Dead People

 A few days ago I picked up my newish journal (I finished the old one while still in California as September shifted to October) and settled in with it on our sunny lanai for an hour or so. I had to change pens halfway through my writing because favorite pens always run out of ink when I'm on a roll. My thoughts were racing as usual and there were constant reminders that my longhand skills were not what they used to be. Still, despite numerous interruptions, I was able to generate a piece of writing that absolutely made me feel better--once I got those thoughts out of me and onto the ruled sheets of my newest friend and therapist. I thought for a moment, journals have saved my life. Was I being dramatic? The thought had some resonance and I accepted it despite the drama. I moved into the rest of my day feeling like I'd had a breakthrough therapy session. And it was free. 

I've stated before--within the context of this blog that I write things in my journal--intensely personal things--that I wouldn't even think of releasing into the blogosphere (do they even still use that term?) or sharing to the general public. But my last entry here was deeply personal and up to the moment it was shared, very private. It felt good to finally move the cursor to the "publish" button even though I'll admit, it hovered there for a bit. When released, the weight of thirty years began to fall away. I began to sense a bit of regret that I hadn't done it sooner but I quickly let that go. Not productive. I resolved to be more emotionally honest with my blog entries moving forward. The weekend progressed and the journal stayed in my backpack until today (Wednesday) and this is my first blog entry since October 11. 

One of the patented musings I made in that journal entry on Friday, October 21, 2022, was regarding the short list of people I can feel comfortable calling. On the phone. Whenever and wherever I need to talk. The list is short for many reasons. I'm not much of what they call a "phone person" and most likely never have been. In those rare instances when I felt I really needed to talk with someone, I called from a select list of now dead people. Kathy. Aunt Bernice. Mom. René. The list extends through time and space but these are the most recent. There are other dead people. Interestingly, they are all women. That doesn't surprise me because--with the exception of my father--I don't believe I've developed the same type of relationship with any man. Sorry guys. Even while my father still lived, our conversations (before his dementia) were rare but often deep. 

I guess I tend to think about death more often at this time of the year. Maybe it's because the "Day of the Dead" coincides with my birthday. Maybe it's because I see nature's awesome display of death and eventual renewal play out before my eyes. Maybe it's got something to do with the fact that I recognize the sheer miraculousness of it all. Whatever the reason I don't think about it with fear...usually. Pain still bothers me a lot. I don't want a death preceded by lots of pain. Who the hell does? It all makes for some deep inner conversations or words on a page that are becoming more and more difficult to write. Still.

It sure would be nice to talk with someone.

Collage Project: Dad

 [Two blog entries. That's how long my experiment lasted. There might be some truth to the old adage "you can't teach an old dog new tricks" but I prefer to look at this a bit more positively by saying "if it ain't broke, don't fix it." So here goes another blog, transcribed from the good old dusty notebook.]

I've embarked on a new ambitious art project. With a realization that it's impractical and too demanding of studio space to begin painting again--and with my photography at a sad standstill--I've decided to express myself creatively through collage. In previous creative spurts I derided the collage medium and didn't give it much attention. But it's grown on me. I've done several experiments on a small scale but a few days ago, I committed to larger projects by purchasing some poster board. Today I'll begin working on my first larger scale collage which will be a tribute to my father. 

My dad's story is unique--as all our stories are. There's no earth shattering adventure to share nor is there any remarkable life achievement award to post. But there is great pride and it cries for expression about a life well lived. I was at odds with my dad all through my teen years. As a child I was fearful of him at times although my father never once disciplined me physically. My early adult years were distant by choice and geography as I'd moved to Texas. I would say that it was distance that finally endeared my father to me. 

I'm hoping my collage will do honor to the man I came to know later--perhaps later than it should have been. There were poignant moments before a time when his memory began to fade. As the ravages of dementia took their inevitable toll, there were opportunities to express care and love in ways that were gently acknowledged. I just wish I could have gotten more of his story. My best advice to anyone who has living parents--regardless of your relationship status--get all you can before it's too late. Have conversations. Record them. Take notes. Do whatever.

My father was eight years old when his father died from Polio. A dashingly handsome man from the few photos I have, Clarence was a hardworking father of five. My father was the oldest. Dad finished high school on an accelerated program so that he could become a pilot during WWII. He survived a nearly fatal car accident when he was only 25. A lifetime of paralysis seemed likely. A skilled surgeon was able to repair his broken neck with a truly experimental procedure and his mobility was restored. Adversity seemed to have prepared him for everything. In 1952, he met my mother and they were married the following year. I don't think my father ever met a challenge he didn't at least try to overcome. Giving up wasn't in his nature. He fathered five children of his own of which I am the youngest. He and my mother certainly faced some lean times with his railway clerk salary. He often lamented that a job in the railway industry was all he could get when the standard commercial pilot wasn't a dark-haired, short, Catholic Irish guy but a tall, blonde-haired, blue eyed nordic Protestant type. I imagine there was some truth to that. He continued to renew his pilot license--even bought a small plane. But I think some of his dreams were dashed early on. He trudged away at his job until a later than deserved retirement in 1985. By that time, I'd graduated high school and moved to Texas. Conversations were few and far between. And those were the typical, surfacey talks. I don't think we ever had a "heart to heart." That didn't happen until 1998--when I would have killed myself if I'd had the balls. But...since I didn't have that kind of nerve I just stopped wanting to live. I was willing myself to death through self-starving and sleep deprivation. Mom and dad made a special trip to Texas to bring me back to the hometown from which I'd worked so hard to escape. Dad gave me a pep talk and helped me realize there was still a life for me if I wanted it. He shared parts of his life story in a way that made me feel that I came from some pretty resilient blood. I stayed in Texas. I survived. I owe so much to him. 

The project for my collage is beginning with him. I want to convey some key points, among them survival, resilience and loss. I don't know how long it will take but I will do the best I can, which is clearly what he did. For his entire, remarkable life.

(my father William Boylan, unknown location, unknown photographer--with my brother John in 1954)

The Smell of Dial Soap

[Until this entry, my writing process has been a laborious three-step ritual that begins with a rough draft in a longhand notebook, editing by hand and then transcribing those words to these digital pages. For the first time, I'm trying to do it all on my laptop or desktop and it's a challenge! I'm so resistant to change! Particularly challenging is this piece which taps memories--so there has been lots of cross-referencing existing journals for content. But change is good. Shall we embrace it?]

I try to flesh out memories and add to content when it suits my writing. Essays on life, loss and love are observational in real time but memories are fleeting--snippets like short YouTube clips with distortions. Kind of like watching those videos while exceptionally high on whatever your mind-altering substance of choice. Most of my recall of late has been prompted by smells, sounds and sights. A few years ago when I was deep into my family photograph archive scanning frenzy, most of my memory essays were based on photographs. I'd see these images in a new light at higher resolution--with details that baffled me. That dresser was never in that corner! The pajamas with feet were red, not yellow! He never wore glasses! But the photos were great source material. They still are. With memories related to senses, however, there are rarely photographs to corroborate the evidence. The only evidence is that memory. We hold it somewhere in the recesses of those less used parts of the brain. Then the trigger. I think mine are generally happy with a few exceptions. Mostly, they're neutral but evoke reflection that may result in a quizzical smile or raising of the eyebrow...later.

 My childhood trips to Texas--thanks to parents who kept close contact with relatives who participated in the post WWII migration to the land of favorable jobs--gave me an early appreciation of the smallest of details in regards to personal hygiene. My Texas relatives used Dial soap in the shower. At least that's what I remember. My Aunt Bernice (mom's oldest sister) and her husband lived in a ranch style home built sometime around the year I was born and they had an in-ground pool which favored heavily in decision-making when it came to which relative we'd be staying with. They lived on the outskirts of the city of Fort Worth, Texas. Mom's youngest sister Kay lived closer to Dallas but they didn't have a pool. There's one picture of me at Aunt Kay's house in a small plastic backyard pool that explains why the in-ground pool was optimal. But I digress. Both of these families used Dial soap in their bathrooms. The smell--to my child's mind recollection--was invigorating and pleasant. It was nothing like the fragrance of Dove or Ivory, which were the preference at our home in Pennsylvania. Dove and Ivory get mixed up in my mind but I remember the floral scent of Dove and the unmistakable "clean" scent of Ivory bar that was so pure "it floats!" When one walked into the pink tiled  guest bathroom of my Aunt Bernice's house, the smell of Dial soap permeated the walls it seemed. No Ivory or Dove in this place!

Dial Soap originated in Chicago with a chemist who worked for Armour and Company--a meat-packing industrial giant. The year it was introduced--1949--it was touted as "the first active, really effective deodorant soap in all history [because it] removes skin bacteria that cause perspiration odor." From 1953 on, it was touted under the slogan "Aren't you glad you use Dial? Don't you wish everyone did?" I also remember the numerous ads seen in Newsweek and LIFE magazines which were those we subscribed to at home. I think I implored my mother to buy Dial soap but she never did.

Years later, in an effort to reinvigorate those sensory memories of my youth, I bought a bar of Dial soap just to see if it would trigger anything. It didn't. The formula had changed through the years particularly when the U.S. Food and Drug Administration outlawed the use of hexachlorophene in non-medicinal products. Hexachlorophene was the active anti-bacterial agent in the product. Armour replaced it with triclocarban--a synthetic anti-bacterial agent. I have no idea if this changed the fragrance but it certainly wasn't the same fragrance I remembered as a child. It wasn't until many years later, as my husband and I wandered through a street fair in North Carolina, that I smelled that scent again. I have no idea what product was being peddled but there were lots of organic soaps and candles in the booth. The scent was fleeting but it was definitely the scent I remembered all those years prior. For just a moment, I was a 10 year-old kid spending a few weeks of the summer in Texas and I could see and feel everything. EVERYTHING. 

Sharing Stuff

 It has been years since I started this blog. It was at the time a blog with no direction. It is still that. To be honest, I kind of like it that way. I can write about whatever subject comes to mind and, given that it's a subject that holds my interest--at least for the time, it generally means that I'm pleased with the result. Many life events have taken place since that day in 2009 when I decided to make some of my thoughts public. I concurrently kept (and keep) a private journal that is often sourced for material that I think would be suitable for public consumption. 

Recent events have created a sense of urgency to get my writing out there. This isn't due to some impending calamity or premonition but a series of natural "happenings" in which my mortality was examined in detail and the desire to make a mark more relevant. I don't have children--therefore, my writings are my children. My artwork/photography to a lesser extent fits on the spectrum as well. There's not much of that. But...my writing is deeply personal. It is no exaggeration to say that writing is my absolute best therapy. 

In the coming weeks, I will embark on a new project to finish recording previous blogs (many have already been done) and create new material based on memories and expanding out to some observations on art, culture and politics. I hope to share some good stuff but I can no longer feel comfortable censoring my writing to accommodate sensibilities for fear of offending someone somewhere. I hope this is as freeing to me as I hope it to be. I do still write for myself primarily. But if someone out there happens to get something out of it, I'm gratified even if I never know about it.

Bordentown

 Some memories are embedded in bits and parts like an incomplete puzzle in which a number of pieces are permanently lost. One of those memories has been tarnished recently by events that happened long ago and outside of my personal experience. It resides in a special compartment I reserve for my paternal grandmother Kathryn and her husband, John. John wasn't my grandfather. My actual grandfather Clarence died of polio when my father was still a young child. Clarence left five children of which my father was the oldest. At the height of the Great Depression, my grandmother had few options but to depend substantially on her own mother and the hope that she could could at some point find another man who wouldn't mind taking on not one or two, but five children fathered by another man. As it turned out, Kathryn was unable to harness that security until years later, with her children grown and facing a very uncertain middle age. One of the neglected stories of the post WWII era were the numerous widowed or single women who weren't able to take advantage of the prosperity of those years. A breadwinning man wasn't a dream for many of those women but an unfortunate necessity--especially when the average family had more than three children. 

Kathryn finally found a career Army man--John--whom she wed and followed overseas to numerous posts until they settled into a contented, modest life in Bordentown, New Jersey--close to Fort Dix, where he worked until retirement. By the time I was able to remember the various summer trips we took to visit them, my older siblings were already beginning to leave the nest. It was often just me and my sister Amy. We were the youngest of the five. It was a small apartment with a kitchen my mother used to compare to a closet. On those rare but exciting early visits, my mother would take me on walks around the neighborhood. We would pause in front of an imposing cast iron gate where what looked like a mysterious castle sat like a sentinel. It was here where the cloistered sisters of St. Clare--known as the "poor Clares"--resided. Mom explained to her inquisitive child, endless questions abounding, "They aren't allowed to ever go out. They can't talk." My imaginative mind immediately conjured up all kinds of bizarre images. Unlike the Sisters of St. Joseph who taught me back at Holy Rosary, these nuns must have ethereal qualities--perhaps they could even float! Today, the former Monastery of St. Clare is an assisted living facility--bought and converted in 1999. At least the building's exterior is extant. A bit further along our walk sat a small brick cottage-like building. It's thatched roof recalled another era and it looked small--even to an eleven year-old. This was the one time schoolhouse of the famed Clara Barton (1821-1912), a nurse who founded the American Red Cross. Her earlier career as an educator and innovator prompted her to open the first ever free school in the city of Bordentown in 1852. The small one-room schoolhouse was fascinating. Aside from the historical designation plaque which mom and I read together, one could peak into the windows of the building where a poorly maintained mannequin figure dressed in mid-19th Century attire stood stoically near a primitive chalkboard. By the mid 1970s, there was clearly not much attention being paid to the historic site--which had been dedicated in 1921. It is gratifying to see that it has recently been restored for future preservation. 

The apartment on Chestnut Street was a two bedroom unit on an oak tree shaded six acre tract of land. Each building had only four apartment units--the kind that one would enter from an interior corridor. Each unit had a storage cellar--private and locked. On one visit, John (Kathryn's husband) took mom, dad and I down to that cellar to see how he had all the canned goods marked by name and date--meticulously labeled to exacting detail. I remember dad making a joke about it being a holdover from John's military days. 

John was a quiet man. I can view pictures of him now but they don't do justice to the person I remember. He had been previously married and had an adult son who lived in Erie. The son never married and my mother told me in later years that she suspected he was gay. Closeted, of course, but gay. I have no idea if that's true and there's no way I could now confirm it. My few memories of John that contain any detail include one of him getting dressed in my parent's bedroom. My mom and dad would relinquish their bed in later years when Kathryn and John would visit. I was walking past my parent's room and John was laboriously getting into a girdle. I had never seen a man getting into a girdle before. I'd seen my mom in hers previously on occasion --quite by accident but this...this was shocking! I didn't know men wore girdles!

There was something about John that didn't feel right. Call it intuition or gut but my trust level as a child was normally quite accepting--giving adults around me the benefit of the doubt. Not so with John. I didn't feel right calling him "grandpa" and my dad always addressed him as "John." As a child I was pretty rude when it came to staring at adults. I was usually summing them up and although I was generally a bit shy I always looked them in the eyes when they were addressing me. Something about this man's eyes was disturbing. I couldn't define it as a child but now I can say that they were empty and dark. In fact, the word "evil" comes to mind. And evil they were. Years after John's death, I discovered that he had sexually abused one of my cousins. There may be others he abused but this is the one I know about. Before she passed, my mother alluded to the possibility of more victims but thankfully, my sisters and even myself--as pedophiles typically disregard gender when opportunity presents itself--were spared from this predator. 

Again...my mind wanders back to those visits to Bordentown. I took delight in seeing this man feed the neighborhood squirrels but I knew to keep my distance. I feel nothing but sadness and anger for his victims. Who knows how many there are?

The Clara Barton Schoolhouse. Photo courtesy of Bordentown Tourism.

The Monastery of the Poor Clares. Bordentown, New Jersey. Photo Credit: unknown

Embracing The Nerd Within...Again

There's no doubt I was a nerd as a child. Sports wasn't my thing and never became my thing. My head was always in a book if I wasn't watching an old black and white film on TV. I found additional pleasure in drawing and writing and that was pretty much the scope of my activities from the ages of 9 through 16. 

Something happened around my junior year of high school which would change all that. Although I hadn't achieved popular status or total acceptance with the "cool kids." I'd managed to carve a niche for myself as a freak and that had it's own perks as I was now that "crazy kid who'd do anything."

After moving to Texas in the summer of my graduation year (1982) I began working and started college which soon turned into quitting college, partying and working to survive. I would say that partying became my primary activity with work secondary and school a distant eventuality...if ever. I wouldn't return to school for many years. I was popular amongst my shifting groups of friends through these years and I always seemed to have a boyfriend, lover or at least a few guys who maintained steady interest in me. I dropped my glasses in early 1984 when I got my first pair of contacts and I was suddenly fresh meat as I still had a baby face and older guys (I'd undoubtably call them predators now) found me irresistible. Where was that nerd? He still inhabited my being but I had no time for him. I needed to project an image that didn't allow him to show up amongst friends. He certainly did emerge when I was alone and had no "image" to project. I amassed a large collection of books over those years. They were simply decoration where others were concerned but in private, I read voraciously. All the while, I continued to fake a "dumb blonde" act (my hair was generally shades of platinum during this time) because I thought that's what attracted older, stable guys with money.

There's a whole bunch missing from this story because it is another story in it's own right. But let's just for the sake of brevity move quickly over the twenty years it took to realize that I missed him--that nerd. He slowly began to emerge--first cautiously, as a stranger from a gentler time--wanting to help me adjust to a new normal. He quietly (he was pretty shy) reminded me that looks were unimportant and that being accepted into "exclusive" groups wasn't a sign of popularity or status but actually shallowness. 

He's actually here with me today as I write this--yet another essay--ruminating on life and enjoying the pen as it moves along the lines of this notebook. I'm totally in love with him!

(Here he is with the Easter "Nest"...1974)

The Great Depression Of 1979

 If I could talk with my 14 1/2 year-old self, I would tell him it would all be okay. On a good day. For me presently, that is. On days when depression takes hold I would probably tell him to run away as fast as he could and not look back. That was the advice of a broken, lonely widow who at that time in my life was my most trusted confidant. She was a deeply troubled but good woman and her name was Rita. When I was 14, she was the age I am currently--and yes, she was clinically depressed. 

I've struggled with bouts of depression my entire adult life. These periods did not originate in adulthood, however. They began far back in my youth. Far enough back that I can't remember the first instance--but I can certainly remember many childhood instances when depression reared it's ugly head. One particular year was literally filled with depression and anxiety. That year was 1979.

(My class photo upon entering high school. August, 1978)

(Here I am at the beginning of my sophomore year. Acne, awkwardness, glasses. This photo was used by my parents to give the police a description when I ran away from home. I think I am hiding some serious sadness here)

The year started with the second half of my freshman year at a private Catholic high school about seven miles from my hometown. The name of this neighboring town was--is--St. Marys. Rita was born and raised there. That school year was anything but enjoyable or pleasant. Each day was racked with anxiety and fear. I had developed a persecution complex because I was heavily involved with a pseudo-evangelical Catholic Charismatic prayer group and was certain I was a sinner of the first class since by that time I was convinced I was "possessed" by the demon of homosexuality. At the same time, that unhealthy relationship had deepened with Rita-the depressive widow. She was my mother's age and she lived alone next door to us. There were stark differences between she and my mother. Rita had a 6th grade education. My mom had high school and some secretarial training. I felt my mom couldn't--or more likely wouldn't--understand me or make any effort to. She tolerated Rita and was even quite friendly to her but I know that my closeness with her was disturbing to my mother. And it should have been! It was a truly inappropriate relationship as I had taken to calling Rita my "best friend."  Along with the middle-aged ladies of the prayer group, she completed my then circle of "friends." I had all but abandoned the childhood boys with whom I had longstanding adolescent friendships.

(my closest friend in 1977-78, our next door neighbor, Rita. A total eccentric at heart, she would be the only person who knew of my plans to run away from home before I actually did)

I was keeping a journal during this time. My first. I kept it expertly hidden as I never wanted my nosey mother to view its contents. This journal was my other friend and confidant. It was also my therapist. In retrospect it truly was. Later in the year my mother did indeed "discover" my journal and castigated me for its contents--especially the harsh words I had for my father. I ceremoniously burned the journal in a rusty barrel located near the alley behind our home. I would love to view the contents of that journal today but my 14 year-old self felt that I was purging those words that had been defiled by my mother's viewing. The relationship with my parents was at an all time low. I probably wrote that I hated them but it was hardly caused by the typical teenage/parent angst. I hated them for our location. I felt isolated. I had witnessed what I then called the "outside world" thanks actually to my parents and numerous trips we'd taken outside our tiny town. I wanted to be anywhere but that small town with what I thought at the time was its small minds. I resented it more each time we'd take one of those trips and return to the rusty hamlet where they chose to make our home. Perhaps they recognized this and in their desperation to placate me planned a trip to New York City in August of that tumultuous year. Dad decided to make it an extended trip as we'd take in Long Island and the New England states as well. 

The potentially bright spot in my year had me feeling excited despite the fact that I clearly was at odds with my two traveling companions for the journey. Dad had booked a room at the famed Waldorf-Astoria Hotel right smack dab in the middle of the most exciting city on earth. Plus, I'd never been there--and was relentless in consistently guilting my folks for not bringing me (then, practically a newborn) to the 1964-65 New York World's Fair to which they brought my other four siblings while sticking me with my Aunt Laura and Uncle Andy. All that resentment for a trip I would clearly not have remembered. Still, it was wonderful to finally see all the places I'd dreamed about. We did everything possible that tourists could do in two days: Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building, World Trade Center and a show with the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall. Part of this trip included a stop at the place where my father went to school at what is now MIT. We ended the trip with a day in Boston and then headed back home through upstate New York. 

(a copy of "GuestInformant" I stole from our room at the Waldorf)

(dad at the outdoor observatory, World Trade Center, south tower. In this photo, he is the age I am now)

If mom and dad had hoped this trip would cure my depression, it must have been a huge letdown for them to realize that it only exacerbated it. My desire to escape my "circumstances" were only heightened with what I saw on this escape. I entered my sophomore year with even more anxiety and now what I could only describe in retrospect as desperation. After a miserable Christmas, I would attempt, in January of the following year, to run away from home. I only made it as far as Buffalo and was retrieved by my parents the same day. But something changed in me on that day. I realized that I did indeed have something within myself that was more powerful than depression. It was something like determination. And I discovered I could use this determination effectively to unhinge the chains that the Charismatic prayer group had on me, the strange and inappropriate bonds I had developed with the neighbor widow, Rita...and an even stronger desire to break free of the place that had imprisoned me for the first 15 years of my life. I spent the summer of my Junior year in Texas with relatives and I was determined to return there when I graduated. I also began making friends with people my own age again and started a long road of acceptance regarding my sexuality. The depressive episodes never went away completely. They still plague me to this day. But all I typically need to do is recall the events of 1979 to put me back on the path. It's nice to have a guidepost.

Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word

 As a kid I didn't have any deep conversations with my dad. A good man and hard worker, dad was a passionate conversationalist--especially when he'd had a few beers. But those conversations were limited most often to other adults. He was of the generation that believed children were to be seen and not heard. He would definitely have a "conversation" with one of his children if he was displeased. I can remember the booming voice that could just have easily been God if he was pissed off. Maybe that's the reason I still don't like to think of my concept of God as a male/father figure. Who knows? Dad was a disciplinarian in voice only, however. I don't ever recall him laying a finger on me. For that I'm grateful. I had friends who were spanked regularly. For instance my childhood buddy, Richie. Pretty much a weekly occurrence with his strict father. 

Dad loved listening to music. The radio was always on in the car on short and long trips. He'd scan the stations and surprisingly settle very often on contemporary pop. His choices at home were more often records he and my mom had that reflected some of the great voices of their generation: Perry Como, Guy Lombardo, Lawrence Welk among many others. Mom had a particular fondness for Perry Como and a Polish crooner named Bobby Vinton--the "Polish Prince." But some of my clearest memories of dad and music were these car trips--very often with just he and my mom as I was the last of five children and when the others had left the nest, I was the remaining car companion. A few memories stand out. Some of them were from solitary short trips with my father like the times when he'd drive me to morning mass because I was an altar server and walking to the church was out of the question. Those were the few instances I recall where I actually got to hear my father speaking directly to me about music. 

The Canadian artist Gordon Lightfoot had a top 40 hit in 1976 titled "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" about an ill-fated Great Lakes freighter that sunk in Lake Superior during a ferocious storm in November of 1975. The entire crew of 29 men perished in that disaster and the song basically told the story. For whatever reason dad deemed it important, we sat in the driveway of our house upon return from some errand once the song came on and my father told me to listen to the words as it was a true story. Perhaps it was the fact that it was a relatively recent news event and my dad was a true news junkie or perhaps he really liked the song, being a bit of a storyteller himself. Whatever the reason, it was one of those rare instances where my father gave me his full attention and it left an impression. 

Other memories are a bit more subtle but one stands out in particular--again from 1976. It's easy to date these memories precisely because they are related to popular music. I wouldn't begin journaling until 1979. This memory evokes a bit more emotion however because I was at this tender age beginning to question my sexuality, even if I didn't fully understand it. Elton John had recently given an interview to Rolling Stone magazine and in the interview, he came out as bisexual. This news spread like wildfire since being openly gay or bi in the 1970s had an entirely different reaction than such news brings these days. Let's just say it wasn't celebrated. Contrary to what this type of news had done to countless other entertainers however, it didn't seem to hurt Elton's popularity. I suppose by then his music was so beloved that people could choose to overlook this "peculiarity." I strongly suspect that my father might have actually appreciated Elton John prior to this public revelation. Despite his flamboyance, his music attracted appreciation from multiple generations. An Elton John song came on the radio--not sure which one but it very easily could have been any that was then popular. My hunch is that it was Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word. That would have been the biggest hit that year post the Rolling Stone interview. What I remember most distinctly was my father's visceral disgust with Elton John as soon as the song came on. He made a statement along the lines of "that guy is full of crap." Years since, I've reflected on the fact that dad wasn't making a statement about the music. He was making a statement about the man. More particularly, how he felt about the man. I wonder to this day if it was because of the announcement in the interview. 

More comical pronouncements from dad didn't take the form of discussion about music--just opinion. For instance, remarking on the voice of Barbra Streisand--whose music he really appreciated--his comment went something like "That gal's got a voice but boy, that nose!" Dad could be pretty crass when describing the physical characteristics of folks. Years later, when I was living in Texas, I made a habit of bringing CDs when I traveled back and forth and my portable CD player always in tow. On one visit, I was surprised to find him listening to some of the CDs I brought. He really enjoyed the Natalie Cole grammy winning album from the early 90s Unforgettable and surprisingly Bonnie Raitt's breakthrough comeback album Nick of Time which included such songs as Have a Heart. To paraphrase his comment at the time, "That gal's not bad looking for her age and she has a voice." 

One of the nicest things about memories of my father that include music are the numerous road trips that we took with the radio always on and recognizing songs that were in heavy rotation at the time of those journeys. It has helped me to recall dates of trips in previous writings to recall songs that played incessantly on a road trip and simply date the song. There are many instances of pleasant memories in that regard. In years leading up to the time we lost him, I got closer and closer to my father--even as dementia robbed him of his storytelling glory days. There isn't a day when a song doesn't play that reminds me of him, whether I'm hearing it in real time or it's just playing in my head. And as far as Elton John is concerned, maybe my dad softened his opinion after he came to accept my being gay. I'll never know. 

Elton John's 1976 Rolling Stone cover.

1986: My Year As A Socialist

I finally attained full adulthood status in November of 1985 when I turned 21. For most of 1986 I was still "enjoying" all the exuberance of feeling like a teenager with all the rights and responsibilities that came with being "legal." As a young, out gay man at the start of the AIDS pandemic with a strong libido, it was a scary time--aside from the usual scariness that being 21 entails.

It was the first time I got an apartment in my name. Even though I took over a lease in progress from a co-worker who was moving, it still had my name on it. I was feeling pretty good. $350 a month, all bills paid. I wasn't alone as I had taken up with a 34 year-old guy who managed half the expenses. We had an understanding--with parameters set by me--that I was too young to to be involved in a committed, monogamous relationship so we slept together but we often had additional guests in our bed. His name was Theo. He was the head cook at a cafeteria where I was then working, at the General Motors Assembly Plant in Arlington, Texas. 

I wanted so much to be involved in something bigger than myself. I had big dreams. The reality was far from any achievement of big things or big things to come. Fact was--I dropped out of community college over a year before. I had a high school education, was working in a cafeteria and had no prospects regarding further education at the time. I got to know many of the blue-collar workers at this car factory. Even though it was the mid-1980s, this was still Texas...and my oftentimes orange hair and heavy eyeliner opened me to ridicule even though I was constantly telling myself I was new wave, not effeminate. Theo was an imposing black man who was generally working at the same time I was so I felt protected most of the time. Besides, the rednecks found amusements elsewhere so I was harassed very few times when it came right down to it. There was a lot of diversity in the plant, too. Aside from a large percentage of African-American men and women, there were Latinos and a few folks who would have been the 80s version of goths and geeks. There were also socialists. These workers proudly wore "FREE SOUTH AFRICA" t-shirts and buttons supporting unions and strikes. During the Reagan years, they weren't getting much traction but there were a few notable strikes going on. The socialists were never far from the front lines in those instances. They were on them. But...back to my libido...there was one guy who always came through my line named Alex. Alex was a young, swarthy Latino with a shock of jet-black hair and eyelashes for days. His body was taut and the way his FREE SOUTH AFRICA tee clung to it was quite impressive for this skinny punk ringing up his coffee and sandwich purchases. I was happy when Alex struck up brief conversations with me--especially when there was no line and we had a chance to talk. I asked him about his t-shirt and he went into an impressive list of all of the injustices the South African government had imposed on its citizens with the still intact system of apartheid. I could have cared less what he was talking about as I began swimming in those deep brown eyes framed by lashes for days.

Before I knew it, I was attending Socialist get-togethers in Dallas and spending less and less time with Theo. Despite the fact that Alex was, unfortunately, straight, I met lots of other new people. Young people. Older hippie types. I felt like I found a new tribe. They didn't just accept my being gay. They told me they were fighting for me too. The Socialist Workers were fighting for all our rights. And...they had a division just for people my age--under 30 members could become part of the Young Socialist Alliance. It sounded impressive. So I joined up. I joined the cafeteria workers union and started to wear my own FREE SOUTH AFRICA t-shirt. Workers of the world, unite! But...wait. There's more. Belief in God was really old-fashioned, out-of-style. It just wasn't cool to believe--not just in God but in any spirituality. That was the first thing that didn't sit well with me. Plus, there was pressure. They wanted me to start applying for assembly line jobs so that I could infiltrate other places, influence other workers. There was also a strict no drug use policy and I didn't like the idea that I'd have to give up weed or other stuff. But I wanted so much to be a part of something big. 

There's no dramatic ending to this story. I finally just got sick of attending all those meetings and feeling pressured to do things I didn't want to do. It wasn't before I became a poster-boy of sorts and was interviewed for the newspaper published by the organization. I realized that I didn't want to be socialist after all. Capitalism was okay. South Africa, Nicaragua and hundreds of other places I had never been to would all be okay. Governments would change and I would change. Still, I have fond memories of that year. I'm still comfortable saying that I tried it. It just wasn't for me. 

(Issue of "Young Socialist" which featured an interview on pg.2)

(Wearing my "FREE South Africa" tee shirt. Arlington, Texas. 1986)