Those of you who know of my aversion to spongy, sensible shoes will be surprised to learn that I actually did wear tennis shoes to the courts. And I carried my aluminum Sears racquet, with its white fake-leather cover. But that was as far as I went with the real gear. The rest of my getup consisted of tiny Levis cutoffs or long Faded Glory jeans, bare-midriff tops, and a puka shell necklace. Five dollars worth of Maybelline, half a can of AquaNet, a splash or two of Jovan musk oil…and voila! The package was complete. Ann, one year my junior, followed my lead and glammed it up too. We carried our thin wallets, hairbrushes, tiny mirrors, and touch-up face paint in our cheap chunky purses. As we were leaving Ann’s house one day her older sister Debbie remarked, “You girls look awfully dolled up to be playing tennis.”
What did she mean by playing tennis? We sat around on the bench and never once stepped foot on the court. First, we were too embarrassed for anyone to see us run around like the klutzes we were. Second, our shorts were too tight and we risked underwear exposure had we dared bend over to pick up a ball. Third, we couldn’t afford to break a sweat and get Alice Cooper eyes from mascara runs.
Alas, not much came of our tennis trolloping. Once or twice a guy friend would offer us a ride home, but it was never the guy we hoped for. Weren’t we pretty enough, clever enough, or popular enough? Such thoughts would consume our high school years.
I spent those slow small-town summer days of my youth dreaming, wishing, and waiting. An old Rolling Stones song sums up the mood of the time, and warns of the grown-up fears that would greet us down the road.
I am waiting, I am waiting.
Oh yeah, oh yeah.
Waiting for someone to come out of somewhere…
Stand up coming years,
And escalation fears.
Oh, yes you will find out.
Well, like a withered stone
Fears will pierce your bones.
You’ll find out.
Still, I have such bittersweet memories of those simple days — sitting in cool ’70s style on a peeling white bench, with my back to a chain-link fence, wondering if maybe this would be the day that someone would come out of somewhere…to make me feel special…to make me feel worthy…to make me feel that I had something to offer the world. It would take many years, lots of wasted wishing, and dozens of bottles of Jovan musk oil before I realized that soul singer Tyrone Davis was right: what I was out there trying to find…I had it all the time. ME.
Here are the very young Rolling Stones, singing about my waiting days:
© Dana Spiardi, Sept 10, 2014
]]>
So, like the rockers who inspire me, I thank my mom for allowing me to develop my rock persona. On this Mother’s Day, I want to thank her for all the things she never did.
Dear Mommy:
You never told me I couldn’t buy a record.
You never told me I couldn’t read certain books.
You never told me I couldn’t stay up late on a school night to see something special on TV.
You never forced religion down my throat.
You never told me that having a boyfriend or a husband or a child was “the thing to do.”
You never told me to “fit in.”
You never told me I couldn’t buy those $19 jeans that seemed so expensive back in 1973.
You never stopped me from wearing a rhinestone-studded “Sexy Bitch” necklace to school in 11th grade.
You never berated me for those poor math grades.
You never told me what to study in college.
You never made a big deal about money or social status or popularity.
You never encouraged me to join sororities or clubs because it would help me get ahead or find a husband.
You never told me to just ignore the panhandlers and buskers on the street.
And, even if you did tell me to turn down the volume on the stereo, you never told me to turn if OFF. You never closed your mind to the music or the art or the weirdness that I loved so much. You never gave up on me, even during my stoney end days. I love you, Mommy. Happy Mother’s Day.
Here’s a video that I made for Mommy, featuring the music of her favorite performer, Louie Prima: “Hey, Dig That Crazy Chick.”
Dig That Crazy Chick: My Mom, Helen Spiardi from Hip Quotient on Vimeo.
© Dana Spiardi, May 13, 2012
]]>