My mother had taken every possible thing away from me…except me. As hard as she tried, as evil as she was, she couldn’t manage to crush my spirit. The one attractive thing I knew I possessed was a soft mane of long blond hair. Strangely, it hadn’t occurred to her before. I must have turned my head in a certain light that got her attention. She said to the folk singer, “Let’s cut her hair off.”
For me, my hair was like a protective veil in which I could conceal any and all emotions: I felt almost invisible with just a tilt of my head. With her long, pointy sewing shears, my mother roughly chopped off my locks in short clumps above my ears, leaving fresh jagged scissor cuts across the nape of my neck. She tossed the long strands on the carpet while her boyfriend merely looked on.
“That’s better,” she said, “Now, you look your age.”
In the morning, no matter how I brushed, wet, teased, or tucked it I looked as if I’d been skinned. As a last-ditch effort, I covered my freshly cropped head with a dark blue kerchief and plodded off to West Hollywood Elementary School. I don’t know which was more odd, coming into my classroom sporting a scarf or the state of my new ‘do. The teacher told me the head covering was inappropriate in class and insisted I remove it. After the unveiling there was a clamor in the classroom, as if I’d arrived half undressed; the teacher quickly softened and told me I could keep my head covered up for the day.
I lived in a constant state of terror. When school let out adrenaline pumped through my heart because I knew I had to go home. What would happen today? Would I be tortured, pounded, or simply shunned? If I were lucky, Diana and the folk singer would still be asleep. I assumed that parents just hated their children, and wonder why they ever had them. When I went to bed at night I’d pray not to wake up. When my mother went out I’d pray, “Please don’t let her come home.” When she slept extra late, I was hopeful: Maybe she was dead.
I came home from school one afternoon to find my four-year-old brother Scot, buck-naked and doing his best to hold back his big salty tears. Since he’d gotten a bit older, he’d joined the rank of “enemy” status and wasn’t treated much better than myself. Scot was in the middle of our living room wearing only his little cowboy boots, trying to stay balanced on one leg. All his playthings and clothes were heaped in the garbage bin because he didn’t deserve them anymore. I knew the drill; it was one of the folk singer’s maniacal Nazi rituals. If my brother’s leg got tired and touched the floor before the fifteen minutes were up, Scot would have to start his time all over again with the other leg. All of this was because my brother had forgotten to take the dog out while I was in school, and the pup had pooped on the carpet.
I felt helpless, and knew I was unable to do anything to stop the insanity. As hard as I prayed, they wouldn’t go away. I knew I wouldn’t survive living with the folk singer and Diana until I reached eighteen, when I could legally leave home. I went to my room, closed the door, and slipped out the window with nothing but the clothes I was wearing. I never saw that house or was subjected to either of them again. Unfortunately my little brother didn’t fare as well. He later told me horror stories of our mother giving him LSD when he was just six years old. She wanted to see his reaction, and tape-recorded his whole ungodly trip. Eventually his grandparents on Uncle Daddy’s side stepped in and took Scot to live with them.
At eleven years old I didn’t really have anywhere to go. Mimi and Al were vacationing at the Eden Roc in Florida, and my dad and his nutty wife, Loren, were not an option. I wandered the Sunset Strip, and when the sun went down I took refuge in a vacant utility room in an underground parking lot two blocks from home. I made myself comfortable on a mound of stacked cardboard boxes and spent the night in pitch-blackness.
That night I had the most stunning dream.
I walked into a grand old theater with ornate architecture and celestial murals. There were long purple velvet curtains covering a passageway. When I went to peek through the drapes, I fell fast into a deep dark shaft. I tried to grasp the walls to slow myself down, but I just tumbled faster. I thought I was going to die, but then I saw a faint light at the end of the tunnel, which got blindingly brighter. When I reached the light I was dropped into an ocean with no land in sight. The water was warm and gently enveloping, and the sun reflected off the ripples, creating infinite glistening stars. Even though I was in the middle of a deep blue sea I felt no fear, only all-encompassing love. There was no actual voice, but something spoke inside: “Do you know where you are?” Without words I answered, “Yes, I’m with God.”
Then I serenely floated off into eternal bliss.
For the first time that I could remember, I woke up feeling peaceful, and also starving. I walked across the street to Turner’s liquor store and stole my usual breakfast, a Hershey’s bar with almonds. I then drifted over to West Hollywood Park on San Vicente. Sitting at the top of the bleachers, finishing off the last bit of chocolate, I felt happy. I was free, but to do what? I couldn’t go back to school, and I really had nowhere to go, but I knew the good Lord always provides. Later that night I was arrested in front of Ben Frank’s Coffee Shop on Sunset, and landed safely at the West Hollywood sheriff’s station. All the police wanted to do was take me back home. I told the officers my name was Mary, and refused to disclose any more personal information. I felt sure that if I breathed a word of what went on in my house, the cops wouldn’t believe me, or worse, they’d call my parents and I’d be done for. The sheriffs tried to frighten me by telling on the woes of reformatory lockup.
“Believe us, once you get there you’ll wish you were back home.”
“No, I won’t,” I peeped, “I want to go there.”
When I wouldn’t budge about who I was or where I lived, a squad car with a caged-in backseat arrived, and drove me to my next destination, Los Padrinos, a state institution for delinquents in downtown Downey.
Los Padrinos was slightly scarier that I’d imagined. It was basically a teen prison full of harder fish than myself. There were actual steel bars on the doors that opened with electronic buzzers. I soon realized I was in jail. It was after midnight when I arrived, and I was taken to an echoing shower room and given a brown paper bag to put my personal effects in. After the spa treatment they checked me for bugs and any other contraband. Once I passed the inspection I was issued a bundle of standard prison fare. The package contained one stiff cotton nightdress and an oversized frock that looked as if it had been pressed in an old-fashioned mangle. The king-sized panties were big enough for three of me; I had to knot them at my waist to keep them from falling down around my ankles. The wardress led me down a bleak sterile hall while her jangle of keys slapped against her butt, alerting the other inmates that fresh blood had arrived. She deposited me in unit L and locked the door securely behind her.
My tiny barren cell was lima bean green with a steely bed bolted to the cement floor. There was a toilet with no seat, a small sink, and a mirror riveted to the wall, and that was about it. Even the windows were covered in metal mesh for additional security. My dense steel door had a small window to look out into the hallway or, more likely, for the guards to peer in. The only thing that really concerned me was that they never turned the lights completely out. My little spot on the planet was in perpetual twilight.
I made up my bunk with the state-issued stiff sheets and smoothed out my gray wool blanket. Lying in bed I noticed the profusion of etched and written graffiti from the previous inmates. It covered the walls like decorative paper. There were names like, “Lil Dot” and “Angel Por Vida.” It was even on the ceiling. I wondered how they managed to carve it all the way up there. It was late in the night and unit L was quiet as a church. I felt tears streaming down the sides of my face, but they were tears of relief. Maybe I was a little scared, but I’d saved myself, I felt safe. The real nightmare was over.
The morning was a bit of a shock. I was roused from sleep at 5:00 A.M. with an onset of buzzers and clanking metal doors. I quickly dressed in my stiff, starched ref
ormatory frock, which hung on my thin frame like rigid cardboard. The unit doors were opened, and each girl stood at attention in front of her respective coop. the chattering inmates passed a metal bucket of disinfectant water down the hall. After we swabbed and sterilized our concrete cells we all lined up for breakfast. I noticed I was the youngest and the only Caucasian lass on the block. My partners in residence were divided into elite little cliques, the Bloods, the Compton girls, and a small crew of Chicanas. Where were all the girls from Hollywood? I was clearly out of my inexperienced league.
There wasn’t much of an academic program, mainly a few uninspiring craft classes. Outside volunteers came in and taught us how to crochet poodle-head hair spray cozies or glue Popsicle sticks into picture frames. Once a day we were allowed out into the barbed-wired compound for a bit of sunshine and exercise. We couldn’t just loll around on our own though. We had to be in a single-file march. We did it military style while shouting a rousing little jingle: “I don’t know but I’ve been told, unit L is might bold.” “Sound off, say it again.” That’s the only bit of the verse that I remember, but the girls also dragged one leg like it was stiff or broken to the beat. On Fridays we had talent night in the gymnasium, where the female inmates danced together, and lip-synced to Motown records. I learned how to do an authentic “Harlem Shuffle,” and dance the “Hitch Hike” to Marvin Gaye.
The most inspiring part of my Los Padrinos experience was Miss Moon’s gospel choir. Miss Moon was a spirited little black woman who sang with her soul, and loved teaching delinquent girls the gospel. Of course I joined on the spot, and looked forward to Sunday services. I loved dressing in the shimmery satin choir gown and singing up on the church stage. We’d start off with a soulful “Bringing in the Sheaves,” then bring the house down with a revival of “Rock My Soul in the Bosom of Abraham,” our hands shaking in the air “praise Jesus” style: “Oh-rocka-ma-soul.”
Two uneventful months passed. I had therapists, administrators, and concerned social workers all coming to talk with me, trying to decode the “mystery girl.” No matter how they cajoled and prodded, I wasn’t giving out any information. I thought I was actually getting away with the ruse, but then came the voice of doom. I was busy putting the finishing pom-poms on a hair spray cozy when a monitor popped in and announced that I had visitors. The jolt of adrenaline just about knocked me over. Sure enough, it was the wicked witch and her evil sidekick Beelzebub, disguised as kindly mortals.
While the social worker stood by, my well-dressed mother and her dashing minstrel were as cordial as Ozzie and Harriet. As soon as we got into the private visiting room my mother slapped me so hard it left a hot-pink handprint across my cheek.
“I hope you’re happy, because I’ve made you a ward of the court,” she snarled. “You will rot here until you turn eighteen.”
I suppose she thought that would be upsetting to me, but I couldn’t have been more happy. I don’t think it even occurred to her, but in signing me over to the state she forever lost her power over me. I was legally safe now. Seven years in detention did sound like eternity, but it was certainly preferable to going back to Hades on Harriet Street. I had prevailed.
Soon after their visit I received a fresh white envelope from Florida with the Eden Roc Hotel emblem. It was a comforting letter from my grandmother Mimi telling me she was on her way to the rescue. Mimi said springing me from the system wasn’t going to be easy. My mother had refused to sign papers releasing me to her, and adoption was out of the question. My grandparents took her to court, and it dragged on for a year, finally ending with a compromise and an exchange of cash. I wasn’t allowed to live with Mimi and Al, but I could be moved to a privately funded institution and have overnight weekend visitation with them.
The one constant thing in my life, the thing that kept me sound, was my belief in God, my recurring dreams of Jesus, and my affinity for Catholicism. It was my shield, my sacred sway. Even when I lived with my mother and the folk singer I’d risk their rage and sneak off to the neighborhood church on Sundays. While they were still sleeping I’d take my little brother, Scot, to the Sunday school, then go upstairs to the comforting Mass. My religious belief could not be shaken, but I was about to face a new, opposing doctrine.
Vista del Mar was a low-security Jewish orphanage, and also a home for children awaiting placement or unable to live in their own homes. The English translation meant “View of the Sea.” I couldn’t see the ocean, but the orphanage was a charming, self-contained, coed compound that was built on a ranch in West Los Angeles in 1925 for Jewish orphans. It had well-kept grounds, tennis courts, and an Olympic-sized swimming pool. It also had an infirmary and its own imposing temple for worship. There were five two-story cottages that housed twenty children each, all set back on a lush, tree-lined lane. It looked like the back lot of a movie studio and was sometimes used as a film location. In order to be placed there, you were supposed to be of the Jewish faith. The only reason I’d been admitted was that my grandfather was a member of the prestigious Friars Club and had been a substantial benefactor over the years. It was the nicest and least restricted place they could get me into. In order to live there I would be expected to learn Hebrew, attend all religious services, and uphold Orthodox high holidays.
After my stint in Los Padrinos and sovereignty from my crazy mother, I’d turned into a bit of a rebel. At twelve I’d already had more life experience than most of the adults in charge. I had a nothing-to-lost attitude, and little interest in learning the philosophy of Judaism. I was still the girl who wanted to become a nun. I was aware that my religious views were less than popular, and airing them in Hebrew class caused me to forgo a few weekend visits with my grandparents, but I couldn’t help myself. I never missed an opportunity to exasperate poor old Mr. Solomon with my contrary Catholic scripture and religious rhetoric. I was no Judas. To the teacher’s credit, I did learn to read, write, and speak the language. I even learned to say the Sabbath blessing in Hebrew. Except for the religious classes we were bused to a public school, Palms Junior High in posh Cheviot Hills.
It didn’t take long to realize that the kids from the home were not at the top of the popularity pole in school. We were a sort of oddity because we didn’t live with our own families, and there were other subtle differences that set us apart. During Passover we weren’t allowed to eat leavened bread. When we showed up at the lunch quad with peanut butter and matzoh sandwiches we might as well have been Martians. I was the real alien. I didn’t feel any more at home with this flock than I did with the gang girls at Los Padrinos.
I lived for Fridays, when Mimi picked me up for the weekend and scurried me off to her home in Beverly Hills.
She took me swimming at the fashionable Racket Club, and shopping in Beverly Hills, and we’d have early dinner at the Hamburger Hamlet before going back to my home away from home. Mimi always promised, “We’re working on it, love, it won’t be long, soon we’ll have you home for good.”
My life was a grab bag; I never knew what was going to happen next. There was no foundation or continuity; everything was subject to change. No direction or dreams were allowed. I just drifted from place to place as an onlooker in everyone else’s extraordinary play. I had no concept of trust. In the eyes of the orphanage I was a willful rebel, but my focus was only to survive with my spirit intact.
With a chance encounter, my life was about to change. My old friend Richard, the one who two years earlier had professed his crazy love for me, had been keeping an eye on my state of affairs. He even wrote letters to the court on my behalf, trying to get me released from Los Padrinos. While I was stuck in the pokey Mimi and Richard had become fast friends. Mimi didn’t have a clue about Richard’s obsession with her young granddaughter; she just thought he was a concerned ally. They shared stories about Diana’s mistreatment of me, and worked on ideas of how to get me free. Even though Richard was something of a pedophile, a condition I didn’t know existed; he’s also been one of the few sources of
support in my young life. Besides taking me to the doctor to get my broken arm patched, he seemed to have genuine concern for me. I wasn’t into the love vibe, but I still liked Richard as long as he wasn’t trying to get my pants off.
When I got settled into Vista Del Mar we exchanged some innocent letters, and I spoke with him from the payphone on the grounds. Richard, being a club owner, knew all the up-and-coming talents. He also had an acquaintance with the relatively unknown twenty-two-year-old folksinger Bob Dylan. Bob was in Los Angeles from Woodstock to play a concert in Santa Monica, and Richard asked if I’d like to go along. Luckily it was my weekend with my grandparents, and Richard convinced Mimi that seeing Bob Dylan in concert would be most educational. She was skeptical but let me go to the Saturday night show.
The mysterious, lanky Bob Dylan shuffled out onto the stage and mesmerized my fertile mind with “The Times They Are A-Changin’,” “Blowin’ In The Wind,” and “Girl from the North Country.”
Bob Dylan was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. His soft curls were longer than regulation, and his skin was smooth and pale, with just a hint of a beard.
After the show we went backstage, and Bob introduced himself, holding out his long expressive hand to greet me. He had a gentle quality with a nervous edge. When I looked into his hazel green eyes I felt a new peculiar shiver, like a quiver of lightning hitting me.
There was a party at the home of Bob’s booking agent, Ben Shapiro, in the Hollywood Hills, and Bob asked if I would like to go with him. Richard said I could go, and that he’d meet us there. I didn’t know it at the time, but Richard had filled him in on my weary background, so Bob took me under his wing. The party was at the top of King’s Road, above Sunset, at a rambling old Spanish-style home. The smoldering Sketches of Spain by Miles Davis echoed throughout the amber candlelit rooms that were full of art, antiques, and grainy photographs of blues and folk heroes. The floors were hardwood with Oriental rugs and big pillows to sit on. It was all wonderfully bohemian.
Dandelion; Memoir Of A Free Spirit Page 5
