it is raining. 5:30 am Friday, November 22. Where were you the day President John F Kennedy was assassinated? I was walking up the steps to orchestra class at James Monroe School in South Bend, Indiana. I loved playing the violin. I alternated between first and second chair, trading weekly with a boy whose name now eludes me. He was really the better player because he had a vibrato, a vibration of the strings created by the wrist moving at the neck of the violin. I never mastered the movement. Midway up the marble staircase, violin in hand, I stopped. Someone below was screaming, “The President is dead. They killed him.” Today is the 50th anniversary of his death.
Funny I remember what was going on in the world in November, 1963. I remember being in school, playing the violin. I was in the 7th grade. Jill Small and Alice were my best friends. We went everywhere together. Jill came from a broken home. Her mother, Ann, raised her and her sister, Patti. Ann got child support and the girls saw their father with some frequency. When he came for his weekly visits, he always brought stacks of 45’s with him. He put records in jute boxes for a living. Boy, did we have fun dancing to the music he gave us, songs like The Locomotion, Sugar Shack, He’s So fine, Hey Paula and Wipe Out. We danced all day on Saturdays and as many day as possible after school let out. Jill’s Mom worked full-time at a pharmacy so we had their house all to ourselves. Her mother even let us have slumber parties. One night we got into a huge pillow fight and one of the down pillows exploded. Picking up down feathers requires great patience. During one of our weekly slumber parties. I pierced my own ears. I went home the next morning with safety pins hanging from both lobes. Those were the days.
Those were the days my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose
We’d fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way.
Then the busy years went rushing by us
We lost our starry notions on the way
If by chance I’d see you in the tavern
We’d smile at one another and we’d say
Those were the days my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose
We’d fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days
Just tonight I stood before the tavern
Nothing seemed the way it used to be
In the glass I saw a strange reflection
Was that lonely woman really me
Those were the days my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose
We’d fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days
Lyrics by Mary Hopkin
Alcohol, the word that next comes to mind, and lots of questions. Had I yet met the first love, Mick Stilson, the boy who initiated me into daily sex and regular alcohol consumption? I am not sure. I do know that my life changed after the assassination of JFK. Somehow the President’s charm, his charisma had given me hope. Sure, I enjoyed dancing with my friends, pulling phone pranks, piercing my ears, playing croquet on warm summer days, walking to the drug store for coke floats, going to weekend end church dances, learning to wear make-up, and all the other things young girls did in 1963. But, and this is a big BUT, life at my house, at 524 Altgeld Street, continued to be a war zone. I would liken our home to occupied Iraq. Nine of us living in a two bedroom one bath house. Me, at 12 years old, sharing a bed and bedroom with my grandmother. My father and step mother sleeping in the attic with the youngest of their 5 children in separate cribs, side by side. My other three brothers sharing a small room fitted with a twin bed and a trundle-bed.
I remember pictures of my three brothers lined up in stair step order, like little soldiers in our claw foot bath tub. We all doubled up on baths to save on the cost of hot water. My Dad did not work or if he did, it was sporadic at best. He had a bad habit of telling people they were stupid and inept. His attitude did not go over well with his cronies or his clients. He sold insurance or so he said. I remember him sleeping until 3 pm in the afternoon, grandma fixing his breakfast, him sitting in his robe, with coffee cup in hand, on the living room couch reading the newspaper until dinner time. How much money could he have made doing that? All the while, my step mother worked full-time managing a local department store. She cooked, cleaned and did her best to mother her brood. As a child I hated her. I saw her as the woman who took my Daddy away from me. Little did I know then that she probably saved my life. Her presence made it for my father to sexually abuse me.
JFK died. I started drinking, hanging out with the “wrong crowd,” the kids who drank and smoked cigarettes. I quit violin, gave up years of lessons and practice so I could go to Mick’s house after school and have sex. When Mick and I broke up, which happened with some regularity, I went to the roller rink where the older boys, the ones who drove “souped up” cars and had duck tailed hair dos like John Trivolta in Grease hung out.
I started shop lifting so I could have the clothes I thought I deserved. I stayed away from home as much as possible avoiding the fights, the physical and verbal abuse, the arguments about money, and my father constantly picking on my brother Scott, who could do nothing right. My friends did not come over to spend the night at my house. They couldn’t. Where would they sleep….with me and grandma in our double bed? We did not play there after school. Alcohol became an escape for me. After a few sips of bourbon or a couple of beers, I felt invincible. I dreamed dreams of getting out of South Bend, Indiana, of making something of my life.
I believe that drinking helped me survive those terrible times. It gave me hope, it cushioned the harshness of a scary home life, and it helped me to have fun. There is no doubt in my mind that the Divine Mother was looking out for me. I somehow managed not to get pregnant, not to be involved in one of the many car wrecks that claimed the lives or bodies of my friends, and not to give up on school. I continued, in the midst of all the chaos, to make straight A’s. Because I was a good student, teachers took interest in me. Their faith in me coupled with my belief that I could make a better life for myself gave me the courage to leave, to move to Memphis, to start a new life.
Alcohol traveled with me to Memphis. In fact, she (I like to refer to her as Rose) made herself at home. My mother and step father drank daily and always included me in their cocktail rituals. There was no turning back now. I was hooked. I loved the rush that first sip of booze gives you when it touches your tongue. What would life be like without it? BETTER! I know that but I keep on drinking. 10 years of sobriety, 1900-2000, taught me many things. The memory of bliss lingers. I remember learning that nothing in life is worth drinking over. I want that again. Thy will be done. Even though alcohol promises safety, I know the promise is a false one. John O’Donohue writes,
Blessed be the longing that brought you here
And quickens your soul with wonder.
May you have the courage to listen to the voice of desire
That disturbs you when you have settled for something safe.
Still working on it. I am stone cold sober and loving every minute of it. I will not give up. One day at a time. Maybe this will be Day 1.
Writing into the Light 