I've been putting this one off for a long time. It's hard for me.
But I'm inspired tonight, and bolstered by tequila and the symphony of cicadas that are my sound track tonight in the windy hills outside of Austin, Texas. It all brings me back to the beginning.
My beginning.
I was born in South Africa.
My daddy was a handsome white man from Texas, my mother already famously beautiful. She had appeared in the pages of Esquire Magazine, opened a U.S. premier of a well recieved play at The Old Globe, been one of the original Playboy models (back when they wore little black suits with bunny tails and ears), and dragged back to Texas by her mother from 'dreadful Los Angeles' and the MGM contract that her little, Irish mother would not let her accept. She married my tall, blonde, well spoken father to escape Texas and her family. She wanted to travel the world.
And she did. For a minute.
My father whisked her off by air, boat and train to Europe, then to Johannesburg, South Africa during Apartheid - when white men of any education were welcomed with jobs, maids and nannies. Black men were called "boy" and not allowed to walk on the same sidewalk as white people. Nelson Mandela and Athol Fugard were both in prison.
But I knew nothing of this. I was growing inside my 'mother's' belly. Concieved on Lake Grapevine,Texas, at a keg party, I traveled with them as a secret stow away from Dallas, by air then on the USS United States from New York City to South Hampton, then on a Castle Ship to Cape town, and from there on the Blue Train to Johannesburg where they finally found me out due to my mother's diagnosis of morning sickness.
My mother's name was (and is for all I know), Judy.
My father, George, told her to "travel light".
She proceeded to bring FIVE large, white suitcases in contrast to his one.
George, in an effort to conserve funds, refused to pay bell captains and hauled all six suitcases to and from every port of departure and arrival location. Sometimes I think more is genetically imparted than we imagine. This frugality of my father's nature, for instance, immediately reminds me of my younger brother, Marcus.
When George and Judy (and I, of course, - the stow away) arrived at their New York City hotel room - right off of Times Square - Judy took one look around at her surroundings, plunked down on the squeaky bed and burst into tears.
I imagine my father saying "What's wrong, darling?", and Judy not answering him. Shaking her head, mascara streaming down her pretty face.
What was wrong, of course, was that my father's frugal nature had procured a shit-hole hotel room and it was NOT living up to Judy's imaginings of a glamorous stay in New York City.
Again, I ponder on the strength of genetic impartation as I recognize that Judy's reaction to her sub-par accomodations is precicely what mine would have been at the same age, and indeed a reaction which I wrestle with to this very day.
And again, I question nature versus nurture (you will soon see into this questioning a bit further) when I hear the story of my father and mother crossing the Atlantic Ocean on rough Seas. They both (and I as well - for I was there as a small stow away don't forget) became incredibly sea sick. So intensely sick that a nurse in white garb came and gave them injections of Dramamine. To this day I cannot stomache stormy seas. Some can weather any weather - I turn five shades of green and heave my soul into the Ocean.
Not long after my parents were safely installed into their Jo-burg high rise apartment, I was born into this world at a Convent Hospital atop a hill surrounded by 'The Sound of Music' style nuns and Jacaranda trees in full bloom.
My father tells me the story of rushing back to the Convent in the wee early hours of the morning and finding his wife being wheeled by nuns on a gurney with your truly in her arms. Judy (according to my father) looked serene, unflustered and beautiful. Not a drop of sweat on her brow. The sweet scent of Jacarandas surrounded his new family, purple blossoms in the air and laid out as a carpet at the convent and all around the city in May.
I was taken home to be cared for by a a beautiful woman called Ileta. She wrapped me in a blanket close to her heart beat and kept me there while she cleaned and cooked. She sang and bounced me. Comforted me when I had a bad diaper rash. Ileta called my father "Masta" and Judy "Madame".
Judy instructed her not to do that, but she did it anyway.
Judy's mother came to to visit. They packed me into the back of a VW Bug and took me on safari. Babies didn't need car seats then. I saw lions and tigers and elephants before I was one year old. I saw slides of myself later with these exotic landscapes and animals. Photos of me as a duckling-blonde baby being held by Ileta, by Judy in her glamorous, super-model fashion, by my father looking….young.
I have a memory of South Africa.
I THINK I have a memory.
I came back when I was so very young. But I think I have one, true memory.
It is of being with Judy, Ileta and another woman - a friend of Judy's - in a stroller, in the park. The stroller was made of a floral print cloth. With a metal frame. I remember bouncing and jiggling along (as a baby would on a park path), going in and out of sunlight, of the warm, warm sun on my skin, of Ileta's smile, and Judy's indifference.
I remember her talking to her friend, glancing back at me from time to time. In my entire childhood memory of her - she always seemed like she was acting.
I came back to Texas on a ship. The Captain made me a little wading pool out of a life preserver and some plastic. There are beautiful black and white photos of me being held by my young, thin, four-eyed father. I look like a prize-fighter. A little Irish-Nordic tank. My father looks like Peter O'Toole crossed with Robert Redford.
Life is funny.
I used to hate those photos of myself. What girly-girl wants to look like a prize fighter, right?
But now I respect and love those photos.
Little did I know how much I needed that fighting nature on the trip back to Texas. I needed every ounce of it. Things were about to get crazy - Texas crazy - and I wouldn't be the only offspring of George and Judy that would need to be tough.
I was just the oldest.
But I'm inspired tonight, and bolstered by tequila and the symphony of cicadas that are my sound track tonight in the windy hills outside of Austin, Texas. It all brings me back to the beginning.
My beginning.
I was born in South Africa.
My daddy was a handsome white man from Texas, my mother already famously beautiful. She had appeared in the pages of Esquire Magazine, opened a U.S. premier of a well recieved play at The Old Globe, been one of the original Playboy models (back when they wore little black suits with bunny tails and ears), and dragged back to Texas by her mother from 'dreadful Los Angeles' and the MGM contract that her little, Irish mother would not let her accept. She married my tall, blonde, well spoken father to escape Texas and her family. She wanted to travel the world.
And she did. For a minute.
My father whisked her off by air, boat and train to Europe, then to Johannesburg, South Africa during Apartheid - when white men of any education were welcomed with jobs, maids and nannies. Black men were called "boy" and not allowed to walk on the same sidewalk as white people. Nelson Mandela and Athol Fugard were both in prison.
But I knew nothing of this. I was growing inside my 'mother's' belly. Concieved on Lake Grapevine,Texas, at a keg party, I traveled with them as a secret stow away from Dallas, by air then on the USS United States from New York City to South Hampton, then on a Castle Ship to Cape town, and from there on the Blue Train to Johannesburg where they finally found me out due to my mother's diagnosis of morning sickness.
My mother's name was (and is for all I know), Judy.
My father, George, told her to "travel light".
She proceeded to bring FIVE large, white suitcases in contrast to his one.
George, in an effort to conserve funds, refused to pay bell captains and hauled all six suitcases to and from every port of departure and arrival location. Sometimes I think more is genetically imparted than we imagine. This frugality of my father's nature, for instance, immediately reminds me of my younger brother, Marcus.
When George and Judy (and I, of course, - the stow away) arrived at their New York City hotel room - right off of Times Square - Judy took one look around at her surroundings, plunked down on the squeaky bed and burst into tears.
I imagine my father saying "What's wrong, darling?", and Judy not answering him. Shaking her head, mascara streaming down her pretty face.
What was wrong, of course, was that my father's frugal nature had procured a shit-hole hotel room and it was NOT living up to Judy's imaginings of a glamorous stay in New York City.
Again, I ponder on the strength of genetic impartation as I recognize that Judy's reaction to her sub-par accomodations is precicely what mine would have been at the same age, and indeed a reaction which I wrestle with to this very day.
And again, I question nature versus nurture (you will soon see into this questioning a bit further) when I hear the story of my father and mother crossing the Atlantic Ocean on rough Seas. They both (and I as well - for I was there as a small stow away don't forget) became incredibly sea sick. So intensely sick that a nurse in white garb came and gave them injections of Dramamine. To this day I cannot stomache stormy seas. Some can weather any weather - I turn five shades of green and heave my soul into the Ocean.
Not long after my parents were safely installed into their Jo-burg high rise apartment, I was born into this world at a Convent Hospital atop a hill surrounded by 'The Sound of Music' style nuns and Jacaranda trees in full bloom.
My father tells me the story of rushing back to the Convent in the wee early hours of the morning and finding his wife being wheeled by nuns on a gurney with your truly in her arms. Judy (according to my father) looked serene, unflustered and beautiful. Not a drop of sweat on her brow. The sweet scent of Jacarandas surrounded his new family, purple blossoms in the air and laid out as a carpet at the convent and all around the city in May.
I was taken home to be cared for by a a beautiful woman called Ileta. She wrapped me in a blanket close to her heart beat and kept me there while she cleaned and cooked. She sang and bounced me. Comforted me when I had a bad diaper rash. Ileta called my father "Masta" and Judy "Madame".
Judy instructed her not to do that, but she did it anyway.
Judy's mother came to to visit. They packed me into the back of a VW Bug and took me on safari. Babies didn't need car seats then. I saw lions and tigers and elephants before I was one year old. I saw slides of myself later with these exotic landscapes and animals. Photos of me as a duckling-blonde baby being held by Ileta, by Judy in her glamorous, super-model fashion, by my father looking….young.
I have a memory of South Africa.
I THINK I have a memory.
I came back when I was so very young. But I think I have one, true memory.
It is of being with Judy, Ileta and another woman - a friend of Judy's - in a stroller, in the park. The stroller was made of a floral print cloth. With a metal frame. I remember bouncing and jiggling along (as a baby would on a park path), going in and out of sunlight, of the warm, warm sun on my skin, of Ileta's smile, and Judy's indifference.
I remember her talking to her friend, glancing back at me from time to time. In my entire childhood memory of her - she always seemed like she was acting.
I came back to Texas on a ship. The Captain made me a little wading pool out of a life preserver and some plastic. There are beautiful black and white photos of me being held by my young, thin, four-eyed father. I look like a prize-fighter. A little Irish-Nordic tank. My father looks like Peter O'Toole crossed with Robert Redford.
Life is funny.
I used to hate those photos of myself. What girly-girl wants to look like a prize fighter, right?
But now I respect and love those photos.
Little did I know how much I needed that fighting nature on the trip back to Texas. I needed every ounce of it. Things were about to get crazy - Texas crazy - and I wouldn't be the only offspring of George and Judy that would need to be tough.
I was just the oldest.
