Mommie Dearest

by Christina Crawford

  To my complete and total amazement, the judge ruled favorably. My brother was placed on six-month probation and made a ward of the State of New York. He was sixteen years old and had been in Westchester County jail without bail, with no charges brought against him … for six months. When I heard the ruling, tears of relief flooded down my cheeks. We’d won! We’d actually won. I waited until my mother and her entourage left the courtroom by the side door. She’d never said one word to her son. That little blonde boy she’d adopted with Phillip Terry just sixteen years ago was being made a ward of the court in his own best interest and she never said one word of apology or goodbye to him. He never received the trust fund or the college education the divorce decree supposedly guaranteed him. From that day on he was an official ward of the court until he was eighteen years old. He’d ended up pretty much where he began … an orphan. The good thing was that she couldn’t touch him ever again. The damage was already done, but she couldn’t continue to make it worse. She could totally ignore him, which she did, but she couldn’t hurt him any more than she already had.

  I ran to my brother and hugged him. He was crying too. Mr. S. came down the aisle and shook his hand. I hugged Mr. S, thanking him over and over again. The judge had left, so I didn’t get to say anything to him, but I’m sure he was relieved that he’d never have to see me again after that day. We were told that my brother would be transferred to a settlement house in Manhattan during the next week and they’d call to let me know.

  My building had to have heat installed via an inspection violation and subsequent court order. Workman came to cut holes in the floors and ceilings of each apartment through which the steam heat pipes were fitted. You never saw anything like what happened after the mess was cleaned up and those pipes in place. It was the cockroach raceway … five stories high! Nothing you could do stopped them. It was revolting and disgusting. I decided I had to move out of there before the rats followed the cockroaches.

  A few blocks away on 73rd street near Second Avenue there were two old brownstones being renovated into one new apartment building. I went to the building office on the first floor to inquire about availability. The woman put me on a list and said that the rent for a studio with kitchen and bath was $135 a month, first and last months rent in advance. I told her I wanted one and filled out all the papers, lying about my employment. I scraped together every penny I could get my hands on, illegally sold the “key” to my cold water flat for $150 and sent the building a check for the advance rent, guaranteeing myself a place in the building. The next week I carried my belongings through the streets of New York and into my brand new apartment.

  I had a roommate but she didn’t make much money so I only asked her for a small portion of the rent. I didn’t care how we had to struggle, it was wonderful having new appliances, a real bathroom inside the apartment and an air conditioner.

  Chris hated the settlement house and got permission to move in with me after a month. I got him a job in a college bookstore through my friend Eddie because we didn’t get any money from the state unless he lived at the settlement house.

  My roommate moved out after a few weeks, saying she couldn’t afford half the rent and she didn’t feel comfortable not being able to pay her way. Shortly afterwards my friend Lotte came back to New York and moved in again. That meant there were three of us living in a one room apartment with only two single beds. Somebody always had to sleep on the floor. It was totally crazy and very crowded, but we were all still young and we managed to work it out. I didn’t ask my brother to pay any rent but he did have to provide his own food and transportation to work. I couldn’t give him any more than a place to live. I wasn’t working and I still couldn’t get unemployment, so it was touch and go every single month. Lotte received some money from her parents so at least I only had to worry about my half of the rent and the phone.

  I started making arrangements to go out to dinner nearly every single night of the week. I’d order steak, rare, and only eat the outside edges. I’d finish the rest of my dinner and then ask for a doggy bag. I’d ask my date for money to tip the ladies’ room attendant and usually get a dollar. I’d leave the woman a quarter and pocket the change. Then I’d ask for cab fare home if the man got drunk and pull my old trick of going around the corner and taking the bus the rest of the way home. My brother would be waiting up for his dinner, no matter how late it was when I got home. We’d warm the rare steak in the broiler and it would turn out a perfect medium rare by the time it was hot again. We had a lot of fun and got a lot of laughs out of our minor tribulations. He was an awfully good sport and I did the best I could. We managed.

  Needless to say, I didn’t see mother. She was livid over my role during the court battle. She perceived me as the total traitor, troublemaker and instigator of the entire mess. All I had been able to see was the potential destruction of my brother’s life. All I wanted was a fair deal for him. From what I could tell, it hadn’t hurt her one bit. She was now relieved from all further expense on his behalf which meant that she now only had two children left to care for, since I’d been on my own for nearly a year. She was the one who got off easy in the long run.

  CHAPTER 25

  The only acting work I had done so far this year consisted of five days as an extra on a movie shooting on location in New York. I’d heard that the director was one of my former “uncles” from the old days at Brentwood and called him to say hello. He invited me for dinner and then arranged for me to get on the picture as an extra each day it was shooting in the city.

  Lotte eventually went back to stay with her parents again. My brother got married after his seventeenth birthday and moved to Florida. The apartment was empty and seemed so quiet. It was well into winter now and I couldn’t seem to get any work. With no roommate, the expenses skyrocketed into more than I could manage. I began to get really concerned. I just couldn’t seem to make ends meet.

  From Los Angeles, mother wrote this courteous reply to the letter I’d sent her containing my new address.

  October 14, 1959

  Dearest Tina,

  I’m happy to hear of your new apartment, and it sounds wonderful that it’s a brand new building. You will have a nice, good, clean start at housekeeping now.

  It’s nice of you to keep me informed.

  Bless you, and my love.

  “Mommie”

  Finally, I was a month behind in paying the rent and I had run out of food completely. I didn’t have any money left at all. For three days I stayed inside the apartment having a massive anxiety attack about my whole life. I even thought about killing myself, but that seemed so ordinary and chicken shit.

  By one of those miracles that happen in life, the phone finally rang. I had gotten an appointment through an old friend at MCA who was not my agent, to see the director of a winter stock theater in Milwaukee. I got dressed immediately and scrounged around for bus fare. When I added the change up, it was mostly in pennies, but I got to the appointment on time. The man offered me an Equity contract for the rest of the winter season and a minimum salary which was $80 a week. He told me that the theater had company housing at $10 a week that was only one block away and an easy walk even in the snows of Milwaukee. I accepted immediately. He told me he’d arrange to get me a plane ticket, that I’d be reporting to the theater in a week!

  I walked home because I didn’t have any more money for the bus. I called everyone I knew, asking if I could borrow enough to join the union. Between three separate friends, I managed to scrape together the $200, which was just enough to join the union and get me to the airport. I packed my suitcase, called the landlord to tell him I was going out of town to work, but that I’d send him all the money I owed as soon as I got paid.

  Someone had given me a dog several months ago. It was a miserable, shaky little beast named Paco. It was a Chihuahua. That dog never liked me and I was not fond of him, but we were now stuck with one another. I had to take him with me or have him put to sleep. The latter
is what I secretly wanted to do, but my conscience wouldn’t let me. So, off I went with Paco under my arm to a city called Milwaukee and another adventure.

  I am ashamed to admit that my basic knowledge of geography was so poor and my ego so misplaced when it came to asking dumb questions, that I was in the city of Milwaukee one solid week before I was able to discover what state I was living in!

  The company apartment was a total madhouse. I was the only woman there, but given the sexual preferences of the male tenants, I was quite safe from molestation. I had my own large room at the end of the hall and it was thoroughly clean and comfortable. The second floor apartment boasted its own large kitchen and living room, so there was plenty of living space for the few free hours any of us had. Because I was so far in debt upon my arrival, it took me several paychecks before I was able to buy many groceries. The male members of the company were very good cooks, and thank goodness they invited me to join some of the meals. I suspect they knew I didn’t have a dime to spare and was too proud to ask. Except for leaving poor Paco out in the snow on several occasions, life at the theater went well.

  While I was in rehearsal for the second show, I got a call from some Carnegie friends who were doing their first full length feature film. I’d met with them about the movie before leaving New York, but had forgotten all about it in my rush to get to Milwaukee. They told me they planned to start filming in Florida the beginning of February and offered me a small part at Screen Actors Guild minimum, but with all expenses paid and a guarantee of three weeks work. It was another union to join but the SAG minimum was $350 a week which sounded like a princely sum to me. I told them I’d love it and to let me know when exactly, because I’d have to give notice at the theater.

  Lotte drove up from Chicago to see my first real play which was Dark of the Moon. I had one of the supporting roles but was on stage most of the time. She asked me if she could come back to the apartment after the first of the year which was great. She gave me some money for the rent and I gave her back the extra key. That way she could just make her own plans without worrying where I was and how she would get into the apartment. I was really delighted. At long last, things seemed to be starting. I’d been offered the lead part of Emily in the second play, Our Town, which was very exciting and now a part in a film which would also get me into the next union. Things were beginning to move right along for me. I’d be going from one reputable, paying job right into another one. I was very happy, getting good reviews and feeling greatly encouraged. Maybe I hadn’t made a giant mistake with my life after all.

  I spent the winter working in Milwaukee until my friends called to tell me they were definitely starting in February. I gave notice and said goodbye sadly to the wonderful friends I made at the Fred Miller Theater.

  There was a slight delay in plans after I returned to New York, which aggravated me, because as it turned out, I could have stayed for one more play. But I had a month in New York with Lotte, getting ready to go to Miami for about a month. I had to borrow money again to join Screen Actors Guild. Fortunately, because I already belonged to Equity, the new union SAG gave members a discounted fee, but I think it was still $150. I’d paid off all my previous debts, so I didn’t have so much trouble going back to borrow the second time around. Off I went to Miami, taking great delight in being so chic as to go “south” for the last of winter.

  The company was housed at the Cadillac Hotel on Collins Avenue right on the ocean. We had some deal where our rooms and two meals a day were paid in return for some publicity given the hotel by all members of the cast. That was the easiest free ride I’d ever gotten. We posed for some extra pictures, and that was about the extent of it.

  Since I didn’t work right away, I had time to see all of Miami, shop and go boating. I got a terrific tan within the first week, though I’d been pale as a ghost upon arrival.

  After the second week of no work, we all began to get stir crazy. Something had gone wrong in planning this shoot, because half of us were now sitting around our rooms on 24-hour call, with nothing to do.

  The third week passed and we began to wonder if something was really wrong. But during the fourth week I did my entire part, checked out of the hotel without my last paycheck in hand and took the first plane back to New York.

  I was one of the lucky ones. I reported my late paycheck to the union and left the rest to them. The stories that drifted back were like actors’ nightmares. I was the first member of the cast to be finished and the first to leave Miami. I heard that everyone else either got stuck for at least part of their hotel bills or had to wait for their paychecks and finally the film itself was impounded for a while. I felt rather like I must have had a guardian angel on my shoulder to get out so literally in the nick of time. I’d actually had a very good time. I’d gotten a wonderful tan, eaten two delicious meals a day for almost a month and come home with plenty of money to see me through the next few months now that Lotte was back.

  Mother had gone out to the coast to do a cameo role in Jerry Wald’s production of The Best of Everything. It was the first film she’d done since completing The Story of Esther Costello in 1956. Jerry and mother had been close friends since they’d done Mildred Pierce together. Jerry had been one of the few who really believed in mother and helped her make that comeback. He now must have realized what a difficult time it was for her right after daddy’s death and offered the small part to her. I thought it was really very kind and considerate of him.

  Before leaving for Miami, I’d had several long talks with a free-lance writer who was interested in doing a national magazine story on me. I was one of the first “Hollywood kids” to go into the business as an actress and there was evidently story value in that as well as my own personal experience. The money he talked about seemed like a fortune to me at the time, and he seemed reputable enough. He contacted Redbook Magazine and on the basis of a preliminary outline, received an advance. In retrospect, I didn’t get paid a lot of money for the story and that was never my primary concern. I welcomed what I assumed was an opportunity to tell my story truthfully in hopes that it would help me set the record straight as to why mother was choosing not to help me financially or professionally.

  I turned out to be woefully naive. Mother found out about the magazine’s plans and contacted one of the editors. She insisted in being able to see the final copy and to have her version included in the same article. The piece did not start out to be a joint venture, but perhaps because of libel worries on the part of the magazine management, she was interviewed and her quotes printed in the article. What the writer, who was by now caught squarely in the middle, attempted to do was investigate the allegations she made and to verify them. To my great disappointment, the story turned out to be a question of her word against mine. She even was quoted as saying that I had been expelled from Chadwick! When I read the article in its finished state, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  The direct quote about my leaving Chadwick School was: “The whole story is a product of the girl’s imagination. My relationship with the Chadwicks was always warm and friendly. Christina’s behavior at school was not always what it should have been. She often dated and went away for weekends without my permission or that of the Chadwicks. I don’t enjoy telling you this, but the real reason Christina left Chadwick was that she had been expelled - and I will not say why. I sent her to the convent because it was the only school that would accept her.”

  She’s gone crazy, I thought. She’s gotten it all mixed up in her head. One year and another are blurred together in her story … one school and another have been transposed. The business with the unauthorized weekend happened at Flintridge not at Chadwick and is easily proven by her own letters to me, to Sister Benigna and to Mrs. Irvine. The dating business is a total figment of her imagination. That never happened at all. Ever. If her relationship with the Chadwicks was always so “warm and friendly” then why did she forbid me to ever see them again, why did she punish me for seven months for g
oing to visit them? Either she’s just intentionally lying or she doesn’t know what really happened any more.

  The Chadwicks declined any corroborative interview, wiring their response: “From experience with Christina’s mother, we consider it unwise to involve Chadwick by making any public comment. Very sorry.”

  So, once more it was mother’s word against mine. I was telling the truth and she was lying and the magazine printed both versions, which was the only thing left for them to do. Of course there was no written record of any such expulsion on my high school transcripts, because no such thing ever took place.

  Elsewhere in the article, mother said that she recalled the family trip to Europe as a “miserable time” because she felt I intruded on her privacy with her new husband and allowed them no time together. She went on to say that daddy was not enchanted by the continual presence of a 16-year old girl.

  I think I hated her more for that lie than the other. Jesus Christ, I thought will it never end?

  The article was published in October 1960. It was as well researched and clearly written as was possible under the circumstances. Unfortunately, the title was not of my choosing and caused quite a stir. The magazine had finally decided on “The Revolt of Joan Crawford’s Daughter”. I had a dreadful sinking feeling. Not so much about the contents of the article and the false allegations, those just made me mad. What I resented terribly was not having a proper name of my own … I was growing to hate the phrase “Joan Crawford’s daughter” with a mighty passion. It was the most giant hype in the world. I wasn’t her blood daughter and I had none of the privileges or benefits of being her adopted daughter either. All of the words in that phrase made my blood boil, because all I seemed to do was pay through my whole life for them, never getting one damn thing in return. Okay, I thought. This is it and I can’t change the title of the article, but maybe this time I can manage to get something out of it for myself. Maybe there’s some way I can use it to my advantage.