By the time we moved into our new home in January of 1963 I had come to understand certain rules of life. Dad was in charge and what he said was law. Brother was very smart and talented. He was a walking mini-dad. Math, science and music were like second languages to him. Mother had no opinion on any issues. She believed what dad believed. She voted for whoever dad told her to vote for. Money was secret. The only rules I knew about money were never touch dad's wallet and always save 10% of your income. Boys had more privileges than girls. Boys were to help dad in the yard and girls were to learn housekeeping skills from mom. Dad went to work and earned all the money. Mother worried constantly about everything. Worrying seemed to keep things in order for mom. Boys were to go to college and become professionals. Girls were to go to college and find a husband.
By now I had also learned I had no aptitude for certain things. School was as boring as dust in my opinion. I wasn't learning anything I wanted to know. I did well in certain subjects, English and recess. I had no ability for math. I could memorize and recite poetry or prose with just a couple of reads. I could interpret the written word. I could memorize a song in a heartbeat. To this day I still know lyrics to obscure one-hit wonders. Multiplication tables on the other hand sounded like a foreign language to me. I could not memorize them to save my life. To this day I cannot recite them. The entire math concept escapes me. When we were little brother and I always had to "half" sodas, cookies, candy bars, sticks of gum, etc. One day brother "halved" a candy bar for us. He took the biggest half and laughed and laughed about it. I went stomping into the kitchen to explain to dad that brother had taken the biggest half. "No such thing", said my dad. "Half is 50 percent. He may have taken the biggest piece but half is half". Had I known the word obtuse I would have used it. This was a question of fairness not math! This got to be a common issue for me. Everything equated to a math or science lesson to my dad. I wanted justice.
Then came the day that put a permanent rift between dad and me. At the age of 5 I began taking piano lessons from dad and brother's teacher. Her name was Q'Zella. She brought new meaning to severe looking. She was a great pianist, the best teacher in town according to some. I started playing little exercises like everyone else. Q'Zella would play the piece, explain the notes on the page and the student would read the music and play it back to her. I did that. Except for the reading of the music part. I could watch her hands and play what she played. I had enough rhythm that I didn't need to know the time signature. Those notes on the page just seemed to get in the way of playing. This worked great for two years. Then the pieces got more complex. One evening I was practicing a piece and dad yelled from the kitchen, "your missing a beat, play it again". I played it again. He walked up to the piano. "Count this measure". He pointed at some notes with flags and dots and rests. "How many beats do you hold this note?" I had no idea. Given time I could count the lines and spaces on the staff and tell him the notes but that was the extent of my music reading ability. I could tell by the look on his face he thought he fathered an idiot. He shook his head and walked away. This became a ritual with dad and me. I would prove to be stupid and he would walk away.
I thought I was in the wrong family. We were not close. We did not have fun we merely survived. Brother seemed to be above us all. I had the impression he too felt like was in the wrong family. He should have been born to wealth and class. I just wanted someone to have some faith in me. Someone to think I was special. I needed to be reassured that indeed I had some ability. Instead I was the dummy. I was the wanna be. I learned to just be quiet and stay out of the way.
Thank God for the family across the street. The Macs. I met the kids shortly after we moved. I met Jeff first, he was a year younger. Then I met Callie, she was two years older. We eyed each other across the street for a while and finally made the step to be friends. When I walked into their house it was like going from black and white to technicolor. This was a family. They obviously loved each other. Mr. and Miz Mac enjoyed their children. They laughed at the silliest things and encouraged fun and frivolity. They accepted me like their last child. I don't know if Jeff and Callie's parents could read my need but they made me feel special. They thought I was funny! They totally got my stupid jokes. They talked about life issues. Miz Mac had opinions. On everything. Theirs wasn't just a house to me, it was a haven. I could be myself, no judgements. I think I relaxed for the first time in my life.
Free at last, free at last. Thank God almighty across the street I'm free at last.
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