Sitting in front of another store front window, Carmel’s Diner—“For Sale!” they tell me again. I had tried to rent an apartment in Northville, NY that turned out to b another scam run by a slumlord that took my money, gave me no heat, then conspired w others to try seducing me into prostitution by getting me into debt. It had been a store; it was filthy dirty. I had looked at it in the dark, desperate for a place to live and didn’t know. The bathroom disgusting, I thought of all the people that used it!
I wonder when they will stop trying to sell me? The memories slowly take shape as I peer inside the old diner. I had been here before Photographing when this all started. I was fascinated by all the crumbling, abandoned buildings I saw all around me. I felt the same about my beautiful home and garden, I had worked on 20yrs and was being destroyed; my life crumbling and being destroyed again before my eyes. I needed to make Art out of the pain and I saw beauty in the old architecture; stories that were also being destroyed. Looking back, I know I sensed my story was being destroyed and I needed some way to hang onto my “self,” the person I knew that I was n not the awful one they r trying to create.
Lillian only cared about one of her granddaughters; the other one, not blond, blue-eyed, but like me w dark hair, somehow rejected just as I had been by her. I watched her being severely abused w the hatred she also seemed to have for me. She attacked my Grandmother repeatedly. I loved my Grandmother dearly and didn’t understand why. She was the only family I had left. I was no longer allowed to see my Dad, my other grandparents or my Aunt and Uncle on the Sacandaga Lake, NY where they lived in a beautiful place I thought was a Rockstar mansion. My dad played music in his band and Summer days were spent playing at the beach. Carefree and happy, but then everything changed. My mother was unhappy n I sensed even then I wasn’t wanted.
We had visited one of the trailer parks before we moved, “to the city,” but it wasn’t meant to b. A large family; I remember so many blond children, women living together in odd ways, rituals that seemed foreign and strange then, but even then I had some idea of what they were. The huge, laughing man, w the red-face commanded the room; father of all the pretty blond children I played w. There were so many wives and children. There were no other men, just him. We didn’t stay there. My mother was going to live there, but we didn’t. After I was taken to Carmel’s Diner we moved in w Buddy.
I’m now thinking how “Lil,” must of appeared to my beautiful Grandmother “Alice,” all those years ago. I see her now w the eyes of a woman and not as a little girl. A little girl forced to accept this women so very different from my loving Grandmother. She’s a “Barmaid,” my Grandmother had said. It was not the place for a lady. Her uncle had gone there; old, his wife had passed away. He wasn’t in a good way, but excused somewhat for needing that place, even if it was too dirty to talk about. He passed away shortly after him n Lil had 2 children. Married a very short time, it was his second-wife; back then a very big deal. To hear them tell it; being blond blue-eyed trumped whatever gossip ensued. A boy and girl, how perfect—they were family! I was never considered family. They were even related to “Howard Hughes!” they would triumphantly tell me, but I wasn’t. It sometimes seemed funny, but the extremism continued and got worse. Howard Hughes?
My Grandmother Alice “Gram,” had exquisite taste, Lil or “Aunt Lil” as my mother referred to her, dressed in smocks stained w grease she wore working at the local Antenna Mill, “Wards Products” along w “Buddy,” her little brother. Her nails were full of black grease and her hands etched w black lines—it didn’t come off. She didn’t shower or bath, but did her hair in curlers each Sunday when she made sauce. It would simmer all day. She would come home from work on Friday w a stack of magazines, 5-6 w a stack of papers like the Star. The covers were often gross. Aliens getting women pregnant; two-headed children, or other grotesque imagery. The violence on the covers of the other magazines always scared me. Women tied up, partially naked, pleading for help, police watching their clothes being ripped off. She would read these all weekend, chain-smoking, handing my cousin a $20 when we asked for anything telling us to leave her alone!
I liked the sauce well enough, invited for dinner, but the chicken she put in it made my stomach turn. It was also the cats she had. It always smelled of cats. I would often b invited over after we moved to the East-end of town. Carmels Diner had closed, my cousins had lived next door to the “Whore house,” my mother called it, threatening to beat-up her new boyfriend Ronnie’s girlfriend that worked there. By this time my mother jumping in cars to go watch or b involved in fights. My cousins had a boxer and we would go there sometimes, but it was often chaotic. By this time, my cousin had molested me and I didn’t want to b friends, but was told I was miss high and mighty and they were family and I was mean to them.
We both liked Photography, getting little disposable cameras, but I was often told we didn’t have money n couldn’t buy film. My cousin always had money n she would want to setup “photo-shoots,” my male cousin by this time 18, he would watch from his bedroom n today I know what he was doing was masturbating, Playboy—lounging across the bed, but I was only 10yrs old then, they often did it together. Being forced to watch, not really sure about what I was watching, wanting to ride bikes or go outside, but she never wanted to go outside. She was a year older and always right. It was her house, she had the money for film and I had to cooperate or the fight would start, usually around me not being family! Then the lectures about God. I was going to hell for being “self-righteous!” I had no idea I was that. I tried to get along w her all the time, but it usually would cause problems when I didn’t do what she wanted. I was the “Prodigal son” the stories her n her Jehovah Witness 1/2 sister told so intimidating—terrifying.
These cousins often told me I was to blame for not seeing their family, which was my family, but it was because I was dirty and it was always so confusing how we were related. My mother wouldn’t let me wash, telling me I thought I was something and thought I was too good. My cousin made a big deal about washing. It was always a contest I lost. She was in the bathroom more, my hair was always dirty, I couldn’t use the bathroom at home without my mother’s rage. I was made to go to the store for her all the time. She had money for special soaps, shampoos, and the boys liked her better. She already had so many boyfriends. She could afford a dermatologist, he wasn’t going to b able to help me, she told me. Surprised, disappointed years later I had no acne scars. My skin problems were my fault. One Summer she spent the entire Summer getting foot massages from a local Doctor, seamy, but it was so very high-end, she bragged enjoying the fact I had to continually wait on her as she told more n more stories about what was going on.
Her stories becoming more cruel as the years went by. Enjoying the cruelty of them n then later telling me her “story,” wasn’t true. Often involved me being promiscuous, but in fact was her. Stories of her having sex w her friends boyfriends then blaming someone else. Slut-shaming was constant, but back then there was no name for this cruelty. My father was a drunk, they told me n I was not wanted, even thought she was selling Pot n wanted me to get into drugs a few years later. By that time, seeing numerous older men before getting pregnant at 16yrs old n dropping out of school. I was putting myself through college, but it never mattered.
I was often forced to give back clothes my Grandmother bought, one time beating me over a pair of white go-go boots that became a group thing when her n Buddy made it so awful I stopped accepting gifts from my Grandmother—it was frightening. She would tell me often we had no money, Welfare wasn’t enough and my father gave me nothing. Why I couldn’t then accept things from my Grandmother wasn’t explained. The family always gave gifts to each other, but not me. My cousins always had money n gifts, but my stuff was often borrowed and destroyed. My cousin a lot bigger than me would borrow things destroy them and not return them, but I could not complain. It was my fault I had no family and they attacked my Grandmother all the time. My Grandmother refused to see these people, but said little about them. They were dirty w the things they said and did and my Grandmother would often tell me they had no class. “Don’t go down into the gutter w them,” she would say if I talked about them too much to try n understand.
We were always “going to court.” My mother would go on about Judge Sise. Then there was Judge Riccio. Court was a very big deal. I came to b terrified of it. Each time we went, I lost more of the life I loved. My Mother becoming more and more violent—“nerves,” she said. She had to go see Doctor Pipito all the time. He told her she had “nerve problems.” She needed more pills. She “hated being a mother,” she screamed. If I I didn’t like the way things were—“there was the door!”—it swings both ways, she would say. I had no idea what she meant and was terrified of her rages that were now constant once we moved in w Buddy. She used to read w me, but that stopped along w so much else. I dreamed of being a Ballerina and was doing so well, but I couldn’t continue when I was told I couldn’t see my father anymore and I could no longer call him “Dad.” It broke my heart to tell him, but I was then told he didn’t want me either—Ballet was over.
I never called Lil, “Aunt Lil,” even though my mother constantly demanded I treat them as family. “Your all the same,” she would scream whenever questions came up about why we had different fathers, which was all the time. The school asked often and I often had to fill out papers for school. We had to go to Social Services all the time now. I was now a “Welfare kid.” It didn’t matter how well I did in school; I liked it, but the fact my mother was now divorced was cause for constant concern. It was often inferred that I now had problems. The first being why my brothers and I had different last names. It was as a constant concern of teachers, but helping me in any other way, like just acknowledging my good grades didn’t happen—it confused me. They were mostly concerned w the gossip about my mother rather than supporting me. I did well, but the stories were constant.
My mother loved the attention. I learned to try and ignore it, often doing as my grandmother would tell me. Ignore them, she would tell me whenever they would try and shame me about it, which was often. My mother would add to the gossip by not doing things she was suppose to. She refused to fill out papers, send cookies or cupcakes when asked or attend anything for school. “She was not a PTA Mom!” and if Miss high and mighty didn’t like it—there was the door! I was miss high and mighty and she called me this all the time. I thought I was so smart, she yelled. I had no idea why she would tell me this. I didn’t know why she was now so angry, but she would say it was her nerves. She had to get her “nerve pills,” then everything would b ok. She would show me the little plastic holder w butterflies all over it. She seemed to fly away like a pretty butterfly.
I was not allowed to call them 1/2 brothers, “The boys” were 1/2 siblings, but she would fly into a rage whenever this was questioned. Buddy was my mother’s new boyfriend, he was their father. They had a father and I didn’t now. My father was no good! My father was a drunk, “went after me one time” as if to hit me and that was it, she had to leave the son of a bitch. I loved my dad and he never went after me as far as I knew, but she had to go to court and there he was wrong. Her n Buddy talked all the time to Judge Sise. Judge Sise was going to set things straight w all this! Towering over his bench peering down at me he knew how bad me n my family were. They all agreed. I felt ganged up upon from the start. A dark cloud following me all the time. My grandmother often also struggling to understand my mothers extreme mood-swings, impulsiveness, and fights she would pick all the time targeting my Grandmother when she wasn’t blaming me. Often shoving n hitting her usually around the Holidays, which were the worst. We would get out all the China, make all the special things in all the fancy dishes and my mother would ignore everyone n talk on the phone the whole time to her new friends. If anything was said, she would start throwing things.
My first memory of Buddy was walking into Carmel’s diner. I look through the dirty door now and remember how big it seemed. I look inside and see the large room spreading in a rectangle to the back. I remember it full of people sitting at the counter—it was packed. I looked up at all the people towering over me, I was 5yrs old, maybe even 4, I could barely just see their backsides sitting on the stools. The walk seemed so long to the back through the crowd. People towered over me. I remember my mother’s hand holding mine, leading me to the back, making her way to see a man sitting at the end of the counter—Buddy.
We didn’t stay long, a few moments, my mother talking to Buddy and out towards the back we went. There were so many people, it had been so crowded. I only recall being there one other time; the bar on the other side. We moved in w Buddy after that and my whole world changed. My mother and Buddy went to parties all the time. My mother in all the beautiful dresses, matching purses, high-heels and stockings. The gloves she always carried and the hats; always the lovely little hats, the sophisticated netting, bits of velvet circles cascading her face. She had all different colors—beautiful clothes, high-quality that exuded class and manners. She was going to b a MovieStar! I was named after Rhonda Fleming. The awful hairdo ‘s she forced on me were like Shirley Temple’s she would say, when singing a Doris Day song. Today, I would say the beautiful dresses, sexy, but back then I just loved my Grandmother and Mother, the manner in the way they moved, talked, laughed; so close they were, but over-time it became uglier and uglier.
Edit: unable to edit this, something wrong w Blogger, will have to edit another time. I apologize, Rhonda
Comments