April confession that he told me he’d hidden other jugs throughout the house, including his closet. I was glad he stopped, and proud that he was taking the initiative to go to AA and make his life better. He was 61 years old. The irony, of course, is that I was drinking like a fish at that time, high school and college, but considered myself to have MUCH better taste in alcohol. Did I drink too much? Yes. Was it a problem? Absolutely. However, much like my father, I thought I was fine, even while driving. I drove drunk more times than I care to remember. And while I don’t remember these events, my mother reports that our dad once drove all three of us kids home from our grandparents house on the wrong side of the street. Very recently she shared a story of coming home when they were still married, and all of us kids were asleep. Our dad had passed out drinking, AND smoking, and the bed was partially on fire. I have no recollection of any of this, so to me, Dad’s drinking wasn’t a big deal to me for a very long time. In fact, for awhile there it was great. We drank together. In high school, I had the coolest dad in the world because we could hang out and drink a bunch of beers. Looking back, I see things differently of course. Alcoholics don’t like to drink alone. It was NOT good to make alcohol so easily accessible to me. But at the time, I felt like we were bonding, and sharing an experience. I don’t hold it against him now of course, and we did have great talks and a lot of fun, but it was wrong. Deep down, he knew that.
The following April, exactly a year later, I came down for Spring vacation again. I was home for maybe a day before I got another, “Honey, I need to talk to you.” Oh boy…what now? Big silence, and then a big sigh. Then more silence. “Darling, I’m bisexual.” Come again???? I did NOT see this one coming at all. It never occurred to me in the slightest. He never had significant girlfriends after divorcing my mom, but there were some here and there. My mom never had any significant relationships either, so that part of their lives were something I guess I just never thought about. Later in the day, he approached me and said, “Honey, I’m not really bisexual, I’m gay.” He explained that he thought telling me he was bisexual first would "ease me into the idea", when in reality it had confused me more. At this point, (and he LOVED this story and retold it frequently), I replied, “Okay, Dad. Is there ANYTHING ELSE you need to tell me? Are you an international spy? Are there dead people buried in the backyard?” We both burst out laughing, as we always did. Humor and laughter was how we dealt with life, even at seemingly inopportune times. Okay, I have a gay dad. I asked him if there was anyone special, there wasn’t. I asked if he was always careful, and he said he was. That was really all I needed to know. As it turns out, I was the last one to know. He’d told my siblings weeks before. My mother, reportedly, had always known, although I have my doubts. He was afraid to tell me, he said, because we were so close and he was afraid of what my reaction might be. That, in and of itself surprised me…we were all brought up liberal and open-minded, I had gay friends. I would never have thought less of him, I just didn’t expect it. I called my best friend and told her and she replied, “You know, I always kind of wondered…” Sheesh…apparently I had the world’s worst gaydar. A few years later, I had a conversation with my brother that made me laugh until I thought I would stop breathing. He said, “Dad loves clothes, the man owns over 50 sweaters and he lives in Los Angeles. He loves to decorate and hunt for antiques. We’ve grown up being forced to listen to Judy Garland and Liza Minnelli and Barry Manilow and Barbra Streisand. We ALL know the lyrics to just about any musical production that has been released in the past 20 years. A Chorus Line. Guys and Dolls. Pippin. Company. How in the HELL did we NOT KNOW he was gay?”
As weird as it all was, I became so proud of my father for making these confessions and declarations. It was also at this time that I made the connection between the two…he drank because he was trying to "drink away" being gay. After being sober for one year, he couldn’t deny it anymore, it’s who he was. Imagine waiting until you’re in your 60’s before being able to fully express and live who you are? Some people never get to do that. Sometimes it makes me sad as well. While being happy about the drinking ceasing, his health was never that great, he’d quit smoking at around 44, but a lot of damage had already been done. And as far as his fully coming out of the closet, it was LATE. If you’re gay in Los Angeles, you are required to be young and beautiful. Dad was old and handsome, but not into the “scene”, and never acted like a “stereotypical” gay person. So he died having never found a significant partner to share his life with after the divorce, which had happened 20 some years before. People came and went, but none were particularly meaningful or special. I wish that he’d had that chance. I know he was very lonely a good part of his last years.
Through this, I have learned bravery and courage. Any time I feel stifled, or as though I can't say or act like myself depending on who I'm around, I think about my dad. If HE could make such dramatic changes and uncover truths that had been hidden for decades, then I can most certainly be who I really am. Not everyone will like it, and frankly, I don't care. He was my mentor in many ways, but being true to myself is one of the most important lessons I learned. More grace. Through oddness and certainly unusual parenting, came confidence and courage in me, although I'll admit it took time to develop. I'm doing something now that scares me to death. Thank you Dad. And Happy Birthday!
Today would have been my father’s 81st birthday, and he’s been gone now for 11 months exactly. Such a strange sensation. On the way to karate last night, I mentioned this fact to my ten year old daughter, and she was concerned about me being sad. I said, “Well, his 80th birthday was pretty miserable. I’ll bet birthday parties in Heaven are pretty cool.” She likes this idea. Onward to the next story...
I moved to San Francisco to complete my years of undergrad at San Francisco State University when I was 20 years old, but frequently came home to visit. I came home for Spring Break when I was 21, and upon arrival, Dad said, “Honey, I have something to tell you.” Okay…I sat down in his room and waited. “I’m an alcoholic, but I’ve quit now and am going to AA.” The fact that he was an alcoholic wasn’t groundbreaking news, we all knew it, really. He drank for as long as I could remember. He was never a mean drunk, in fact, he was often a funny, entertaining drunk. When I was really little, I remember him drinking Olympia beer, which I don’t even think they make anymore. I remember bringing him can after can with the upside down horseshoe on it from the kitchen when I was little. Later, when I began drinking myself, I discovered this was absolutely horrible beer…it tasted like carbonated dishwater. Regardless, it was cheap beer, and he drank a lot of it, for a very long time. I remember one instance when I had a friend over, maybe in 3rd or 4th grade and my Dad was sitting in a chair, finishing his beer. He then balanced the empty beer can on his bald head, which my friend found hilarious. With a captive audience, he began to rock his head from side to side, making the can wobble, but he never let it fall. He thought it was funny. We thought it was funny. So what’s the problem?
Years later he turned to wine. With such fine taste in clothes and antiques, you’d think he’d choose a fine wine, or at the very least, an acceptable wine. Nope. My Dad chose the HUGE jug of Gallo “Burgundy”. Again, as I began to drink, found out how dreadful IT was as well. I would equate Gallo Burgundy with drinking battery acid. It made sense as the years went on…if you drink THAT much, you’d go completely broke if you bought the good stuff. As I grew up and got to high school and then college, his drinking did begin to bother me more and more. There were endless evenings when I was staying with him that I had to go take the wine glass out of his hand, sometimes still somewhat full, because he’d passed out in bed while drinking. I would then put the glass on his bedside table, take his glasses off (if he’d been reading or watching TV), and turn everything off. Dozens and dozens of times I did this. I became even more concerned so I started to monitor how much he was actually drinking by keeping an eye on the ever-upscale and classy JUG of Burgundy on the kitchen counter, to see how quickly the line went down. It wasn’t until this April confession that he told me he’d hidden other jugs throughout the house, including his closet. I was glad he stopped, and proud that he was taking the initiative to go to AA and make his life better. He was 61 years old. The irony, of course, is that I was drinking like a fish at that time, high school and college, but considered myself to have MUCH better taste in alcohol. Did I drink too much? Yes. Was it a problem? Absolutely. However, much like my father, I thought I was fine, even while driving. I drove drunk more times than I care to remember. And while I don’t remember these events, my mother reports that our dad once drove all three of us kids home from our grandparents house on the wrong side of the street. Very recently she shared a story of coming home when they were still married, and all of us kids were asleep. Our dad had passed out drinking, AND smoking, and the bed was partially on fire. I have no recollection of any of this, so to me, Dad’s drinking wasn’t a big deal to me for a very long time. In fact, for awhile there it was great. We drank together. In high school, I had the coolest dad in the world because we could hang out and drink a bunch of beers. Looking back, I see things differently of course. Alcoholics don’t like to drink alone. It was NOT good to make alcohol so easily accessible to me. But at the time, I felt like we were bonding, and sharing an experience. I don’t hold it against him now of course, and we did have great talks and a lot of fun, but it was wrong. Deep down, he knew that.
The following April, exactly a year later, I came down for Spring vacation again. I was home for maybe a day before I got another, “Honey, I need to talk to you.” Oh boy…what now? Big silence, and then a big sigh. Then more silence. “Darling, I’m bisexual.” Come again???? I did NOT see this one coming at all. It never occurred to me in the slightest. He never had significant girlfriends after divorcing my mom, but there were some here and there. My mom never had any significant relationships either, so that part of their lives were something I guess I just never thought about. Later in the day, he approached me and said, “Honey, I’m not really bisexual, I’m gay.” He explained that he thought telling me he was bisexual first would "ease me into the idea", when in reality it had confused me more. At this point, (and he LOVED this story and retold it frequently), I replied, “Okay, Dad. Is there ANYTHING ELSE you need to tell me? Are you an international spy? Are there dead people buried in the backyard?” We both burst out laughing, as we always did. Humor and laughter was how we dealt with life, even at seemingly inopportune times. Okay, I have a gay dad. I asked him if there was anyone special, there wasn’t. I asked if he was always careful, and he said he was. That was really all I needed to know. As it turns out, I was the last one to know. He’d told my siblings weeks before. My mother, reportedly, had always known, although I have my doubts. He was afraid to tell me, he said, because we were so close and he was afraid of what my reaction might be. That, in and of itself surprised me…we were all brought up liberal and open-minded, I had gay friends. I would never have thought less of him, I just didn’t expect it. I called my best friend and told her and she replied, “You know, I always kind of wondered…” Sheesh…apparently I had the world’s worst gaydar. A few years later, I had a conversation with my brother that made me laugh until I thought I would stop breathing. He said, “Dad loves clothes, the man owns over 50 sweaters and he lives in Los Angeles. He loves to decorate and hunt for antiques. We’ve grown up being forced to listen to Judy Garland and Liza Minnelli and Barry Manilow and Barbra Streisand. We ALL know the lyrics to just about any musical production that has been released in the past 20 years. A Chorus Line. Guys and Dolls. Pippin. Company. How in the HELL did we NOT KNOW he was gay?”
As weird as it all was, I became so proud of my father for making these confessions and declarations. It was also at this time that I made the connection between the two…he drank because he was trying to "drink away" being gay. After being sober for one year, he couldn’t deny it anymore, it’s who he was. Imagine waiting until you’re in your 60’s before being able to fully express and live who you are? Some people never get to do that. Sometimes it makes me sad as well. While being happy about the drinking ceasing, his health was never that great, he’d quit smoking at around 44, but a lot of damage had already been done. And as far as his fully coming out of the closet, it was LATE. If you’re gay in Los Angeles, you are required to be young and beautiful. Dad was old and handsome, but not into the “scene”, and never acted like a “stereotypical” gay person. So he died having never found a significant partner to share his life with after the divorce, which had happened 20 some years before. People came and went, but none were particularly meaningful or special. I wish that he’d had that chance. I know he was very lonely a good part of his last years.
Through this, I have learned bravery and courage. Any time I feel stifled, or as though I can't say or act like myself depending on who I'm around, I think about my dad. If HE could make such dramatic changes and uncover truths that had been hidden for decades, then I can most certainly be who I really am. Not everyone will like it, and frankly, I don't care. He was my mentor in many ways, but being true to myself is one of the most important lessons I learned. More grace. Through oddness and certainly unusual parenting, came confidence and courage in me, although I'll admit it took time to develop. I'm doing something now that scares me to death. Thank you Dad. And Happy Birthday!
Friday, January 14, 2011
Perhaps the first ill-advised decisions?
My dear father moved to California in the early 1950's from Newport News, Virginia to pursue acting at the famous Pasadena Playhouse, and to escape his oppressive Southern upbringing. Drama, and particularly musical theatre were his passion, and he wanted to make it his career.
My mother attended Stanford, under a bit of duress as I understand it...she started early, and didn't enjoy herself much while she was there. Both of my grandparents attended Stanford, and she was the oldest. It was as though she had no choice but to attend there, it was a legacy. But she has few fond memories of college, or at least has not shared many. Upon completion and earning her degree in English, she moved back to Pasadena with her parents,which was intended to be a temporary arrangement. She had BIG plans to move to New York to become a writer. But it was maybe 58 or 59? Single women didn't really do such things often back in those days.
My parents met at Vroman's, a historical bookstore in Pasadena, in which they both got jobs to pay the bills while they pursued their dreams. My mom chickened out with regard to New York and married my father, only 7 months after meeting, I believe. My mother was 22. She has told me in the past that one of the reasons she married my father was to get away from her OWN father, since she'd been living at home. My father was 30, and he loved her spirit and independent nature. They married on June 10, 1960. My sister arrived shortly afterwards, and a household had to be created and maintained, as well as provided for. Mom became a housewife, which I still cannot for the life of me even picture in my brain. For anyone who knows LA well or has ever pursued acting, it's well known you can barely make a living for one person by just getting small acting gigs. Providing for a family as an aspiring actor was just not going to happen, so my dad got a job teaching speech and debate, as well as drama, at San Marino High School. Three years after my sister, my brother came along. Five and a half years later, I came into the picture.
The reality? The possible ill-advised decisions? My mother gave up on her dreams and married a gay alcoholic. My gay father married a woman who really never wanted to be a housewife. Keep in mind the jury is still out as to when my mother realized my dad was gay. She says now she always knew, and she thought she could "fix" him, but I'm not so sure about that. So she faked being a happy housewife for a number of years, which I never witnessed directly. She was home when my sister came home from school, was a girl scout leader, and made dinner every night. Maybe at the time, she was enjoying it and not faking it, I have no way of knowing. At heart, she was a writer, a ferocious women's libber, and a free spirit. I don't think she wanted to raise a family in the same, mundane, traditional manner in which she was raised. At one point my father stopped drinking, and they decided to have another baby to celebrate (one of three stories I have heard about the reason I'm here, but okay...). I was conceived in 1969, the Summer of Love, in a Motel 6 in Goleta. However, my entrance into this world didn't end up fixing anything. As it turns out, married men from the South in the early 70's with wives and three children often don't want to face up to the fact that they are indeed homosexual. So guess what they do? They drink so they don't have to think about it. It didn't take long. So operation "sobriety celebration baby" was for naught. I write this with a smile on my face, because I was unequivocally adored by my father, so I in no way think I was a mistake. But the marriage ended about three years later. I have absolutely no recollection of them ever being together. When I hear stories about my parents from my siblings, who are older by quite a margin, it's as though they were raised by completely different people.
I know neither of them have/had any regrets that they had us....but I'm sure they've wondered...
What would have happened if Dad had remained single, and pursued acting with the likes of Dustin Hoffman, who was his roommate at the Pasadena Playhouse, and Gene Hackman who was also there at the time? Perhaps he would have come out of the closet officially much earlier than he did and could have had a happy life with a consistent partner and lived his dream of becoming a famous actor.
What would have happened if Mom had truly moved to New York alone? Would she be a published novelist? A columnist or maybe even an editor at a prominent magazine such as the New Yorker or probably more appropriately, Ms. Magazine? I personally believe she never would have married, and possibly never had children. She recently had a short fictional story published in a local magazine that describes JUST that kind of character. An unmarried, single woman, who is a writer in New York who bumps heads with her own mother. My brother and I both have asked her if she was writing about the life she wishes she'd chosen. She denies it. "No! I have always seen myself as a mother." I'm glad to know she's glad we're here, but I'm just not totally convinced.
So were these the first of many ill-advised decisions that affected my very existence as well as the rest of my life? Or was this all in the plan? We'll never know for sure.
Despite other jobs and countless responsibilities, neither parent gave up on their passions. Teaching became a passion of my dad's and he taught for 37 years, influencing generations of students who came out of the woodwork to attend his memorial service. He was the favorite teacher, and everyone knew who he was. During and after teaching, Dad continued to go on auditions and acted in plays, commercials, and small films way past his diagnosis of emphysema until he literally couldn't stand or say an entire sentence without becoming out of breath. The movie "Mr. Holland's Opus" reminds me a lot of my father.
My mother, after divorcing my father became very involved in politics and women's rights, and was often so busy I rarely saw her. When I began high school, my mom had a calling. While still working full time, she began seminary and became an ordained Episcopal priest just as I was graduating high school. Retired and in her early 70's, she's writing quite a bit now, and I believe is working on a book.
Here was MY plan for my life...I love children and psychology. I wanted a happy marriage, and an intact family. I wanted a pretty damn conventional family, as a matter or fact because I was not brought up in one. I AM a school psychologist and work with children every day, have been happily married for 14 years and have two amazing children. However, I have also ALWAYS wanted to write. I have stacks and stacks of journals and stories and essays I have never shown to a single soul. At 40, what am I waiting for? Not pursuing this now would not be the first, but would most surely be another ill-advised decision.
My mother attended Stanford, under a bit of duress as I understand it...she started early, and didn't enjoy herself much while she was there. Both of my grandparents attended Stanford, and she was the oldest. It was as though she had no choice but to attend there, it was a legacy. But she has few fond memories of college, or at least has not shared many. Upon completion and earning her degree in English, she moved back to Pasadena with her parents,which was intended to be a temporary arrangement. She had BIG plans to move to New York to become a writer. But it was maybe 58 or 59? Single women didn't really do such things often back in those days.
My parents met at Vroman's, a historical bookstore in Pasadena, in which they both got jobs to pay the bills while they pursued their dreams. My mom chickened out with regard to New York and married my father, only 7 months after meeting, I believe. My mother was 22. She has told me in the past that one of the reasons she married my father was to get away from her OWN father, since she'd been living at home. My father was 30, and he loved her spirit and independent nature. They married on June 10, 1960. My sister arrived shortly afterwards, and a household had to be created and maintained, as well as provided for. Mom became a housewife, which I still cannot for the life of me even picture in my brain. For anyone who knows LA well or has ever pursued acting, it's well known you can barely make a living for one person by just getting small acting gigs. Providing for a family as an aspiring actor was just not going to happen, so my dad got a job teaching speech and debate, as well as drama, at San Marino High School. Three years after my sister, my brother came along. Five and a half years later, I came into the picture.
The reality? The possible ill-advised decisions? My mother gave up on her dreams and married a gay alcoholic. My gay father married a woman who really never wanted to be a housewife. Keep in mind the jury is still out as to when my mother realized my dad was gay. She says now she always knew, and she thought she could "fix" him, but I'm not so sure about that. So she faked being a happy housewife for a number of years, which I never witnessed directly. She was home when my sister came home from school, was a girl scout leader, and made dinner every night. Maybe at the time, she was enjoying it and not faking it, I have no way of knowing. At heart, she was a writer, a ferocious women's libber, and a free spirit. I don't think she wanted to raise a family in the same, mundane, traditional manner in which she was raised. At one point my father stopped drinking, and they decided to have another baby to celebrate (one of three stories I have heard about the reason I'm here, but okay...). I was conceived in 1969, the Summer of Love, in a Motel 6 in Goleta. However, my entrance into this world didn't end up fixing anything. As it turns out, married men from the South in the early 70's with wives and three children often don't want to face up to the fact that they are indeed homosexual. So guess what they do? They drink so they don't have to think about it. It didn't take long. So operation "sobriety celebration baby" was for naught. I write this with a smile on my face, because I was unequivocally adored by my father, so I in no way think I was a mistake. But the marriage ended about three years later. I have absolutely no recollection of them ever being together. When I hear stories about my parents from my siblings, who are older by quite a margin, it's as though they were raised by completely different people.
I know neither of them have/had any regrets that they had us....but I'm sure they've wondered...
What would have happened if Dad had remained single, and pursued acting with the likes of Dustin Hoffman, who was his roommate at the Pasadena Playhouse, and Gene Hackman who was also there at the time? Perhaps he would have come out of the closet officially much earlier than he did and could have had a happy life with a consistent partner and lived his dream of becoming a famous actor.
What would have happened if Mom had truly moved to New York alone? Would she be a published novelist? A columnist or maybe even an editor at a prominent magazine such as the New Yorker or probably more appropriately, Ms. Magazine? I personally believe she never would have married, and possibly never had children. She recently had a short fictional story published in a local magazine that describes JUST that kind of character. An unmarried, single woman, who is a writer in New York who bumps heads with her own mother. My brother and I both have asked her if she was writing about the life she wishes she'd chosen. She denies it. "No! I have always seen myself as a mother." I'm glad to know she's glad we're here, but I'm just not totally convinced.
So were these the first of many ill-advised decisions that affected my very existence as well as the rest of my life? Or was this all in the plan? We'll never know for sure.
Despite other jobs and countless responsibilities, neither parent gave up on their passions. Teaching became a passion of my dad's and he taught for 37 years, influencing generations of students who came out of the woodwork to attend his memorial service. He was the favorite teacher, and everyone knew who he was. During and after teaching, Dad continued to go on auditions and acted in plays, commercials, and small films way past his diagnosis of emphysema until he literally couldn't stand or say an entire sentence without becoming out of breath. The movie "Mr. Holland's Opus" reminds me a lot of my father.
My mother, after divorcing my father became very involved in politics and women's rights, and was often so busy I rarely saw her. When I began high school, my mom had a calling. While still working full time, she began seminary and became an ordained Episcopal priest just as I was graduating high school. Retired and in her early 70's, she's writing quite a bit now, and I believe is working on a book.
Here was MY plan for my life...I love children and psychology. I wanted a happy marriage, and an intact family. I wanted a pretty damn conventional family, as a matter or fact because I was not brought up in one. I AM a school psychologist and work with children every day, have been happily married for 14 years and have two amazing children. However, I have also ALWAYS wanted to write. I have stacks and stacks of journals and stories and essays I have never shown to a single soul. At 40, what am I waiting for? Not pursuing this now would not be the first, but would most surely be another ill-advised decision.
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