Then Again - Diane Keaton [13]
Playing with Death
When I was ten we moved to Garden Grove for six months. Dad rented a house with a rock roof. The man and woman who owned it were brassy. She had bleached-blond hair, and he owned a bar. Dad called them “alcoholics.” I’d never heard that word before. It meant they drank a lot of liquor. Dad said the landlords were slobs. He was right. The house was a mess, but it had four bedrooms and two baths. It was the biggest house I’d ever seen, way bigger than the blue stucco house he had moved in a truck to Bushnell Way Road in Highland Park. The kitchen had swinging doors, like the ones in Gunsmoke, starring James Arness. Dorrie and Robin shared a bedroom. Randy, who was eight, had his own room, like me.
One day Robin was playing with friends in the backyard. I wanted to join in, but nobody cared, especially Robin. I decided to take one of the ropes from our swing set, wrap it around my neck, and pretend I was hanging myself. When Robin ran past me without so much as a nod, I started to make loud choking sounds. Surely that would make her come to her senses. But, oh no, she kept on playing. So I showed her. I slumped my head over the rope even farther, gagged as loudly as I could, took a deep breath, let out a scream, and died. She never noticed.
With my face knotted up in tears, I ran inside and told Mom that Robin let me die. She looked at me and asked why did it matter so much whether they played with me or not? Death, even a pretend death, was not the way to get what I wanted. It was not a game. In her face I saw what I hadn’t seen in Robin’s. Concern. The truth is, I would have done the whole stupid thing over again just to have her wrap her arms around me so tight I could feel her heart beat.
Mom’s empathy was bottomless, an endless source of renewal. I can still see her sipping her afternoon cup of Folgers coffee while I sat across the kitchen counter in some form of distress. It was a scene we would relive in endless variations throughout the years. Her message was always the same. “Don’t be so sensitive, Diane. You’ll show them one day. Go for it.” And, like clockwork, even if I failed I kept going for it, not only because I longed for validation but also because I wanted to come back to her and that kitchen counter for as long as forever would last.
Those days were terribly puzzling, especially when I became aware that Robin had no interest in playing the part I wrote for her or that alcoholics drank stuff that made them bad people, much worse than Willie Blandin and her bad cigarettes. But the worst, most bewildering, awful thing came the day Daddy took it upon himself to tell me I was about to become a woman soon. A woman? Was he crazy? I ran to my bedroom, slammed the door, and threw myself on the bed facedown. Mom came in a little later and said I was going to love being a grown-up girl. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but I was disgusted. I didn’t want a period, whatever that was, or breasts, or hair in my privacy area, like her. I didn’t want to be a woman. I wanted to be me—whoever that was.
Bloody Sunday
Easter Sunday was as important and exciting as Christmas. The beauty of the day, so big in the world of Christianity, was never given much play. Instead, we were told in long-winded sermons about the cruel crucifixion of Jesus Christ, our savior who died on the cross, shedding his blood to save us … ME. I could never grasp the meaning of this idea. Our hymns were burdened with words like: “Washed in the Blood of the lamb.” “I’m saved by the Blood of Christ.” “He shed his precious Blood for me.” Blood, the big symbol, meant absolutely nothing to me.
Easter meant one thing, a complete new outfit. Mother would begin making my dress early. My favorite was a pink ankle-length gown with a deep ruffle on the bottom and at the neck. We all bought new shoes and new hats. All the ladies and young girls in their springtime finery would parade around the grounds of the old Free Methodist church. It was