What Happened to Yesterday?

When did my struggle for self-awareness and identity begin? I think in 1960 at five years-old when I learned of my adoption...and experienced Disneyland for the first time.

Until recently, my past history has had a very firm grip on me. There are many reasons for this, but I believe the first seed was sewn when my parents told me that I was not their son, rather, the child of a woman who placed me in a foundling home on the outskirts of Chicago in 1955. 

I first heard the story of my adoption after we had moved to Alhambra, CA. My parents, Barb and Bill; my little sister Beth and me were driving down the Santa Anna freeway on the way to Disneyland. It would be our first visit to the Magic Kingdom. 

Bill and me had matching blue and yellow plaid cotton shirts that Barb had made from a thin paper pattern on her Singer sewing machine. I always insisted on sitting behind Bill; fascinated by his ability to operate the car. Barb was wearing a black and white polka dot sundress and black, cat eye sunglasses. 

Her lips were painted red that day.

It was summer and our car did not have air conditioning. Barb insisted that the windows remain up in order to preserve her hair style which called for massive amounts of Aqua Net hairspray. But the heat wasn't the worst of it. They were both heavy smokers. Bill liked Chesterfields and Barb switched between Kent and Salem. The combination of heat and smoke made the ride unbearable. To survive, I would crack my window just a sliver, place my lips on the narrow opening and take deep breaths. The air made a whistling sound, so, it wasn't more than a few minutes before Barb heard it and admonished

me, but on this specific morning she said nothing about it. Instead, she rubbed her cigarette butt in the dashboard ashtray, turned to me and asked for my attention.

"Billy," she said, "Please listen closely. I have something to tell you."

Bill erupted. The car swerved and his Chesterfield fell out of his mouth onto his lap. He began slapping at it, "Goddammit, Barb! I told you that we weren't going to do this! Not now!" 

Barb had clear, light blue eyes. They were as friendly as could be, unless she was angry. Then they flashed like swords. I was getting used to them fighting. They yelled at home all of the time and whenever we went anywhere as a family in the car, a war always broke-out, usually over Bill's driving. Navigating the southern California freeways made him nervous. He always maintained a position in the far right, "slow" lane and drove at a low rate of speed. Everyone passed us, often honking; and this disturbed Barb to no end. 

"Drive the car! I don't give a damn what you think!" She returned her attention to me. "Billy, are you listening?"

"Yes, Mommy."

"Mommy and Daddy love you very much, but you are not our son. Do you understand? You are not our son."

What does a person know about themselves at five years-old? I loved trains. The only memory I brought from Illinois was waiting with Barb at the local station for Bill to arrive home from Chicago in a train pulled by a huge steam locomotive. I loved music. I listened to all of the records in our house and I chose my first 45 single at that age. I liked building things with Tinker Toys and Lincoln Logs. And I loved watching Captain Kangaroo and Bozo the Clown on TV. So, I don't know why I didn't cry, or start screaming. My reaction wasn't alarm. It was curiosity. Somehow this made sense to me.

"What happened to my real Mommy and Daddy?" I asked.

Bill chimed-in, "Now what are you going to say?"

"Well," Barb began, "They were in a terrible car accident and they died. Then, you were put in the foundling home and later we came to take you with us...to be with us, like you are now."

"Why wasn't I killed too?"

She hesitated, then grabbed her purse and started digging through it. 

"Because...you weren't with them. You were somewhere else." 

Barb found her Salem's. She pulled one from the pack then depressed the car lighter into the dash, tapping her finger on the stem while it heated. She turned back to me with a harsh stare. 

"The point is, we came to the foundling home because we could not have a little boy of our own." "Why not?"

Now Bill laughed, "What do you have to say to that?"

Barb took a long drag to ignite the Salem. She held in the smoke and then blew it at Bill's face.

"Because...God wanted us to have you. So, when we were at the foundling home they took us to a window that looked into a big room that was filled with cribs...cribs with baby boys in them."

"What happened then?"

"Then your father and I both pointed to your crib at the same time and told the people that we wanted you. And that's what happened. Do you understand?"

I imagined the part where they both pointed to me. It made me feel special. 

"Yes, Mommy, I understand."

At about this time we pulled-off the freeway. Traffic signs pointed to a street that led to Disneyland's entrance. Hundreds of cars were converging from every direction, each determined to pass the next. Bill rolled-down his window and began cursing loudly. Then he pumped the horn. Barb swung her attention back to him.

"Just follow the damn signs and don't hit anybody!  How hard is that!?"

"D****t, Barb! I'm trying to concentrate!"

My sister Beth had been sleeping next to me the whole time. The horn woke her up. 

"Bethie," I said, "We're here! Oh, and I'm not your brother, I think."

Then came Disneyland.

If you have never visited Disneyland as a child, I really don't have another experience to offer you as a comparison. Perhaps a really good LSD trip. I've had a few of those, but I couldn't describe any of them, whereas, Disneyland made a permanent imprint on my psyche. It truly was a Magic Kingdom: That which was real and that which appeared to be real.

It was a spectacular setting, a whole new environment within the world I drove through to get there. The park was vast in dimension and wondrous in scope. Inside this huge bubble were perfect, small towns and grand attractions from the past, the present and the world of the future. Rides took you deeper into a daydream of elaborate sounds, colors and creations of all kinds: mechanical moving animals and people that talked, wildly painted walls depicting scenes from Disney stories with objects peeking through them or swooping from the sky. The car you rode in would tip and turn and dip and dive while the light schemes and design angles changed everything's appearance as streams of steam stimulated your body senses. It was amazing.

There was a submarine and a pirate ship, motorcars, rockets called Monorails that flew sideways on a single track. You could hang in a bucket way up high and twist in a teacup until you thought you would die. I even flew on an elephant. Snow White lived in the Magic Castle. Once each hour she would emerge and wave to everyone. Huge cartoon characters, bigger than Barb and Bill, bounced all around and would hug and squeeze you if you had the courage to allow them. And there was a snow-capped mountain called the Matterhorn that I was inspired to climb. Shoot, I may have been in a trance during it all. 

Time ceased inside Disneyland and when Bill said that we'd had enough; that we had to go home, I nearly ran to hide. Leaving the park was more devastating than a week without TV. I begged to stay, but all I heard was, "Traffic, traffic and more f*****g traffic!" or something like that.

And so, we left in the Dodge, me in my place behind Bill with Bethie at my side...The windows rolled-up and Barb and Bill firing-up as the same cars we came with all maneuvered like racers to gain best position for entering Interstate 5.

I remember looking out the window, watching the cars pass as Bill took his place in the slow lane, as Barb demanded an explanation for his insistence on doing so; I remember realizing two important facts from that day. The first: I was not like Barb and Bill. I was like two people that were dead. And the second: I didn't want to live in the world of Alhambra anymore. I wanted to live in Disneyland.

This desire for fantasy over reality has influenced my entire life...A life just like a Disneyland ride: Up then down; over then under; hold on tight and embrace whatever comes because, in the Magic Kingdom, nothing bad ever happens. We're all happy and free. 

I've searched the world and my soul for a reality like that and I've searched for magic kingdoms to live in, but they're not out there, not really. Art and music and movies and writing and love bring me close; as close as I can get. But the daily world has always been a monumental challenge for me. Like climbing Disney’s Matterhorn at five years-old, I've always reached beyond my limits to accomplish something wonderful. I've had some pieces over the years but never the whole puzzle. I think now though, at 62 years-old, typing away in my little apartment south of Denver, Colorado; that I may have the right elixir. 

And like that first day at Disneyland I have realized two things recently as well. The first: I cannot allow anything to divert me from writing Stubborn Road. And the second: I only need enough money to survive. And that is just fine with me.

 

Reviews

[Delmar Cooper]

I think you should keep writing and start with rewriting the first paragraph. The story rockets after I get past that one. That paragraph is informative, but it ain't streamlined like those that follow.

[Will Harcourt]

Thanks very much. I agree, the first paragraph stumbles into the rest. Thanks for the heads-up.