All My Life

by Susan Lucci

  In early 2010, my son, Andreas, came to me and said that he really thought I should write a book, too. He had no idea we had received so many letters from various publishers and literary agents. I was curious to know why he felt I should, so I asked him to share his reasons.

  “Once the girls I meet find out that you are my mom, they want to know how you accomplished your goals. They’re eager to know your story.” Andreas was very thoughtful, enthusiastic, and really heartfelt in his explanation.

  Andreas mentioned writing a book to me a few more times. And then one day Helmut brought me a folder full of those inquiry letters he’d been saving over the years. I had no idea that he had kept all of them. We sat at our kitchen table and began to read some aloud. One by one, each outlined very clearly a singular message. People wanted the book to be about me from me. Everyone agreed that virtually anyone with a television knows Susan Lucci as Erica Kane, but no one really knows much about Susan Lucci. Rereading those letters, especially with the encouragement from my son and so many others, made me realize that maybe now I should make the time to share my story.

  So here I am. After spending forty-one years in front of the camera playing the unstoppable Erica Kane while successfully shielding and protecting my privacy and the privacy of my family, I am closing my eyes and holding my breath as I begin to peel back the curtain of my life, hoping it is the right thing to do. It’s a little bit scary and a lot intimidating. But if I am going to take you on this journey with me, then like everything else I do in my life, I am committed to going all the way—no limits and no self-imposed barriers holding me back. To be certain, this process has been different and challenging for me. But it is something I now fully appreciate and enjoy. I have never spent time in a therapist’s office; nor have I ever candidly discussed my private life in public. I have spent many sleepless nights wondering why anyone would want to read my story, and to tell you the truth, I still can’t say I know. I am a woman who pays attention to what those around me have to say, and for years, they’ve been asking me to share my story with you. So, with respect for those wishes and without further ado, here is my story.

  My parents, Jeanette and Victor Lucci, referred to me as their “Christmas baby” because I was born on December 23, in Yonkers, New York. As a little girl, there weren’t too many birthday cakes or parties for me because of the proximity of my birthday to the holiday. (I’m sure so many Christmas babies can relate to this!) Still, my parents always tried to make my birthday special. They put up our Christmas tree on December 22 so my birthday presents could be slipped under the tree and opened the next day, on my birthday. Much to my mother’s credit, she always told everyone in our family that they couldn’t combine Christmas and birthday gifts. After all, it wasn’t my fault that I was born so close to the holiday.

  My parents both grew up during the Depression era. Everything they did was about making life better for their children. Our family moved to Elmont, a suburb of Long Island in New York, when I was two years old. We spent five years there before settling into the picture-perfect enclave of Garden City.

  My father’s parents were Italian immigrants to America. His father died when my dad was only fifteen years old. His mother remarried, although I don’t believe my dad was terribly close to his stepfather. When my brother and I were younger, my father occasionally took us to visit them, usually without my mother. I didn’t understand at the time why she never came with us, but years later I would learn that my Italian grandmother didn’t approve of my father’s decision to marry a non-Italian girl.

  My Italian grandmother only spoke a few words of English. When we’d visit, she’d smile, grab me by both cheeks, and pinch—hard. She showered me with lots of hugs and kisses, but we barely ever spoke. She always offered me a glass of milk—as milk was one of the few words she could say that I understood. Oftentimes, my father’s other relatives, including brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles, would be at his mother’s home when we visited. They’d all sit around the living room telling big and boisterous stories, speaking only in Italian, gesturing with their hands, waving their arms, and laughing out loud. I didn’t understand a word they said, but I always knew that whatever it was, it was hysterically funny. While they talked, I wandered around the apartment, exploring the knickknacks and family memorabilia my grandmother kept. I especially liked going into her bedroom, which was very dark except for the glow of the candles she’d keep lit for the Blessed Mother and the baby Jesus. My Italian grandmother was a devout Roman Catholic.

  As a little girl, I remember thinking her home was very mysterious because I had never seen anything like it. I wasn’t scared so much as intrigued by what it all meant. I had great curiosity about her bedroom in particular. Going to my Italian grandmother’s home was all about mystery because I never knew what she and the rest of my relatives were talking about, yet I knew I liked the sounds I heard and the enthusiasm they had when they spoke.

  I believe in mystery. I am drawn to it and am very comfortable being surrounded by it. Maybe that is part of why I chose to keep an air of mystery over my own life as I stepped into the limelight years later. Maybe.

  My father was one of thirteen children. Although his older siblings were all born in Italy, my dad was a first-generation Italian American who wanted a better life for his children than he was given as a child. My father enlisted in the United States Army during World War II. He was a real patriot who considered it an honor to serve his country. Education was everything to him. He believed that there were no limits to what you could do in life with a good, strong foundation. Although he didn’t finish college, he was able to put himself through school with help from his local steel-workers’ union and the GI bill. He eventually formed a partnership in a construction business, which primarily helped build the steel infrastructures for high-rise buildings in New York City. My father’s business allowed us to live a good but modest life. He worked very hard to provide all of the necessities—and then some—to our family. People often assume that because I have Italian features and have an Italian last name, I grew up in a large Italian family, but I really didn’t. My father’s family was my only touchstone to that heritage.

  When we moved to Garden City, we didn’t look like the typical Anglo-Saxon family living there. The community consisted primarily of Episcopalian families. I think ours was one of the few in the neighborhood with a vowel at the end of our last name. My father looked very Italian, with beautiful olive skin, jet-black hair, and big brown eyes. Although I resembled my mother more, I did inherit some of my dad’s dark coloring, which made me feel like an outsider during my youth. I felt and looked different from the other children in our neighborhood and in school. There were so many times when people would see my father gardening out in our front yard or doing landscape work on our grounds and they would ask him questions as if he were the hired help. My father always laughed it off, without ever giving it a second thought. There was a certain amount of prejudice that existed in the 1950s, especially if you didn’t look like everyone else. It hurt me deeply that people judged or looked down on my dad based on his appearance, especially because he was such a giving and generous man. If there was a blizzard or a hurricane, my dad would always be the first one out there after the storm blew over, driving around the community to see if there was any damage, downed trees, blocked drains, or if anyone needed his help. I’d sometimes get to go along for the ride. He’d sit me in the front seat with him and I felt so proud and privileged to be the one by his side.

  My father was a very smart man, a voracious reader, and we all thought of him as an American history buff. In my family, we all referred to my father as the “walking encyclopedia” because of his vast knowledge on so many subjects. He knew everything about the great battles our country fought and took great pride in sharing his knowledge with my brother and me. Sometimes we’d take family trips to historical sites in upstate New York, including West Point and Fort Ticonderoga, so my father could teach us whi
le showing us where these events took place. We’d sit around our kitchen table while he gave my older brother, Jimmy, and me impromptu quizzes or fun brainteasers to solve. Sometimes I’d figure out the answer before Jimmy. I could see the tickled look in my father’s eyes—he was proud of me whenever I got it right.

  On Sunday afternoons, we would take a family drive in my parents’ car, something my brother and I loathed. Jimmy was six years older than me. He wanted to be with his friends on the weekends, not riding in the backseat of our car with his little sister. We’d usually end up having Sunday dinner at a family-style restaurant that my parents loved. As we stood in line waiting to be seated, my father often told anyone who would listen that I was the “brains” of our family.

  My father always encouraged me to get a good education, to do the things I enjoyed most, and to never be afraid. We’d sit on a cushioned metal glider on the front porch of our brick house in Elmont, looking up at the stars together. He showed me the various constellations in the sky, explained the solar system, and reminded me to dream big.

  “See that moon up there. You can reach that high. Keep your feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the stars, Susan. You can be anything you want to be,” he’d say. “Never be afraid because you can be anything you want to be.”

  I know to some people it may sound clichéd now, because we’ve all heard that advice at some point, but I was only five years old when he shared those inspiring and encouraging words with me for the first time. They made an indelible impression, one I’ve never forgotten. My father was fantastic in so many ways. I was definitely “Daddy’s little girl.” In fact, that was his favorite song to sing to me for many years growing up.

  I cannot imagine a daughter having a better dad than my father. He made it a priority to spend as much time with his children as he could. In the summertime, he rented a little cottage in Connecticut on the Long Island Sound where we took long walks on the beach, swam together, and talked about life. Although it might sound like I was an indulged child, I wasn’t. My father spoiled me with love and attention and with the luxury of his time, teaching me to draw, taking me horseback riding, ice skating, and years later, after he discovered golf, to the driving range.

  Although he came from a very rough neighborhood, my father had developed an appreciation for the arts, especially drawing and music. My father and brother listened to opera. And with my mother, he listened to Frank Sinatra, Vic Damone, Tony Bennett, Peggy Lee, and Ella Fitzgerald. They were always on top of the latest entertainers. I remember walking in on my dad once while he was watching ballet on television. I was mesmerized by the image of him gazing at Rudolf Nureyev and Dame Margo Fonteyn dancing together.

  And, my father loved to draw, especially with charcoals and pastels. He taught me to do the same when I was a little girl. I loved it, too. One of the first drawings I ever did was a portrait of Caroline Kennedy with her dog that I copied from an issue of Ladies’ Home Journal. My father and I worked on that drawing for weeks. Sadly, there’s been no time in my life to continue that pursuit, but I loved it so. I learned to play the piano as a little girl, too, and though I didn’t love to practice and wasn’t a great pianist by any stretch of the imagination, I loved to sing! When I told my parents I was no longer interested in learning the piano, my father decided to take lessons with me as his way of encouraging me to continue on. I think playing the piano was a secret dream of his. It was fantastic that he cared so deeply about me getting the best education I could—even piano lessons.

  Although I appreciated my father’s attempt to keep me interested, I wasn’t. I had a friend who also took lessons from the same piano teacher and she hated them, too. One snowy night she and I concocted a plan to lock our teacher out of our homes. When he rang the bell, I threw myself under the bay window in the front of our house and lay flat against the wall so he couldn’t see me. My friend kept to our plan and locked him out, too. We were so proud we pulled it off and happy we didn’t have to have our lessons that night.

  A few days later, the piano teacher called to say he wouldn’t be teaching me anymore. Although I felt a little guilty about locking him out on such a snowy night, I was really glad I didn’t have to take any more lessons.

  My mother is and always has been a very beautiful woman. She has fabulous red hair, perfect fair skin, and a gorgeous sprinkle of freckles. Her father was from Sweden and her mother was born in Pennsylvania and was of French and German descent, so my mother’s look is striking. My mother is very soft-spoken, can be very funny, is self-reliant, full of common sense, loves fashion, and has a real stubborn streak. She studied nursing in New York and was a practicing OR nurse for a number of years until my brother, Jimmy, was born and she decided to become a stay-at-home mom.

  As far back as I can remember, I’ve had a definite and clear picture of what I wanted to do with my life. Although I was painfully shy as a child, I came out of my shell whenever I was acting, singing, dancing, and making believe that I was someone else. Playing games of “make-believe” was just the way I played. I loved to put my parents’ musical sound tracks on the record player and listen to songs from Broadway shows and old movies so I could sing and dance along. I loved Pal Joey, Oklahoma!, Golden Boy, and Damn Yankees, just to name a few. In fact, the first song I can remember performing for my family was “Whatever Lola Wants, Lola Gets” from the original sound track of Damn Yankees. I was three. That’s how we knew I’d grow up to play Erica Kane. To be certain, I was a totally different kid when I would perform. The stage was where I wanted to be, and when you’re a little girl with a vivid and active imagination, all the world is a stage.

  At church on Sundays I would fantasize about climbing the stairs to the balcony that overlooked the congregation where the choir sang from, standing on the rail, pushing off, and latching onto one of the many lanterns. In my mind, I’d swing from light to light, high above the ground, until I dropped down onto the altar, where I would regale the congregation (my audience) with my song-and-dance numbers. Yes, everyplace I went, I would create a vivid scenario where I could perform—because that’s all I wanted to do.

  I grew up in a neighborhood and at a time where most of the children were sent outside to play. But I preferred to be inside. When I was a very little girl, my mother finally convinced me to go outside and play with the other kids in the area. So one day I rode my tricycle down the street where we lived and some children pushed me off. I left my bike right there, went running home, and refused to ever go back out again. Whenever my parents tried to get me to play with the other children, I’d always find a way to sneak back into the house. One summer afternoon, my mother decided that I should spend the day outdoors. She sent me on my way to play and locked the door behind me so I couldn’t get back inside. Thankfully, my mother’s mother, whom I called Nana, lived with us. She came to the door and saved the day. I remember her turning to my mother and saying, “Jeanette, you cannot lock this child outside. She’s just a little girl!” So they let me back in. I immediately ran up to my room and spent the rest of the day putting on a show with my favorite dolls and stuffed animals. Whenever I’d put on these shows, I’d imagine an audience the size of the Ed Sullivan Theater inside my bedroom. And let’s be clear, it was standing room only. Later that afternoon my parents thought I’d had a breakthrough when they heard what they imagined were a couple of kids from the neighborhood playing with me. It turns out that the various voices they overheard were all mine. It was just me, playing and performing all by myself.

  I adored my mother’s mother—my grandmother Nana. She was very jolly and had a warm spirit. She was exactly what a grandmother should be—kind, loving, and affectionate. Nana had a very sweet fox terrier named Snookie, whom I also adored. But I must be perfectly honest with you. Until recently, the name Snookie has always meant so much to me because it reminds me of my grandmother. Now unfortunately, I can barely say the name without conjuring up thoughts of the Jersey shore. It just isn’t right that suc
h a precious memory has been tainted—make that tanned—by the association!

  Nana was the first one up in the morning and the last to go to bed at night. She loved to laugh, play the piano for us, cook delicious meals, and bake the best cakes, pies, and even fresh bread! My most vivid memories of Nana revolve around music and food. My first exposure to the songs of George and Ira Gershwin, Cole Porter, and Irving Berlin was when Nana played them on her piano. I adored spending time in the kitchen with her every day while she made the most wonderful treats. Nana never used a mixer. She beat all of her ingredients by hand. I remember sitting with her while she put the finishing touches on a delicious apple pie or sprinkled cinnamon on baked apples, which I loved to eat. She taught me what it meant to be a great cook—something my mother and I never really came around to being ourselves, but both now have a wonderful appreciation for. Her family came from Alsace, the same region of France as Jean-Georges Vongerichten, one of my favorite chefs in New York. Apparently, good food is second nature to people from Alsace. She made great stews, chicken and dumplings, and other hearty dishes infused with a French and German influence. She always started with the freshest of ingredients and only used the best of whatever she could find. Every day when I came home from school, there was always something fantastic and yummy waiting for me—which made me very, very happy. When we weren’t spending time together in the kitchen, she patiently let me create many hairdos with her hair. I could set part of it in curls and part of it in rollers. Nana never cared how it turned out, as long as we were having fun together, which of course we were.