Forever the Fat Kid: How I Survived Dysfunction, Depression and Life in the Theater (8 page)

ONE WEEK EARLIER

Thursday, March 28th started out on a positive note. My mother let me take the day off from school to hang out with my cousin, Ronnie. Ronnie was in the military and hadn’t been around for most of my life. I was just getting acquainted with him on this particular visit back home to New Jersey, and I thought he was the coolest person on earth. He was doing some work on at his mom’s–my Aunt Florence’s–house and my mother let me stay home from school to help him, though I’m not sure how much help I was at eleven years old. After dropping me off that morning, she continued on to Newark where she picked up Annette at the train station. They spent the day shopping.

Around four or five o’clock that evening, they picked me up at Aunt Florence’s house. While my mother waited in the car, Annette ran in to let me know that they were here to pick me up, and to say hi to Ronnie whom she hadn’t seen in years either. After leaving there, we stopped to get chili dogs and French fries–another high point of the day for me. Shirley and Alonzo, friends of Annette’s from Philadelphia who also happened to be in Jersey that day, met up with us in Rahway. They were picking Annette up and driving her back home, saving her the hassle of having to take the train.

Annette was in one of her typical moods, silly and playful. She noticed a hat that she hadn’t seen before and picked it up. “Ruth, is this your hat?” she asked my mother. Knowing where this particular conversation was headed, my mother answered, “Yes it’s mine,” and added, “I just bought it and I’m not giving it to you.” Annette, like all of my mother’s children, knew of the soft spot she had for her kids. We usually had no problem getting our way with her.

“But it looks so good on me!” she proclaimed, putting on the hat. Still not willing to part with her new purchase, my mother countered with, “Girl, you must be crazy if you think I’m giving you my new hat. I just bought that hat.” To which Annette shot back, “You know you’re not gonna wear it; please let me have it?” But my mother was adamant, “No, you are not gettin’ that hat.” So, even though the hat did look better on Annette, and my mother probably wasn’t going to be wearing it all that much, Annette didn’t get the hat. “Okay,” Annette conceded, “well, at least take my picture in it.” At which point my mother got out the Polaroid camera and took a picture of Annette wearing the hat.

“I feel like a model. Take another picture. I want one with my model face on. You know, serious with no smile. You know, I should have been a model. As skinny as I am, I could be the black ‘Twiggy,’ don’t you think?” So my mother took another picture, and another, and another. This went on until the roll of film was used up and they were forced to stop. It was nice to have laughter and good spirits filling our house again. Annette was her old self, my mother was happy because Annette was her old self, and I was happy because I had the day off from school, not to mention the chili dogs and French fries for dinner. It had been a good day all around. At about 7:00 p.m. Alonzo, Shirley and Annette headed out and began the drive back to Philadelphia. Apparently, as we later found out, Annette’s mood shifted after leaving our house that night. We were told that she was unusually quiet on the trip back to Philadelphia, sitting sideways in the back seat and staring out the rear window for most of the ride. I’ve often wondered what she was thinking as she watched the road disappearing behind her that night. This was, after all, the very same highway that she had almost lost her life on months earlier.

As Annette headed back home to Philadelphia, my mother and I ended up as we often did in front of the television set. While switching channels we came across the 1958 movie A Night to Remember about the sinking of the Titanic. A Night to Remember is a fascinating movie; many people think it superior to the 1997 film version of the same event by James Cameron. Personally, I was mesmerized by it. It was the first time that I remember a movie causing such an emotional reaction in me. It was fascinating to see the different ways that people react when faced with death, whether it be their own or somebody else’s. What becomes important to them, how their priorities can change in an instant; the different levels of acceptance or non-acceptance they exhibit. For some reason, there were two scenes, in particular, that made a strong impression on me. Both scenes revolved around children.

In the first scene, a man watches his wife and children being lowered to safety in a lifeboat as he stays on board the ship. One of his daughters cries out, “Goodbye, Daddy” and I remember becoming acutely aware of how the simple word “goodbye,” which we use on a daily basis without much thought, can suddenly take on such depth and meaning. In the second scene, a man in a tuxedo finds a little boy who has been separated from his mother. They’re seen a number of times in the final minutes of the movie, but it was the last shot of the two of them that burned itself in my mind. In that final scene, the man is holding the little boy close to him as the ship sinks into the ocean. He tells the little boy, who is still crying for his mommy, “Don’t worry, we’ll find her soon.” All of this was swirling around in my head as I fell asleep that night. Lying in bed, the last thing I remember is being completely overcome by a feeling of sadness.

Sometime around two or three in the morning my father woke me from a deep sleep saying, “Michael, get up, we have to go to Philly.” Still groggy, I attempted to do as I was told. I sat up on the edge of the bed for a minute to get myself together and that’s when I heard it. Such a strange sound it was coming from the next room. I had never heard this particular sound before–ever. It took a moment, but when I did comprehend what it was, I became instantly afraid, more afraid than I could ever remember feeling. The sound was that of my mother crying hysterically and uncontrollably.

TIME HEALS EVERYTHING?

What exactly happened after Annette got home that night? Nobody really knows. I do know that she fed and put her children to bed. I do know that she spent some time on the telephone talking with a friend of hers who lived a few blocks away. I do know that her husband returned home from work somewhere around midnight. And I do know that by one o’clock that morning she was dead.

As the days and weeks passed, and I began sorting out the feelings and emotions that had been thrust upon me over the past nine months, I realized that I now knew, firsthand, what growing up felt like. It became clear to me that life, as I had known it up to this point, no longer existed; nothing was ever going to be the same again. There was no question that I was a different person now. And so were my parents. It seemed that the entire world had somehow been transformed. I could only hope that, in the end, all of this change would be for the best.

Perhaps it was a reaction to the drastic loss I’d just experienced, or maybe I just needed some way of marking the end of my childhood, my innocence; a way to rebel against that over which I had no control. Anyway, soon after Annette died I started calling my parents by their first names, just as she had. “Mommy” and “Daddy” were now “Ruthie” and “Jamesie.” And no one ever questioned me about it.

CRAZY ADOLESCENCE

We are multi-faceted beings …

… who, too often, label ourselves based solely on one aspect of who we are.

Adolescence. For me, this is where the majority of my traumatic and/or life-altering experiences happened. If we’re formed by the cumulative experiences of our childhood, then adolescence takes that form and squeezes, bangs, hammers, and otherwise forcibly manipulates it into its final version. Many people claim to have been traumatized by events in their childhood. I was too naïve, too unaware, to realize the level of devastation possible from all that happened during my childhood, ergo, I don’t believe that I was too seriously affected by any of it. However, the events of my adolescence are quite another story. I’d have to say that most of my real scarring happened during those manic teenage years.

WELCOME TO THE SEVENTIES

As we left the 1960s behind and moved into a new decade, each of us–Ruthie, Jamesie and me–was still burdened with the huge void left by Annette’s death. Ruthie, who was probably most strongly affected, reacted by turning into a nurturing Mother Earth type for the ages. Not only to us, but to everyone she came in contact with. “Random acts of kindness” became her mantra. On the one hand, this was a positive thing but, conversely, it often made people (a) question her motives; and (b) take advantage of her generosity. Jamesie reacted by spending even more time away from home, stepping up the drinking, and womanizing. Me? I turned inward, discovering and experimenting with various ways of expressing my suppressed feelings creatively.

Of the many positive attributes that existed in our household, communication was not one of them. We all talked around things, especially our emotions, as if confronting them directly would not only be interpreted as weakness, but would cause a total collapse of the world, as we knew it. Of course, this wasn’t unique to us; it was this way for a lot of families during that time. I’m embarrassed to admit that I was deep into adulthood before I could tell my parents that I loved them. And even then it was usually written, not spoken.

THE STATE CAPITAL

One of my father’s means of supplementing his income, when necessary, was working as a barber. Trained and licensed, he owned an assortment of clippers, combs and other related paraphernalia and often cut my hair while I was growing up. That came to an abrupt end when I was about thirteen years old and he gave me, what I considered to be, the ugliest haircut I ever got in my life! I never let him near my head again. However, others still found him quite skilled. So, never knowing when the need to put this talent to use would arise, he liked to stay current with his licensing. Licensing for barbers in the state of New Jersey was handled by one of the federal offices in our state capital of Trenton. At one point, my father somehow managed to let his license expire. Since renewal by mail was only an option while the license was valid, he was required to make the trip to Trenton to renew it in person, and I went along with him. This trip, seemingly routine in nature, served as yet another catalyst for a major discovery on the road of my life.

We got up early that particular morning, as my father anticipated that it would be a long process and he wanted to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible. Though we did arrive early, the place was packed when we got there. The largest part of the day was spent standing in one line or another. At one point, Jamesie had to use the bathroom. We were standing in the third or fourth line of the day and, not wanting to lose his place, he told me to stay and wait while he went to relieve himself. No problem. At the rate things were going, he’d be back long before we reached the front of the line anyway. He handed me his completed application to hold and went to take care of business. After a few minutes boredom got the best of me and, lacking anything else to do, I started to read his application; just something to do to pass the time until he got back.

Scanning the first side of the application, I saw nothing out of the ordinary; nothing that I didn’t already know. His full name, address, social security number, all of the requisite information you’d expect to find on such a form. I turned it over and began reading the back which contained more in-depth questions and that’s when I saw it. The question asked, “What is the highest grade of schooling you have completed.” The answer shocked me. There, in my father’s unmistakable handwriting, it said “8th grade.” 8th grade!? My father–the man who, despite everything, I believed had all of the answers to life-only had an 8th grade education? I was stunned. Stumbling upon this piece of information sent my mind reeling, blasting so many thoughts through my head that I could barely keep up with them. My father, who had accomplished so much in my eyes, hadn’t gone to school pass the 8th grade? I started making connections; no wonder he never helped me with my homework, or that we never shared experiences with an educational bent. No wonder he didn’t have an office job like many of my friends’ fathers. No wonder he always seemed to make what I felt was “uneducated,” or dumb, decisions. I wasn’t sure why, but this new piece of knowledge made me feel bad for him. So bad, in fact, that I felt like bursting into tears. And I might have done so had I not been standing in a public place surrounded by strangers.

When Jamesie returned from the bathroom, I tried to act as normal as possible. If he noticed some change in me, he never acknowledged it. Of course, I never told him that I had read the application, but from that moment on I never saw him in quite the same way. I had a newly acquired soft spot for him, a pity almost. But there was something else, something that further colored our relationship from that day forward. I now saw myself as somewhat superior, somehow better than he was. This was not a positive thing for either of us.

AN ARTISTIC BENT

The seeds of what was to become a life-long obsession were planted early on. The first time that I appeared onstage was in a fourth grade assembly program on the history of America. The audience consisted of students from the other grades and classes, as well as our parents who had been invited via mimeographed invitations sent home with us a few days earlier. Each kid represented a different state–apparently not every state was included, because there certainly weren’t fifty kids in my class–and was given a short paragraph to read about the state that he or she represented. Since none of us had mastered the art of memorization, our speeches were neatly hand-printed in block letters by the teacher and taped to the back of cardboard cutout stars covered in gold paper which we held in front of us and, not so discreetly, read from. If memory serves, I was Tennessee. But don’t hold me to that.

All of the boys were instructed to wear white dress shirts and black pants, while the girls wore black skirts with white blouses, giving a unified presentation to our production. I remember getting dressed that morning in my clean and neatly pressed “costume” that my mother had laid out for me the night before. A feeling of anticipation and excitement overtook me. Unlike some of my classmates who were disinterested, reluctant or even afraid, I couldn’t wait to get on that stage!

At school, the teacher zipped through our regular morning routine; attendance, saluting the flag, all the boring stuff, and began prepping us for our big performance. We practiced reading our lines one last time, got final instructions on the technical aspects of stagecraft–speak loud and clear, don’t look at the floor when speaking, be very quiet when not on the stage, et cetera–and were then lined up for a final trip to the bathroom. With all of the pre-show rituals completed, the final piece of costuming, an even larger cardboard cutout star covered in gold wrapping paper and representing the stars of the flag, was hung over our shoulders and across our chests. With this final touch, I was now totally “in character” and ready to show the world what I was made of!

As we stood in line at the classroom door before marching double file to the auditorium, I caught a glimpse of my mother rushing down the hall towards the auditorium. Arriving late–operating on “CP” time again–but at least she had made it. Jamesie was probably working, although I doubt he would have come anyway. Seeing my mother only added to the adrenaline rush already surging through my body. While the events leading up to the show are vivid and clear, I remember little about the performance itself. I remember standing center stage with the lights shining on me when it was my turn to speak. I remember reading from the words on the back of my cardboard star. I remember looking out into the audience and trying to find my mother and not being able to see much of anything. That’s pretty much it. The rest of the day was spent waiting for school to be over so that I could rush home and hear my mother’s rave review of my performance.

I was barely in the door when I caught sight of Ruthie standing in the kitchen. “Mommy how was I?” I shouted, to which she replied, “You were good!” Was I hearing her right? Did she say that I was “good”? That’s all? Just “good”? Gee, I had hoped for a little better than that. “Great,” maybe? Or how about “the best kid in the show”? Even at that age, I had the major requirement for stardom: I was completely clueless about my own level of talent. “Yes, you were good!” she repeated. “You spoke a little bit too fast, but you were good.” I was crushed! I spoke too fast? I thought I sounded quite fine, elegant almost. Were my own ears deceiving me? Seeing the confusion and disappointment on my face, my mother immediately realized that I wasn’t quite prepared for any real criticism, and that my fragile little ego needed some stroking. Taking my hand and pulling me to her and hugging me she said, “But I could tell that you have what it takes to be a star. I can’t wait to see you in your next show, because I know you’re gonna be great in that one.” And with that, all was well with the world once again.

That dreary afternoon, in a small public school auditorium, the acting bug bit me. Theater had taken up permanent residence in my blood, and was there to stay. Since that day the theater has come to be so many things to me–my “passion,” my “life’s calling,” my “safe haven in a cold, cold world” and–on more than one occasion–“the burden I’m destined to bear.” What I didn’t realize at the time was that falling under the spell of the theater is like falling under the spell of an unfaithful lover with whom you have unbelievably good sex. No matter how badly you get treated, you keep coming back for more. And speaking of sex…

THE BIRDS AND THE BEES

I used to wonder if I was the only person disappointed in the “birds and bees” talk from one, or both, of their parents. Mine was with Jamesie and it was a total disaster. First of all, his timing sucked. We were in the car driving home from Philadelphia when out of nowhere he brings up the topic of s-e-x. Car time was radio time for me. Singing along with the latest AM hits, it was my “chill” time, not exactly conducive to deep conversation. And worse than that, instead of coming across as confident, secure, and well versed, Jamesie was nervous and uncomfortable. A parent who is uncomfortable talking about sex places a negative connotation on the topic right from the start. Luckily, I was already knowledgeable about a lot of things; thanks to friends and the well-hidden “dirty” magazines I’d managed to get my horny little hands on. Hell, I didn’t even get to indulge in the prurient satisfaction of hearing my father “talk dirty” by putting the sex act into words. Every time he got to the good part he’d say “…and you know what happens then, right?” There was a time when I thought that maybe this botched attempt at a father-son talk played a role in the development of my sexuality, but I’ve since realized that it had no effect whatsoever. My wants, needs and desires had been formed long before that particular discussion. Hell, by then I probably could have taught him a thing or two.

Actually, despite his bad timing, I was more than ready for some serious sex talk that day. My hormones were raging, and sex was always at the forefront of my thoughts. An acceptable outlet for discussion would have been welcomed, once I got past the initial weirdness of it being with my father. Granted, I already knew the basics, but any new information he could have enlightened me with would have been graciously accepted and appreciated. Regardless of whether or not I would put any of this new information to use, my inquiring mind still wanted to know. However, I knew there was one topic that wouldn’t be a part of any such father-son talk between us. You see, by then I had already heard the jokes that he’d shared with friends, the off-hand comments he’d made about certain individuals that we knew, and had heard him recount an incident having to do with a fellow soldier he served with in the army. To his credit, he never said anything viciously derogatory, but it was clear where he stood on sexual practices outside of what he considered normal. How could he know that, by this point in my life, I was aware of the fact that I might be what was commonly referred to at the time as a “homo?” Oddly enough, though I knew that liking boys wasn’t socially acceptable, I didn’t have much of a problem with it. The prospect of living life as a homosexual didn’t faze me. It was just one more adjective to be added to that ever-growing list of words describing who and what I was.

HIDING UNDER A SPOTLIGHT

Being self-conscious about my weight, having issues with my skin color, and now wondering if I was, in fact, destined to be a “homo,” I became somewhat shy and introverted. Is it any wonder? Despite that, when a brochure arrived in our mailbox advertising Saturday Enrichment Courses for junior high school aged kids, I decided to sign up for an acting class being offered. My performing experience up until now had been limited to the school assembly programs I’d done over the years, but I’d fantasized about being a famous actor–or a rock star-ever since playing the role of Tennessee (I think…) in that fourth grade assembly program. This brochure offered me a chance to take a serious first step toward making my dreams of stardom come true! From somewhere within my psyche, I was able to push aside all of my reservations and sign up for the course.