Beatniks Make a Baby

Aquatic Park

2007-03-17T11:06:00.000-07:00

When I was a girl my family would sometimes go to Aquatic Park on the weekends. Aquatic Park is a small beach down the hill from Ghirardelli Square and The Cannery, a little bay nestled between two long piers with bandstand seating behind it. I never thought about why the bandstand seating was there. I suppose back in the old days, before bathing suits, people would just go sit in the bandstands to be at the beach.
In my days back then, the bandstands were filled with a drum circle. Musicians would bring their instruments; all variety of drums, percussion instruments, guitars. They would make jams up as they went along, their music riding down across the promenade onto the beach.
The water was gentle and warmer than the rest of the bay, and all the kids played in the water and the surf. My mother would swim far out, like she always did, her head and arms visible as she backstroked away from us. I could never backstroke like her; I don't like not being able to see where I'm going so I can never go in a straight line.
Where the breakers start there used to be a hot dog stand in a round building that also housed the restrooms. The french fries were always hot and fresh, perfectly salted. The Cokes were syrupy and delicious and the hot dogs were actually hot. My favorite part of going to that beach was going to the hot dog stand, even though the owner was an old crank who seemed irritated when a crowd form at his window. The restrooms are still there, but the hot dog stand went away in the 80's.
I wasn't allowed to go sit near the musicians; my mom thought they couldn't be trusted in the presence of a child. Her judgement of people was always off, especially when it came to her kids. She trusted the wrong people to be alone with her kids, at least with me.
When you're young, everything just is. I didn't find it amazing that musicians would gather together in a public place and wail out great music with no orchestration or premeditation. They got chased away eventually, and only then did I miss them. The beach became too quiet, especially after the hot dog stand closed.
At the end of the day, sometimes we'd go up the Cannery; back when it was interesting. Now it's just stupid kitschy shops; back then street artists would set up there. I had two favorites; one was a man who put on a puppet show. He had a whole stage set up, and you couldn't see him. He'd direct and operate 5 or 6 puppets in elaborate plays, and after the show, the puppets would hold out the giant hat for contributions. My other favorite was a guy who sat in a giant box painted like a jukebox. You'd put your money in, make your selection, and they guy would start singing.
Also in the Cannery was the Yet Wah, where we'd go for dinner. For some reason, I only remember my mother being drunk during those dinners, stuffing flatware into her purse along with salt and pepper shakers. My favorite part of Yet Wah was the lazy Susan; I always irritated my brother and sister by putting things on the lazy Susan just so I could spin it around to make my items come back to me.
I'd like to have a lazy Susan in my mind, where I could put fond memories and make them come back to me whenever I wanted.

In Dreams

2007-02-28T15:51:00.000-08:00

On the train home last night it finally dawned on me, I mean really set in, that everyone on the train had been made by a woman. Furthermore, it finally set in that every person on the face of the earth comes from a woman.

I think often of the 20 year difference between Dustin and Eric, and now I think often of the 21 year difference that will exist between him and the girl that I am pregnant with. Dustin will be 19 years older than his sister; what will it mean? Will he be more like another father than a brother? Will he be both? I am glad they will have each other when I am gone, my two beautiful children.

Rarely do I think that I am only 16 years older than Dustin, or that I will be 37 when Maxine is born. But it's good. I will be 60 when she is 23 and Dustin is 44, and Eric will be 64. And we will still love him, send him a birthday greeting, bottle of wine.

Last night I dreamt of Dustin and a girlfriend of his that has never existed. She was harassing him about something that was inconsequential, something that he shouldn't have to deal with. In the dream I told him he didn't need her, so Eric, Dustin and I dropped her off at home. Then I took Eric and Dustin's hands in each of my own and we skipped up a hill together in the bright, cool air of a San Francisco summer day. I was both Maxine and myself, and we were all a family and a family of children.

Super Simon!

2006-03-25T19:39:00.000-08:00

Until I was 32, I made sure that there was no space between the floor and my bed. Until I was 12 or so, I had a fear of the people under the bed. For the next 20 years, I didn't (usually) have the fear of the people under the bed, but I was used to having my bed close to the floor.

The people under the bed came in varying shapes, sizes and styles, and could also sometimes be found in the closet. I'm sure you know the people I'm talking about. When I think about them now, I think more about a person just lying under my bed staring at the bottom of the mattress, waiting to reach out a hand and grab mine when it falls off the bed while I'm sleeping. But when I was younger, they took on much more fanciful forms. They could be whole families of small goblins or gnomes, or one giant monster, a hitchhiker with an axe through his head, leprechauns, headless horsemen - just about anything.

One of my mom's favorite boyfriends, Jack Overacker, gave me a Super Simon for Christmas when I was 10. Since we were pretty much dirt poor, I was totally stoked on this gift. It was probably the best thing I'd gotten since my Big Wheel, which ruled my world for years. I liked Jack because he was unassuming about his adulthood, didn't try to be fatherly, and had an aura about him that was like a drunk, but happy, Santa Claus. He and Mom were both sober at the time, so Jack wasn't drunk, but you could tell that he used to be. I don't know why he and Mom broke up, but it's a damned shame that they did.

Anyway, I knew the present was from Jack, but the gift tag on the Super Simon said "From: the people under the bed". When I read the tag, I grinned and looked at Jack. The gesture was really sweet - he was addressing my fears and trying to minimize the threat of the under-the-bed-people, trying to make them seem nice.

That's about the only Christmas present that I have a strong memory about from when I was a kid. For some reason, that gesture on Jack's part really touched me - and the Super Simon was totally awesome.

The Reunion

2006-03-19T08:03:00.000-08:00

I gave my son up for adoption when I was 16. I had gone through a series of interviews with social workers who never failed to piss me off with their presumptions and judgements created by experiences with people who were not like me. My mother wanted me to keep Dustin, said we could raise him together, but I didn't want him to have to grow up with our family's dysfunctionalities. I wanted him to have a better chance, all the toys and none of the alcoholism.
I found his adoptive father through my mother, who worked with Richard at St. Vincent dePaul. Rich just left SVDP after 25 years of helping the homeless. He is, needless to say, an awesome dude.
In 2002, I was in New Orleans with Bill and Beth and I decided to sit down a tarot readers table. Among other perfectly accurate things, she told me that my son needed me. I had not told her that I had a son, so I was intrigued. She said he was having a hard time and needed his mother. I cried later, since there was nothing I could do. I was living in Texas, and outside of occassionally telling Richard where I was, I was not in touch with him and Dustin. I didn't want Rich to worry about me trying to get Dustin back.
When I got back to California in February 2003, I sent Rich an e-mail to give him an update on my whereabouts. A few months later, I received an e-mail from Rich asking if I wanted to meet Dustin. I was at work that day, and totally overwhelmed. I went into the bathroom and cried and cried, and then called some people and cried some more. I e-mailed Rich back to say of course.
In July, Dustin and I agreed to meet at a coffee shop in the Haight. We had been e-mailing each other, and Rich had told me about some of the things that Dustin was going through. He was walking the same line I had walked at his age, following a path that can lead to destruction or redemption, depending on your choices.
I had met Eric in May, and just a couple months later I had to tell him I had a son that I would be bringing back into my life. I knew Eric well, and expected that he would be all right with this, but I wasn't absolutely positive about his reaction. Eric was excited and happy, which is one of the reasons I love him so much.
Eric came with me as back-up. Dustin brought his godparents and godbrother. A few minutes before we got there, Eric and I sat on someone's steps while I sweated and cried and smoked. I was beyond nervous. I was scared, excited, worried - about how Dustin would react, what he would look like, how we'd recognize each other, what we would say. He and I had exchanged pictures, but I couldn't remember what he looked like. Eric helped me pull it together and headed for the coffee shop.
As soon as I walked in, I recognized Dustin. It felt as if a string appeared between the two of us. When I walked in, I saw him, then ran over and hugged him. He stood up when he saw me come in. I cried and said "My baby!" and squeezed him and then hung on to him while I stepped back to have a look at him. He was beautiful, awkward like a teenager, his eyes as big and stunned as my own. We did introductions all around, and Dustin took a liking to Eric right away. After that, everyone left, and Dustin and I sat at a table and stared at each other. We inventoried all of the similarities, talked about how strange this all was, I told him how relieved I was, etc. His friends drifted in to meet me, and finally his girlfriend came in.
It wasn't until later that I found out how long he'd been wondering about me. For years, he and his friends had speculated who I was, what I might be like, where I was. He had missed me as much as I had missed him. I told him all of the circumstances around in his birth, in which we both should have died, about his family, everything I could think to tell him. I'm still catching up. We are fortunate, Dustin and I, that we found each other and that we formed a bond. Not all are so lucky, or even that interested.
He's found the path to redemption rather than destruction. It's still a tenuous journey, but I see myself in him, interested in life, in improving, in growing. As I did at his age, he has shaken the interest in drugs and alchohol. Maybe that tarot reader was right, maybe he did need his mama.

Waves

2006-03-10T08:54:00.000-08:00

We fly into San Diego and then drive into Mexico to see my son, Dustin. He is in a rehab facility near Ensenada, a rustic and pleasant place where he thrives. He has gone from pale and skinny to tanned and healthy, from kind of cute to very handsome. He has been there long enough to earn day passes, so we head to the beach. Eric and Dustin are jubilant about the ocean, about body surfing. At first I am hesitant to get in because it is a little cold outside, but I see them run in and jump up and down, bodysurfing. Eric turns to me smiling, and waves me in. I dash into the water and submerge my head to get over the shock.
I make my way towards them, admiring them. Dustin is built like the men on my mother's side of the family, lean with a trim waist and wide shoulders that creates a V-torso. Sometimes it's as if there was no man involved in his conception, he carries so much of my family in him. I see almost nothing of his father in him, but the paternity tests do.
Dustin yells over the water to ask if I know how to bodysurf. I shake my head no and he laughs at me. He is surprised. He always seems equally surprised about what I do know and what I don't know. Dustin explains to me what to do, and I try it. This is fun, attacking the waves, trying to anticipate their action. Eric is also doing it and I watch them to try to grapple some technique. I don't really get it, so I am trying to catch waves that do nothing for me.
I give up for a while, just flopping around, floating. The ocean here seems saltier and cleaner, tamer than up north. I am more bouyant. The Baja coast wraps around and we can see its finger pointing out. There is no one else on the beach; this part of Baja seems deserted, it is a secret paradise for me. I want to live here, floating in this water and collecting used tires to build retaining walls for my house.
Eric leaves the water, and Dustin and I continue bodysurfing. I like to be near him in the water, not talking, but just participating in an activity with him. Sometimes my heart aches when I think of all the lost time between us, my throat tightens when I think of the intimacy I sacrificed when I gave him up for adoption. I know I did the right thing, but I miss those 17 years.
Suddenly I am exhausted. I look at Dustin and he seems tireless, he will be out here forever, always energetic and healthy.
I turn to go back to shore and I am overtaken by waves, pulled under water. I am so tired I go under with no resistance, but I have to fight my way back up. I come up and take a huge gulp of air and stand up. Now I am truly exhausted, and when I see how far away Eric is on the beach I feel as if I will never make it back. I will drown on the coast of Mexico.
I wave at Eric to let him know I am here, to let him know I want to come back. I want him to see how tired I am, but he can't so he just waves back. I push on towards the shore and am taken down again and again. The water has become ferocious, seeming to try to take me out to sea past Dustin and farther from Eric. I stand firmly again, and look around. My head is spinning and the water swirls around me. Dustin is far out, and Eric still seems far away. We are a triangle.
Finally I make it back to the beach and I want to sit down and cry at the water's edge. I am so tired, so far from home. Eric smiles as he watches me come back and when I am in hearing range, he talks enthusiastically about how long we were out there and how great it is to watch Dustin and I together. I hug him and look out at Dustin and I am not tired anymore.
After Dustin comes back, we dress and head to a local restaurant where we have delicious fresh lobster and guacamole. The food has a different flavor there, it tastes fresher and richer than here. I take pleasure in watching how much Dustin eats; when he was abusing drugs and alcohol he had no appetite. I hated to watch him push his food around on his plate, listless and disinterested.
I don't want to take him back to the rehab facility, I want to drive off with him and Eric and buy a house, plant a garden, have them find jobs so I can stay home and raise animals. After lunch we are all tired from the swimming and the meal and we take him back, we are all sleepy and satisfied with our day. Eric and I say goodbye to Dustin, and I hold him tight trying to fill him with more strength. He is a good boy, does not wrangle out of my death grip.
He stands on driveway waving as we drive off, and I wipe the tears away. I hate leaving him, over and over again.

Danny Wonderful

2006-02-16T16:59:00.000-08:00

When I was nine, we up and moved to Albany, NY. It was there that I had my first encounter with a boy, who will always be referred to as "Danny Wonderful". Mind you, I didn't make this name up. My mother did. His first name was Danny, but since he's gone done in history as Danny Wonderful, I cannot recall his last name.

Danny was the first boy I ever French-kissed, and I'm pretty sure I did it instinctively rather than purposefully. I had kissed boys before, but always with a closed mouth and eyes clenched shut. This was about the beginning of my education on The Cruelty of Children.

I was on the front steps of our duplex sitting with my neighbor/friend Brenda, and Danny was there. Somehow, Danny and I got to kissing and I ended up putting my tongue in his mouth. This was also where I got the first of many lessons about unintended messages. Brenda said: "When you tongue-kiss someone that means you want to have sex with them."

Well, I really did not want to have sex with Danny, much less anyone, so I apologized and explained that I didn't know that, that I didn't want to have sex, etc. I felt, and I was, like a stranger in a strange land. Thousands of miles from home with no understanding of the bizarre social rules in New York.

Danny and I continued some sort of relationship, though I don't remember much about him. I remember that he was Brenda's cousin and that he had brown hair and eyes, and he reminded me of Chachi from Happy Days.

I bring this up because on the bus this morning it occurred to me how frequently we just make shit up, especially as kids. And then you tell someone your made up thing, and they tell someone, and they tell someone else, etc.....That's pretty much how religion has started in every culture.

D-I-V-O-R-C-E

2006-01-26T12:59:00.000-08:00

My mom and dad divorced when I was 2-ish. My mom had 2 kids from her previous marriage, and my dad had three from his previous marriage.

As a result of that, I have two half-brothers named Eric. I suppose that equals one whole brother named Eric.

I also have a husband named Eric, and my sister's brother-in-law is named Eric. That means my sister has four brothers named Eric. That just equals "the brothers Eric".

But that's all beside the point....

The last time I saw my dad before he died, we went to a French bistro on Market Street where he persuaded me to try snails (they taste like garlic butter). My dad, who was a beatnik in North Beach in the '70's, considered himself to be classy and worldly. Which he was, in his way. He made sure I knew things that I didn't learn in my Manners and Morals class. Things like: "You're a lady. Never drink beer directly from the bottle. Always ask for a glass." and "When you pay your restaurant tab in cash, all the bills should face the same direction." These are handy things to know, and I wish he hadn't died cause I'd like to know more of these things.

So, we're at the French bistro, and I'm recollecting the time that a bloody man came crashing through the back door of our third floor apartment, into the kitchen. This is one of my earliest memories, because in it, I am sitting in a playpen staring up at the world and my mom is cooking.

My dad says: "That never happened."

I say: "Yes, it did. Mom remembers it. She says it was you. Well, sometimes she says it was you. Other times she says that it was some speed freak that lived in the building. She was worried that the cops chasing after the guy were going to find your pot and arrest you."

My dad says: "Was she always crazy?"

I say: "I don't know, Guy. You're the one who married her."

He nods. He can't argue that he is not the one who married, because he is. I never married her.

After the divorce, my dad took the rolltop desk that belonged to my mother's family. At this last dinner, he promised me that I would get the rolltop desk after he died. When he died, I did not get the rolltop desk. Instead, my aunt called my mother and asked if her daughter could have it. To which my mother thoughtlessly agreed.

I got some of his ashes, a framed picture that he liked, a card I made for him when I was young that says: "Guy, I hope you are feeling good." in kid scrawl, the last card I ever mailed to him (which had a dried water stain on it that I mulled over for weeks), a picture of my sister and me in the tub from the early '70's, and my parents divorce papers. And $1250.

Four years later, and I'm still sore over that desk. I wake up thinking about it and the promise that my dad made. I'm sure he meant it, I'm sure something went awry, something slippery happened.

I miss my dad a lot.

Racer M

2005-11-18T11:52:00.000-08:00

My favorite favorite thing growing up was riding my bike at North Beach Playground. I had miraculously acquired a bike with a sparkly green seat with matching handlebars that had green tassles coming out of them. This was miraculous because we were poor.

The playground is a large place (it's still there); it takes up a city block. It has tennis courts, an indoor swimming pool, a clubhouse with ping-pong tables, etc, a basketball court, and a cement ballpark. In addition, it has a sand-filled playground replete with swings, slides and the usual monkey-bar business.

As a child, the North Beach Playground was the place to be since there were so many things to do there. But my favorite thing was being a race-bike driver. I would speed down to the playground and if no one was on the basketball courts I would race around in huge circles pretending I was racing other people on their bikes and that I was winning! I heard the announcer in my head, felt the other racers around me and experienced the thrill of the victory. No one could match my speed or prowess on the banana-seat bicycle. I'm sure I was going at least 200 mph on that thing. It was beautiful.

I'm sure I had some stupid grin pasted on my face while I was racing but I was totally unaware of reality when I was racing. I was at the racetrack, focused on winning and hellbent on speed and that was it. I was not a poor child without a father and living with an alcoholic mother, wearing second-hand clothes and feeling like a complete and total misfit among my peers. I was Mercedes the greatest banana-seat bike racer ever.

This sort of fantasy followed me into adult life when I took up lap swimming on a regular basis. I had been in swim meets as a pre-teen but since I was actually racing against other people, reality was involved so it was hard for me to be the best breast-stroke swimmer ever. But when I was 27, swimming in the lap pool I was a champion. I swam as hard and fast as I could, taking over all the imaginary swimmers in my head and winning! No one could beat my butterfly. And once again, I was in the competition, hellbent on speed. I was not a 25 year-old in a dead relationship living with two speed freak roommates and their baby, wildly overweight and battling an addiction to marijuana that I didn't want to have anymore and completely lost, hankering to leave everything behind and drive off into the sunset. I was Mercedes the greatest swimmer ever.

Go play in the street

2005-11-14T16:39:00.000-08:00

I grew up in North Beach, in San Francisco, during the '70's. At the time, the neighborhood had Italians, Asian Americans, beatniks and hippies. I never felt threatened or scared in our neighborhood, but that was a different time.
Since I lived in the city, I had just a few options on where to play: in the street, in the tiny backyard, or down at the park. I liked playing on our front stoop; it had a protected feel to it. One day, I got a bunch of my Barbie paraphenalia and set it all up on the front stoop. I had recently acquired a Barbie swing, and I was excited to get this out front and swing my Barbie's on it.
I had a house laid out on the stoop - a bedroom, a dining room, a living room, a backyard (no bathroom since Barbie didn't have a pee-hole) and was having a high time playing with my Barbie's babbling away to myself, lost in my own little world.
Some Italian kids came by and starting harrassing me. To this day, I will never understand why they chose to do this. I wasn't a freaky looking kid - blonde hair, brown eyes, skinny - the average kid. They started kicking my toys around and taunting me. I knew that I couldn't deal with this situation, so I threatened to go get my big brother, who in my mind, was HUGE. The Italian kids thought this was a great idea, and I ran into the apartment calling for my brother and crying. I told him what was going on and he came out, trying to talk sense into these kids.
They were having none of it; they were not interested in sense.
What they were interested in was beating the everloving shit out of my big brother. They pounced on him, punched him a few times, and once they had him on the ground they started kicking him.
When this began, I screamed bloody murder. Eventually, I got a hold of myself and ran up the back stairs to one of our neighbors apartments where my mom was hanging out. We came out the front door and went downstairs, but no one was there. Our front door was open, and there were streaks of blood on the wall leading down the hallway to my brother's room.
I don't remember anything after that.
I know my brother had a couple of broken ribs, and he and my mom brought charges against the kids who had done the beating. The kids, or one of them, went to juvy for what happened.
To this day what I remember most clearly is my Barbie swing being kicked over and the streaks of my brother's blood on the wall. He had always been my favorite sibling; he was a lot more interactive with me than my sister was. My sister was required to take care of me from the day I was born, and she carried a lot of open resentment about it. My brother was also required to take care of me, but he had a more lacksadaisacal approach about it. I think he also had been required to supervise my sister when they were growing up (they are 8 & 10 years older than me), so he was already used to the role of caretaker.
After this incident, my brother was a changed man in my eyes. He was a knight in shining armor.
In 1979, my mother, sister and I left my brother behind in San Francisco when my mother got a wild hair up her ass to move to Albany, NY (she was a drunk that wanted to turn over a new leaf - which apparently required that she move to the other side of the country). My brother opted to stay behind even though my mother threatened to commit suicide if he didn't come.
My brother and I naturally grew apart since we were across the country from each other, but he has always held a certain fascination for me. I had seen him stand up for me in a way that no one had ever done, and to this day, no one has ever had to do again.