Last night, I was scrolling through the TV guide and I came across a listing for a movie that was pivotal in my life. To Live and Die in L.A. was more than likely the movie that made me change my college major from theater to film. It was dark and edgy, it explored sexuality and the blurred lines between good and evil. Best of all, it had a soundtrack performed by Wang Chung, an 80’s band that rocked my world.
It was 1985, the last year of my life as I knew it. I was 20-21 years of age and I was becoming the person I had always dreamed of being. I had lost weight and was in the best shape of my life. I was working 32 hours a week, going to school full time, and working on community theater productions behind the scenes and on stage, I even had a solo. What I didn’t know, was that my mother had cancer and was dying slowly before my eyes. Even then, I was The Girl from Ipanema, or I was just a typical self absorbed 20 year old. Either way, I was oblivious to what was happening to her.
It’s difficult to describe my relationship with my mother, as I suppose it is for most people. Looking back, she was the center of my universe, my first best friend, my defender and the sculptor of my warped sense of humor and ideals. Eventually, I would defy her by talking back and finding friends to go on adventures with instead of her, but I would continue to do my best at school and behave in a manner designed to make her happy. I was only 21 when she passed away, a very long time ago, so many of my memories are faded, but one that will never leave me, happened when I was around the age of 4.
We were fortunate to live near a large park with baseball fields. During the winter, those fields were converted into ice skating rinks and my mom enjoyed skating. I have a memory of her wearing her freshly white shoe polished figure skates and a royal blue scarf wrapped around her head, blowing in the wind as she skated backwards, filled with life, filled with joy, feeling free. That year, the snow was deep and it was difficult to trudge through the park on the path to the rink. With my double bladed skates thrown over my shoulder, I struggled to keep up with my mom as I kept sinking into the deep snow. She looked back at me and told me to follow in her footsteps and it would be easier. Of course, as usual, she was right. I believe I followed her advice that day and many days that followed, but eventually, I wouldn’t be able to suppress my desires to express myself, sometimes blurting out words of anger or insult without thought for their consequences. I couldn’t be like my mom, swallowing her true feelings and letting them die slowly as she maintained her role as a proper wife and mother in the era she was born. I was born to be a rebel without a cause, or so I led myself to believe.
Her name was Lorraine and she was a depression era child. She was raised to never embarrass her family by asking for more than she was given, because there was no more to give. I remember her telling me how she would suck the bones of a pork chop to get every last bit of flavor out of them because of the uncertainty of when she might be able to eat again. She raised me with an idea to eat up, who knows when you may have another meal. Unfortunately, I ate too well and we were blessed to always have another meal, but I did as I was told like the good girl that I tried to be. She was raised with the understanding, you have food, clothing and shelter, how dare you ask for more and passed that understanding down to me.
For the most part, I took those words to heart and was a “good kid”. I learned to swallow my feelings and kept my head down in hopes of not being noticed by the bullies who got their jollies with their daily pokes at my weight. I learned to build a wall around myself, to protect my overly sensitive, thin skinned feelings, but my attempts to hide were futile. I stuck out like a sore thumb, still do. I’m big, tall and have a head of crazy curly blonde hair with a life of its own. My thoughts come pouring out of my mouth whether I like them to or not and they are my first defense when being attacked or defending my loved ones. My constant battle with myself to “fit in” does not work and eventually comes roaring out like a active volcano. Oh bother.
As it turns out, I got that from my mother. I don’t have memories of her going over the edge, but I have been told stories of her storming out of the house because she wanted a new refrigerator, or something like that. I have been told that on numerous occasions, my dad had to throw the kids in the car and go looking for her, but I believe that was all before I came onto the scene. My siblings are all much older than I and have had a different childhood than myself. They got to know the mom, the person I knowingly am. I got to know the mom that had learned to mind herself or she would not like the consequences.
I loved the 80’s and even though I wasn’t bone thin, I could find clothes in the popular styles and rock them out. I would hit resale shops and donned a men’s tweed overcoat decked with rhinestone brooches, as was the style. I had big hair, big earrings and big belts to go along with my dancing boots. How I loved to danced and like Billy Idol, I was dancing by myself and loving it. I was an artist going to school at Columbia College for theater, then changed my major to film. To prove it, I would go to the Artist’s Cafe on Michigan Ave. and have a bagel and cream cheese, which was what I could afford on my artist’s budget. 1985 was coming to an end and so was my dream of being an artist..
To be continued…
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