Bonjour Jeune Fille: I Think I Just Stepped On ...
Note: I’ve started writing this …piece …while watching a movie (or film, since it’s subtitled and French …Isn’t that the definition of "film"?) …Yes, I’m writing while watching a subtitled film, which I’ve been meaning to watch for the past couple of days. I have no idea what is going on, as I glance from my computer’s screen to my television across the way. I think two of the characters are having a bit of a squabble (I mean, two characters are being French and passionate).
1993-1994.
I’m not connected to the internet at the moment so I can’t give you a list of events that happened throughout those two years.
[The French people are making out …I mean, the French people are being French and passionate]
Unfortunately, my copy of Random House’s Timetables of History ("revised edition," no less) doesn’t lend itself to 1993-1994. It stops at 1993 but only lists up to 1992.
The events during such a time are somewhat pointless, anyway. Basically, all you need to know for the sake of this …piece is:
-I was in 7th grade
-I was the youngest in my class (something about being the first born, the guinea pig …My brother would wait an extra year before starting school and in turn be amongst his age group).
-My parents were riding out the rest of their marriage. A legal separation that would last a full year before the actual divorce proceedings. A divorce that would take yet another full-year to become finalized.
[A French woman is dancing topless, in a pair of black stockings …I mean, ah you get it by now.]
I spent the summer of 1993 recuperating from what would be my last surgery (a bone graph, in case you were curious). I spent my hot summer days laid up on the sofa, eating mashed potatoes, drinking Ensure and reading about my latest obsession: The Beatles.
By Fall, the first day of junior high, I was beyond well-read on Liverpool’s best known export.
A couple of you knew me during this period (My brother Matthew, especially, since we still shared a bedroom at the time). A handful of you have probably heard me refer to my "Beatle years" or how "some people deal with their awkward pre-teens and a divorce with drugs and alcohol …I became obsessed with John, Paul, George + Ringo".
It’s funny, the way only hindsight can be funny, to think of how my adoration for the Beatles could separate me from my peers and give way to a year of ridicule. A year that was already marked for such given that I was on the cusp of puberty and my most exciting summer story began with "…And then they took bone marrow from my hip bone and implanted it in my gums …". I was definitely in the market for being ostracized.
Though, I’m sure the retainer I had to wear that had a false tooth attached until the marrow hardened and descended as a bonafide tooth or the growth of my hips or my skin’s need to erupt played a role in my peers looking at me sideways (or my fondness for wearing knitted vests ….) …What seemed to capture everyone’s attention the most was that I was indeed (and self-admittedly) obsessed with a popular band of yesteryear.
It’s true …I was a Beatle-maniac. I make no excuses for that. I collected and celebrated the entire catalog. Any books I could get my hands on, records, cassettes, cds, posters, tshirts, a bedspread, movies, ticket stubs, figurines (yes, figurines), pins, newspaper clippings, coins, trading cards …etc. etc. You name it, I had it.
After a day of school, being called "Beatle girl," ("Beatle freak" and eventually just "freak" would come as the school year unfolded into spring), kids stomping their foot and shouting "I think I just stepped on a BEATLE!" …I’d walk through my parents’ latest shouting match, straight to my bedroom (Matthew was quite popular. Four years my junior and friends with nearly everyone in the neighborhood so I had a few hours to myself) …I’d push "play," on my stereo, grab a book profiling the meaning of every Beatles song ever recorded and escape to a simpler time. A time when everyone loved the Beatles. A time I would have belonged.
[I’m so behind on watching the French film across from me …Two characters are walking about, blindfolded. This doesn’t speak to me at all.]
John was my favorite, followed by George. Paul sort of annoyed me and Ringo, well he was hit or miss (though, ultimately, that same year Ringo Starr and his All-Star band would prove to be my first concert).
When John said he wanted to "hold your hand," I was palms up. When he said to "imagine," I gave it my best. When I found out that "Norwegian Wood," was rumored to be about John’s infidelity, I hung my head in dismay. When John and his band mates delved into the teachings of Maharshi Yogi …Well, I had to draw the line somewhere.
Flea markets, museums, rummage sales, antique malls …These were my hip hang outs. I’d nod politely while flipping through a woman’s records labeled "for sale," while she explained to me that she quit eating ham sandwiches after Mama Cass died (true story).
To my Mother’s credit, she chauffeured me through all of this, literally. She was 7 yrs old, in 1964, when the Beatles made their US debut on the Ed Sullivan show. She wasn’t much in the way of being a fan …Perhaps if Michael MacDonald had been a member. Regardless, she was my backing and would readily listen to my constant Beatles-speak. My Mother even helped me with my 1965-era John Lennon Halloween costume, that year (which was a dark day, for me, throughout the classrooms of Central Intermediate).
During this time, the lead singer of some band named Nirvana, committed suicide. The halls of my junior high were filled with flannel clad kids, crying near their lockers, whispering about a "conspiracy ," sharing Walkmens and later on in the day, cigarettes across the street. I was confused …Why were they mourning someone who chose to take their life? …John Lennon didn’t have a choice!
[French film: off]
By 1994-1995, my love for the Beatles had waned. The first day of 8th grade, I walked into school …the usual smell of freshly sharpened No. 2s …and a handful of classmates wearing Beatles’ tshirts. The same kids that had ridiculed me for the better half of the previous school year. Yet, no one said anything about them, no one threw anything at them, no one stomped their foot or uttered a word about John and Paul "masturbating" with each other.
By the end of 8th grade, my Beatles shrine had all but disappeared. Packed safely away in the attic …where it remains today, back in Michigan. My listening to the Beatles had all but dwindled to the occasional song on the radio. My Father had moved out for good and divorce proceedings were taking hold. I moved into my own bedroom. The first poster I hung up on one of my new walls was R.E.M.’s "Monster" (I had a bit of a crush on Mike Mills, who listed John Lennon as an influence).
To this day, I still have all of the Beatles’ US and UK release dates dictated to memory. Four times a year, I’ll be going through my mental to-do list …"Ok, work at 11, I need to pay my cell bill during lunch break, should probably stop by the grocery after work, need more cereal …Oo and it’s George Harrison’s birthday, hmm …Oo, should probably return so and so’s phone call."
This past Wednesday, I found myself browsing at my nearby Brown Elephant resale store. I made my way through the books, the coffee mugs, the various 3rd grade handicrafts, the framed pictures, shoes, stereo equipment, pots/pans/cake molds, etc.
Before heading out, I glanced over the cds/cassettes section. It appeared that someone had donated their entire collection of Beatles’ albums on cassette. Nearby, a boy of 15 or 16 was rifling through copies of "Revolver" and "A Hard Days Night" …In his hands were 4 or 5 other Capitol/Apple released titles (3 or 4 if you count the "White Album"). I smirked to myself. After the boy had left, I reached over for "Rubber Soul," slipping it into my basket.
I’ve been trying to get "Michelle," out of my head for years ..But then again, you see how I am when it comes to French.
Org. Post: Tuesday, March 18, 2008
My Golden Girl: What’s My Line?
I received the following card, from my Mother, yesterday:
Inside: "There’s nothing a little lipstick can’t fix!"
My Mother wrote: "Oh my! If this isn’t going to be me in 20 yrs. (or so). Ha!"
Later on, in the evening, my Mother called:
Mom: "Hi honey, did you get my card?"
Me: "Yes and you obviously didn’t get my voicemail."
Mom: "Oo, I haven’t checked it."
[Note: And this is how it goes. If I call and leave a voicemail, she never checks it. However, if I call without leaving a voicemail ...I can expect a call a few minutes later, "Are you ok, honey!? You didn’t leave a voicemail!"]
Me: "That really is you, in 20 yrs. ’or so’."
Mom: "Well, almost! I’m going to look like Betty White ...Don’t you think so?"
Me: "Yes, Mom, you are going to look just like Betty White."
[I’ve debated this in the past and trust me when I say, much like going down to the river ...do not go up that mountain.]
My Mother will look like Betty White, in 20 yrs. (or so) and that’s that. I get a kick out of the fact that within 10 yrs. my Mother has gone from "I strongly resemble Sela Ward" to aging aspirations of Betty White.
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