“Rebecca, I’ve been dancing topless. And that is what I wrote the book about.”
Her blue eyes widened and her tiny mouth dropped. She struggled to comprehend. “And you told Mom?”
She didn’t believe it. No one
in her right mind
would tell Mom such damaging news.
“I’m going back to campus right after dinner! I’m not sticking around here. It’s going to be dangerous.”
I had to laugh, as thoughtless as it was, with Mom devastated.
And carrying a knife.
Rebecca and Erich joined in, nervously, watching me carefully for further signs of complete insanity. It was this scene that Dad arrived home to. Ever the understated Mainer, he nodded a greeting and set about removing his boots and hanging up his coat.
Well trained by Mom.
He made no comment about my blotchy streaked face, Erich and Rebecca’s “we’re innocent, don’t look at us” expressions, and the general air of chaos in the house. “Where’s your mother?” he asked innocently, scanning our plates curiously.
“Well, Dad. Mom isn’t hungry. She said to eat without her.”
“Hmph,” he grunted. “Is she OK?”
“Actually, she isn’t very happy right now. I told her something she didn’t like.” He didn’t seem to be listening, but I continued. “It’s nothing bad, well, uh, maybe it is.”
He perked up a little now, even looked us over again. “What’s going on with this motley crew?” he asked good-naturedly.
“Why don’t you fill your plate and sit down? Then I’ll tell you.” This allowed me a few more moments of torture, although I was pretty well sapped of emotion by this point. I think the laughter was evidence of that.
He took a seat, plate heavy with spaghetti and salad and sauce all piled together. (“It all goes to the same place!” he would tell me and my sisters when we were grossed out by his food mixtures.) After one big breath, I recited my line. “I took up topless dancing and that is what I wrote the book about.”
“Huh?” he wagged his head, tilting one ear toward me. Rebecca giggled. Erich let out the breath he had been holding. I approached melt-down.
I have to say it again?
“I took up topless dancing and that is what I wrote the book about.”
“Is that all?” he said, then squinted toward the television. “Is that soccer?”
I was beyond being dumbfounded. Everything balances out, it is true. Rebecca and I got over one more case of the giggles, and I dried my puffy face as Dad’s voice went into familiar war story mode. “I’ve been all around the world, Heidi, I’ve seen all those kinds of places.”
“Dad, I don’t work at a dive. It’s very modern, like a Disney version.”
He may not have understood the details, but he understood me. I was still Heididly. “‘Nuf said.”
Mom was a different story I cleaned up the kitchen after dinner the least I can do
then knocked on her bedroom door. There was no answer. I knocked again then said into the crack, “We’re going to Cindy’s. I’ll stop by in the morning on our way south.” She either emitted a noncommittal noise or I imagined it. Regardless, I retreated quickly. There was an angry storm spewing and brewing.
And its name is Mom.
Erich and I bunked with Cindy’s cats on her undersize furniture. It was more comfortable than Mom’s house, and safer, too. By now I imagined she would be venting, or preparing to. I wasn’t going to avoid her; I was giving her space and time to digest.
I did not consider the likelihood of her getting over this, although Dad had said, “Oh, your mother, she’ll come around.” Honestly, the reactions didn’t matter so much. I had earned them all by lying and was prepared to forgive myself for it. I didn’t expect Mom to do that, however. She could have all the time and space in the world.
I wanted to give her every chance to talk to, yell at, or question me. I hoped to hasten the entire process, if there was going to be one. Whatever the future held for my mother and me, I wanted to get it started. But when we drove up in the morning she made it clear there was nothing to discuss. Her face was swollen and blotchy red. Flatly she said, “Sorry your visit was so bad.”
“Mom,” I pled weakly, “it wasn’t bad. It doesn’t have to be bad.”
She just looked at me coldly, disappointment and fatigue in her eyes.
I didn’t cry until we crossed the river. And even then I didn’t cry a lot. This was out of my hands now. I had to concentrate on the positive, a future free of lies. I had done the best I could, and it wasn’t good enough. But I had learned. I was just so sorry anyone was hurt. I respected the fact that I was not alone in the world. Like it or not, I could not deny that I (and everything I do) was forever connected with my family. It was a bittersweet lesson.
I should have granted my mother, and entire family, the right to respond to me for good or bad. Because even if stripping had turned out to be a mistake it would still have been a valuable experience, something to learn from. It was an uncomfortable but happy surprise to me that stripping wasn’t a mistake. It was one of the best things I had done for myself.
But the worst thing for my mother.
That, I was very sorry for. Very, very sorry.
15
The Bottom Line: Call Me a Capitalist
Only she who attempts the absurd can achieve the impossible.
— Robin Morgan
I had devastated my mother, but I thought I was OK. I did some writing and danced the next several evenings. Erich had taken a train back to New York and Tony was, not surprisingly, nowhere to be found. I was feeling single, and all right with that. It was time for my life to be simplified. My relief and contentment lasted until Erich phoned. He said, “I hope you don’t mind — but I’ve got tickets to Paris. You need a break. Besides, I think it’s time you saw Europe.” I was incredibly touched and had to admit that he was right. I could repress it, but I was stressed and could use a respite, even if it was only geographical distance. He was taking care of me and I wanted that. I wasn’t so tough after all.
In the airport my vulnerability overcame my excitement and I broke down. Erich seemed to be expecting this, which only made me cry harder. He understood me so well. I was coming to terms with the fact that my choices had estranged my mother, and that my lover Tony wasn’t quite as available as I would have liked. I took a little comfort from the acceptance of my sisters and father, and a lot of comfort from Erich. I believed Mom’s criticism of me was inaccurate, but it still hurt. Even if she talked to me again, she would never understand.
Christian, a friend of Erich’s from Brown, lived in Paris. He came sightseeing with us one day. He reminded me of my mom. He didn’t understand my choices, either. He was, however, capable of talking to me about it. He worried that I would regret my topless dancing. I asked him to explain why. I partially wanted him to convince me that I was wrong. If he could, then my life could be normal — and OK with my mother. But he couldn’t. My choices had been based on consideration and care for myself. I wasn’t sorry. My gut told me I was in the right place. But I feared that living true to myself would, while ensuring my self-respect, guarantee that I would never be understood. Life suddenly seemed a lonely place.
But Christian surprised me. After arguing with me over a languorous French meal he said, quite sincerely, “Well, I haven’t lived your life and I may not understand, but I certainly appreciate your choices.” And he did. The conversation then naturally turned to other topics. Stripping was rightly relegated to “just a job.” The next day I caught him looking at me with new regard and felt his respect. I was reminded of the positive reactions I had received. My dear friends and the majority of my family had accepted me, stripper status and all. Expecting Mom to follow suit was simply not in the cards. Her dead serious response convinced me of that. That was the price. I had made my choices and had to live with them. I resigned myself to Mom’s reaction.
Ten days in Paris p
assed rapidly. Even with all the walking, I gained several pounds on the rich food and plentiful wine. I saw the nude dancing girls of the Crazy Horse — they were a tourist attraction for men and women alike. At Versailles I explored the grand mistress’s mansion. It had been constructed just to the side of the main building, providing the royal gentleman with easy access to his concubine. It was standard behavior. Instead of being titillated by this strangely uninhibited custom, I was curious.
It occurred to me again and again that societal constructs were based on principles other than personal senses of right and wrong. There were economics, politics, and religion, all widely varied categories of social behavior. I had so far managed to live outside of them — at a cost. The price I paid for being different was more than offset by my increased self-knowledge.
When the plane touched down in America I was renewed and ready for a good future. Tony was waiting with gifts and words of affection. I was happy to be me, misunderstood or not.
My mail had other plans in store for me, however. A postcard from Maine read “I owe you an apology. A letter will follow. Love, Mom.”
“Love, Mom”? “An apology”?
I was shocked. This was more than I could have dreamed of. I called a sister for the scoop. “Cindy! She wrote to me! What is happening with Mom?”
“I don’t really know, Heidi. She didn’t answer the phone for days. She does now, but she still isn’t talking about you.”
I was intrigued. Did she want to talk to me? Could I tell her about the club? I was eager to demystify the entire subject, if she would give me the chance. And I wanted to thank her for teaching me to be strong.
The letter arrived the next day.
Dear Heidi,
I’ve been thinking about you. My love for you is unconditional — no matter what you do and whether or not I approve. I don’t have to like it or agree with it but I will always love you.
big breath
I’m feeling embarrassed about my reaction when you told me about your line of work. I reacted, we stopped talking. (My fault!)
I’m feeling guilty because somewhere along the line I must have failed to instill the usual morals and ethics. (You may disagree. It’s OK.)
OK.
I’m feeling anger because of the lies, so many lies.
I don’t blame you.
I feel like you’re punishing me for not being rich enough.
Hey, hey — that’s your insecurity.
I guess I’m afraid of what people will think. Actually, it doesn’t matter what people say as long as you haven’t personally hurt them. And you’ll be laughing all the way to the bank! Who do you suppose will play you in the movie?
That’s the spirit, Mom!
Please be careful. There are dangers out there. Don’t hurt people along the way to your stardom.
I would love it if you would write down your thoughts for me — and let’s be friends?
OK.
Say hello to Erich, Reid, Tom, Dick, Harry … Ha ha ha, Mom.
Love you,
Mom
Obviously, I had underestimated my mother. I wrote her a thank-you letter, expressing gratitude for the amazing life she had both prepared me for and taught me to attempt. The next week she knocked me out again.
Dear Heidi,
Received your letter today — thank you.
Dear Heididly, I’ll jump in here and drop you a line.
Dad!
Two pages followed about goings-on in Bucksport, then
Heidi, in regards to the past problem about what you do, as far as I’m concerned, it’s fine. (Nuff sed.)
Be happy and keep your head screwed on right.
Lots of love,
Dad
Two pages from Mom about the cats, then
I want you to know that I’ve accepted your line of work — I respect your individuality, and actually admire you for it.
Wow! She understands!
I knew from the very start of your life that you were born for something special.
Really?
You know it
I do?
and will accomplish it someday. Things happen for a reason. I will stop questioning and become more accepting starting now! Remember you can’t change anybody — you can only change yourself!
Love you lots,
Mom
I knew the crisis was over when the letters were completely filled with local gossip and animal stories. Occasionally there was a reference such as:
Oprah had a good show on yesterday in reference to daughters doing their own thing no matter what people may and do think. The last words of the expert were: “She broke the 11th commandment. Thou shalt not be a liberated woman.”
Liberation, the right of Americans, comes with responsibility. The right to freedom becomes dangerous when those exercising it are improperly prepared. It is no wonder individuality is perceived as threatening to our society. The American Dream, the dream of the individual, is a powerful thing. To instill in someone that they contain unlimited possibilities is the greatest gift.
My mother gave me that gift, often at the expense of her comfort, security, and sense of community. She was brave, an important example for society. Fearing and hating those unusual and courageous individuals who pave their own path is destructive and worse. It is a sign that America is losing the very same quality that gave us our edge.
* * *
I didn’t have time to fix America. Work, writing, and dancing occupied all my time. My first night back at the club was especially amusing. Trina, a self-proclaimed Broadway star, was performing a piece from Cats. She emerged from a garbage can center stage, completely covered with a disheveled matted coat of multi-hued fur. Her long tail knocked the can over as she pirouetted to the front of the stage. Her face wasn’t visible until halfway through the song, when she tugged violently at her ears and pulled the cat head off. The men weren’t sure what to think. We were all confused.
Not as much as Trina!
Eventually she shed enough fur to simulate a female form and the men, with a collective, “Oh, OK, the cat is topless,” finally understood.
Feline, topless — good enough.
I promised myself I would never confuse my real dreams with a stage show. I hadn’t thought it was possible until Trina’s stunning (in the most literal sense) strip show. I respected her as a frustrated actress and singer, but cringed to see her hopes reduced to a silly spectacle at the Foxy Lady.
Sunny, a walking, breathing spectacle, continued her conniption fits until management fired her, fatigued by her dramatics and worried about a lawsuit. (She had sent a customer to the emergency room with a bite on his neck.) Cherry was fired, too, for attempting to punch her stage mate for dancing too close. The blow fell wide, and, fittingly, Cherry’s final exit was off the side of the stage, over the shoulders of an unwitting patron.
This wasn’t even the Sports Saloon.
Although I didn’t wrestle anymore, the Knockouts still considered me one of their own. After all, my combination of poor boxing skills and enthusiastic sense of drama had provided them with plenty of laughs. One of my moves was even referred to in their training sessions.
The “Heidi Knockout” was a true theatrical accomplishment, often requiring months of practice and a special flair for the fabulous and dramatic. The stunt originated from one of my early boxing matches. I was up against Tantalizing Tawni, and it had been prearranged that she was going to win, knocking me out at the final bell. She would send me a spinning backfist, landing the blow across my head. My job was to react drastically; jump into the air sideways, then lurch, head first, into the ropes. Then down I would fall, out cold as a popsicle, collapsing limp on the mat. There I would stay, knocked out. Tawni would then proceed to kick me out of the ring, under the ropes, onto the floor. She would be restrained while I was dragged out by the referees. It was a nice plan.
With a six-inch problem. Tawni is five feet, barely. I am five foot six. She th
rew the punch with all her gusto. It sputtered off my shoulder like a popped balloon. But, I paid that no mind.
I’m a trained professional. The show must go on!
Ivy League Stripper Page 35
