At dinner last night my daughter requested “Harry” which meant that she wanted to listen to Harry Nilsson. Of course I obliged — he is, after all, one of my all-time favorite musicians. She recognized “Me and my Arrow” as being from The Point. She got particularly excited during the “Coconut” song, “That’s a funny song, Mama,” she kept saying. And, lost interest by “Without Her.” Which, I can’t blame her for. You really can’t dance to that one.
She then requested, “the corn song” which is code for Arthur Russel’s “Close My Eyes.” We listened to that song and a few others off the same record. We then moved on to Tusk, one of my favorite (underrated) Fleetwood Mac albums. Which, she adored. “Who’s this, Mama?” she kept asking.
“It’s Fleetwood Mac. Stevie Nicks is singing. She’s a really good singer, huh?”
“Mmm hmmm. Yep,” she’d say while vigorously shaking her head.
As a kid, I had zero exposure to my parents musical preferences, and no musical education. My life and the adults lives were kept totally separate. Separate bedrooms, separate dining rooms, separate kitchen areas. Separate worlds.
My dad fancied himself a humble and humorous person. And with those false conceptions of self, asked for a Birthday Roast for his 50th. I was nine years old. I didn’t hate him yet. I feared him. And, I didn’t understand him. But, I still craved his attention and love.
My sister and I decided to put together a little play for the party. Our “roast” of sorts. We came up with this skit in which we dressed up like flies and flew around touching things and making them “dirty, tainted, unclean, poison!”
“HP, HP!” we shouted. “Someone get the hydrogen peroxide and clean this! My daughter has touched it and now it is unclean!” we screamed in unison, flapping our arms wearing huge grins.
We thought it was hilarious. We didn’t quite understand the depths of just how twisted the whole thing was. His friends, community members, sat wide-eyed, jaws slackened. They could not believe what we were doing. Perhaps they were surprised and embarrassed that we had noticed how they treated us. Perhaps it highlighted for them just how messed up the dynamic between kids and adults was. Or, perhaps they were just struck by how sad it all seemed.
My kid got too close to my food, so now I can’t eat it. My child touched my hand so now I must wash it. My son sat in my chair and now it must be cleansed. My daughter entered the dining room, the door knob must be disinfected. My children dared pass the “invisible line” into the kitchen. They must be punished.
It took me years and years and years to feel comfortable going into anyone’s kitchen. And, when I did, I would wash my hands profusely before touching anything. I would get permission before opening the fridge or rummaging for a glass in the cabinet. I would linger, just at the edge of the kitchen and innocently ask for things. Like a wounded pet, begging for sustenance.
My mother’s hands were always red and rough. The skin on her knuckles would flake and peel and she had permanent callouses partly from the housework, but, mostly from how frequently she washed her hands.
We kept a bottle of hydrogen peroxide at the sink to spray on our bare hands every time we washed them. Dishes had to be separated by “mouth” and “stove” so that pots and pans were washed separately from things that had touched the human mouth. There were two separate dirty dish counters. One for kids and one for adults. Dishes had to be cleaned three times. Once, scrubbed in burning hot water and soap. Twice dipped in a bleach and hot water solution. And, thrice, run through the dishwasher on the longest and hottest setting.
Lettuce was triple-washed. Vegetables were grown only in our garden. No meat. No dairy. No processed goods. We baked our own bread. We ground our own flour. We soaked and cooked our own beans. This didn’t last forever. But, it was a long time before they started feeding the kids “typical” kid meals like lasagna and grilled cheese. The adults kept to a strict diet regimen. I was about seven years old, at a friends’ house for a playdate, when she opened a can of refried beans. She scooped the contents into a pot and heated it over the stove and I gagged at the stench. I thought she was playing a practical joke on me. Get the commune girl to eat cat food, that’ll be hilarious.
It wasn’t just food. It was exposure to anything outside of our 10-acre radius.
My dad was convinced that if you left the compound for any amount of time, particularly if you left unattended — without your designated buddy, who could vouch for your whereabouts and actions — you would most certainly return with AIDS.
He was sure of it.
You would contract AIDS and die of AIDS but not before infecting everyone else first.
Travel had to be authorized through him, activities required pre-approval, no adults were to leave alone (with or without kids) and anyone in his inner circle was not allowed to leave town for any period of time. Not for a dying father, the birth of a niece, a brother’s wedding, nothing. No exceptions. Or, you were out.
There were months, years even, where he was more lenient on these terms. He would concede some ground but then tightly pull in the reigns the next minute. There was no consistency from one year to the next. And, the women just had to keep figuring it out. Often through one of them making a mistake and shouldering the consequences.
I wonder how my life might have been different if I’d been allowed to go on some of the auditions I’d scored in Los Angeles or the family vacations with friends. If I’d been exposed to the outside world earlier and more fully.
Well, I wasn’t. But, I had my dream. My vision of life in New York. And, it got me through. Through elementary school, through the hellfire that was middle school. Through high school and into college. Beyond my mother’s illness and my own physical struggles. And, here I am.
Living my dream.
