JUST A WINDING WATCH

 

    I thought the world was perfect when much younger than I am today. Of course, I was naïve and didn't understand how it worked.  

        

         During my first job cleaning tables at a fast food place, I was told that a workplace is like a winding watch:  Every job position serves a purpose for the establishment to function properly and effectively, from the janitor to the head of the company.    Yet, regarding a watch, we just focus on the hands, the ones telling us the seconds, minutes, and hours passing by while ignoring all the little pieces that make it possible.  

        

    That was how things work in the world, leaders moving around a system while millions of citizens do their part to support them so that when we look up to the leaders, we feel safe knowing they are each doing their job. But, unfortunately, that is not the way it is anymore.   We, the citizens, no longer work together nor have faith in the system. We no longer trust that what they are telling us is genuine, accurate, or helpful, and they no longer see us as necessities of moving forward but rather inconveniences in the way of progress.   

Sure, some of us want that digital watch that tells us everything from the time of day, the weather, or whatever you ask it., and only requires a few pieces for it to work. Still, others want the simplicity of just knowing what time of day it is; anything else, they can look elsewhere. They can turn on the TV for the weather, look at their map for directions or call a friend, on the phone, for advice.  

Christopher Marlow once said, “what nourishes me destroys me.”  I believe convenience is destroying us all.    Perhaps, we are heading back to relying on the sundial, a device that needs no mechanics for it to work, just the sun and a stick.   However, the day has to be clear and bright for it to work, which is something we no longer have. The human then created a device that required many pieces, it was a work of art, and all it did was tell us one thing, the time, and it worked perfectly.

A Distance Train Approaching

 

There is no train. There are no tracks.  All there is is the fear of what may be heading towards me, along with the certainty of not knowing how to get out of its way. The train is simply a metaphor; the reality of my situation is not.  The idea of the train came from something a friend once told me,  "I've never seen a person get hit by a train they saw coming a mile away." It was his way of saying that problems are easily avoided if you see them coming.   Yet, here I am, standing on the tracks, frozen in place, while a train in the distance is approaching.

            A part of me wonders if I simply gave up. Perhaps I no longer see the point of moving out of the way. Maybe I feel that another train is further down the tracks, and if I get out of the way for one, the other will surely end me.   Or maybe, just maybe, I welcome the train as it’s a means to start over. Forcing myself into a situation, I see no other way out, which is a risk that could lead me to a hardship I have yet to encounter.

I’ve heard the expression “rock bottom,” but until now, or until the “train” passes, I’ve never been in such a dire situation. Yet a part of me feels they are necessities in life. They wake you up and test your courage, strength, and character. I am also not one to be found in a bar drinking my problems away; I’d rather stand on the tracks and face my problems head-on.

For most of my life, I’ve drifted in the direction the wind blew, never really challenging or questioning anything; I just went with the flow. I’ve never been in a fight over something I believed in, never stood up for a cause, or wandered the streets looking for salvation. I envy those who have because, along the way, they found themselves. Not all of them, as some got lost along the way, but some of them.  

My dilemma is: If an opportunity to get out of the way presents itself, should I take it? Or should I stay grounded on the tracks, risking my future by testing my courage, strength, and character?  

When the time arose, I did not choose the latter. Instead, I played it safe with a bit of resistance.  I don’t think I’m the kind of person who would come out stronger; I fear I would be the kind of person who would break, give up, and take shelter behind the covers.  Perhaps I’m wrong, but I am not brave enough to find out, or perhaps I’m just smart enough to get the hell out of the way of an oncoming train.   

I DON'T HAVE A MOM, I SHOUTED

 

Being a foster child, I started my first few years moving from one family after another, and after a while, I had no idea if any of those families I stayed with were my parents.   During that time, I learned not to attach myself to anyone or any place, especially knowing my time with them would be short, perhaps a month or a week.

Because I was slow in understanding how things work or the relationships between an adult and a child, I didn't understand the word "MOM." Nor did I know what one was.   I had assumed it was a title you call the female grownups that look after you. So, it wasn't unusual that I would refer to my teachers as "mom" in elementary school.

By the time I was officially adopted in 1975, I was nine years old, and the only parent I had was a father. Initially, when I first arrived at the house at the age of five, there were two parents, but unfortunately, six months later, they divorced. So, having a mother lasted only six months, and I hardly saw her during that time.  

A few years later, during recess at school, when the topic came up regarding "mothers," I somberly announced, "I don't have a mom."  "Everyone has a mom!" one of the kids retorted back.    Feeling the need to correct him, I spoke up and said, "well, I don't!" Getting in on the conversation, another kid then asked, "then who gave birth to you?" Feeling that he had resolved the issue, he crossed his arms in victory.   Angerly, I stared at him, then said, "A lady gives birth. A mom is someone who loves and hugs you; I DON'T HAVE A MOM!" I then stormed off.

Of course, I knew I did, as I imagined her watching over me while growing up and assumed she had perhaps died while giving birth. But in school during Mother's Day, I thought otherwise. It saddened me to see all the other kids with their moms, showing off their work, and talking about what they did while I was sitting at my desk, eagerly wanting to show someone my projects.   Not even my father cared to attend those events, so I felt alone.

One day, desperate to have a mother, I even brought my toothbrush to school with the idea of going home with one of the mothers who was picking up their child. But instead, they brought me back to the receptionist, where I had to wait for my governess to pick me up. She would then drive me back home to a motherless family with a father who was hardly around.  

Because I never had a mother, I never had a girlfriend, at least not until I met the current lady I am with. Although we met when I was 21, I’m happy to say we are still together 35 years later. Also, I learned that my mother is alive, and I had met her, but I had difficulty calling her MOM. I eventually reconnected with the lady who I had only known for six months, and oddly, she considered herself my mother, and because she was the closest I had ever had to having one, I guess I did too, especially during Mother’s Day when I sent her a card. Unfortunately, she has since passed away, and there is not a day that I don't think about her. 

It's odd, but in the 14 years I lived with my father, I grew closer to the lady I had only known for six months and became happy to call her "Mom."    

Game Nights with My Father, AKA: Nights When Not Locked Up

Game night wasn’t on any specific day; it was just whenever dad was in the mood and usually late into the night.   Prior to it, I was locked up in my room, as were my brothers in their rooms. Being locked up was just a standard occurrence, something we were not only used to but expected. The doors would be unlocked about an hour or so prior to being called downstairs to join our father for a game of pinball or pool, but until we heard our names being shouted from down the hall, we remained in our rooms as if they were still locked. In a sense, we were conditioned or perhaps trained like domestic pets as we knew not to leave our rooms until the calling of our names.  

Like the three chimes from a dinner bell, “ding, ding, ding,” we hear the call in the form of our names, “Gary, Louis, Donte,” and we are off as if we were starving but not for food, but rather for attention like a young pup hurrying over to their master to be petted. 

It was only at that time, once we were in the hallway obediently standing in front of dad, we realized it was Game Night as we were instructed to go downstairs to join him in a game of pinball.   Because my twin brother and I were three years older than our younger brother, we always won at whatever game we played; of course, the same went for dad as he was much older than us, and therefore, he always won. Between my twin and I, Gary always won as he was a bit more skilled at playing games.   

Though the pinball machine was just below the stairs, we were not permitted to use it unless dad was around, so the only time we could practice playing was when we went up against our dad, who had many years of practice which guaranteed him a win. It was the same with a game of pool; however, the pool table was in the library, a room we were not permitted in unless accompanied by dad. In fact, each room of the house had its separate quarters behind closed doors, the living room, dining room, library, and even the kitchen, and none of them my brothers and I were allowed in without supervision.

Our rooms were the only place in the house we were permitted, so even if our doors were left wide open and unlocked, we would still have remained in them until the calling of our names. So, of course, we were always excited whenever Game Night came around, as it was a rare opportunity to spend time with our dad when he wasn’t entertaining his guest.   On those nights, when entertaining his guest, we were mostly just in the background, sitting on a couch or at the bottom of the steps anticipating our dad to call us over. Sometimes it was to occupy his guest while he was upstairs getting ready; other times, we were there to amuse them as if we were merely jesters in a king’s castle. Unfortunately, though, we were often sent back to our rooms because we were not good at it.   Game Night, however, was just our dad and us, so I always looked forward to those nights even though I knew I would lose.       

The SPECTOR "ghost"

Phil Spector 

 He’s a ghost 

    He’s a phantom 

        Some say a legend

            And that to know him

                Is to love him

 

Seen creeping in the moonlight

Lurking in the shadows

    A zombie by daylight

        Heading for the gallows

Surrounded by grounds  

    Foreboding and unhallowed

        Protected by a “Wall of Sound”

            While imprisoned within his castle

A complexion so sallow

    A heart so shallow

        Looks like Ichabod Crane

            From Sleepy Hallow

He’s a wraith   

    He’s a demon

        I would even say,

            He lost that loving feeling

There’s a tune that comes to mind

    Engraved on a tombstone that bares a rhyme

        It’s a phrase that hunts his soul

            For a man, he’ll never let go

Engraved for all eternity, it reads:

    “Father-husband” and the famous words

        “To know him was to love Him.”

I wonder…

    Would I engrave such words

        When he’s six feet under?

 

 

FOR MY FAMILY, MY DOOR IS OPENED, BUT NO ONE IS KNOCKING.

art by Caragh Geiser

            I’ve never been one to hold a grudge, hold anyone accountable for their actions or allow any lack of judgment to hinder any future relationships, especially with my family, at least not for any actual length of time.   Depending on what they did or said, it usually took no more than a few hours or days until I was over it. Family, though strangely, I’ve never had a loving one, has always meant something to me. Perhaps it was the many sentimental T.V. shows I watched, the family movies I saw, or the Norman Rockwell illustrations popping up everywhere representing what a family is supposed to be like that might have created these false illusions in me.

There is also the possibility of my desire to belong, understand, and forgive. As a foster child, I learned early on what rejection was; though I didn’t fully understand it completely, I nonetheless felt it. By age 5, I had started to withdraw, observe, and keep quiet. It was not necessarily out of choice but rather out of circumstances; I was slow, dimwitted, or, as my grandmother would say, “retarded.”    So, of course, I would pick up the most straightforward representation of what a family was supposed to be, meant to be, and what I desired it to be, and that is what stuck with me throughout my entire life, regardless of the family I actually had. 

Words or a means to express myself didn’t come to me until many years later, but by that time, I was so far behind that my father gave up on seeing any potential in me, and I gave up on caring, connecting, or communicating. I was simply just a passenger in the back seat along for the ride with no real direction, say or worry, just going where the wind blows, where the road travels, and where faith took me.     Just like the 5-year-old child I once was, sitting in the back of a station wagon while a social worker drove me from house to house until I came to the one that would finally have me.

For my entire life, I had always been that 5-year-old along for the ride, watching the street lines zipping by on highways, byways, and winding roads leading to my next home. I suppose I grew up being taught that nothing lasts forever, but because of my strong desire to belong to a family, I refused to believe that, despite my family constantly reminding me. 

Understanding more than I should about abandonment, rejection, and failure, I made a promise to myself to always keep my doors open to my family, despite their flaws, critical judgment, and cruelty. It is because I was not a fast learner of life, such as my siblings were, that I can leave my door open.   Call it naivety mixed in with all those sentimental visions of Norman Rockwell’s depiction of a family that keep me the way I am. Regardless, they are my family, and I love them, but it’s been many years since I last saw them. Still, my door is always opened to them, at least until I no longer can remember, and we become nothing more than strangers with fading, distorted memories of a time long ago, back when we were family.

Made of Stone

 

At 15, I taught myself how to read, at 16, how to write. Those things were a monumental task for me to achieve, especially since I had been considered brain-damaged by my father, learning disabled by the system, and “retarded” by my grandmother.

There were no expectations for me, whether small, large, or great expectations; no one expected me to learn anything except for George, an all-around personal assistant to my father.    

For five years, from 9 to 13, I was placed in Clearview,  a school that was more of a daycare center than a facility for higher education.  While there, I did not once open a book to learn to read.  I did not need to, as it wasn’t a requirement at my school, which wasn’t much of a school.

It wasn’t until I was sent to a real school, Bancroft Jr. High, at the age of 14, that I realized reading was something I had to learn and not something that just happened naturally, like walking or talking, which also presented challenges for me. 

Born with a hearing deficiency, my speech wasn’t anything less than incoherent words scrambled together in an inconsistent pattern that made no sense to anyone. The difficulty I was unaware of was that I could not decipher particular sounds or separate speech from noise quickly enough to understand what people were saying, which proved to be challenging in a classroom full of rowdy kids.

However, once I heard the term “Learning disabled” and addressed as such, I felt embarrassed and ashamed, especially after being placed in a program for the educationally handicapped, E.H. for short. 

That realization of not being like the other kids made me decide to teach myself how to read at the age of 15. Of course, I wasn’t completely illiterate; I had prior reading training before my father gave up on my education and any potential for my future. I was very familiar with the many adventures of Dick and Jane, along with their very playful and friendly dog Spot, while my 12-year-old brother was just reading about the many adventures of Tom Sawyer and his best friend, Huckleberry Finn.

Frustrated and feeling defeated before even attempting to learn to read, I approached George and asked him an earnest question, “Why am I so stupid?”

He sat me down and started talking about clay. He explained that a child is like soft clay, easily molded and shaped. As the child gets older, he becomes increasingly harder to teach if he isn’t first taught the basics, just like soft clay becomes increasingly harder to shape and mold when it is no longer soft.  

“For whatever reason,” he said, “You were not taught early on, and through the years, your brain hardened, and therefore, it is no longer going to be easy for you to learn.”

Disheartened hearing that as well as discouraged, George then asked me if I was familiar with the statue of David by Michelangelo.  Having visited a few museums, I was vaguely familiar with the statue, at least enough to answer his next question: “What is it made out of?”    “Some kind of stone,” I told him, not understanding what David had to do with my struggle to learn.

“Correct,” he said, “to be precise, Marble. Yet, with the right tools, Michelangelo was able to carve out David.”  He then explained that I needed the right tools because, according to George, though I was no longer soft clay, I was still capable of being chiseled into a work of art; it’s just going to take a lot of dedication, patience, hard work, and, of course, the right tools, starting with the right books to read, which, according to Geroge, was McGuffey Readers, a series of books that helped him learn to read when he was a child.

The following year, I embarked on the journey of teaching myself how to write. Although I more or less resemble the Moai statues of Easter Island, known for their massive stone heads, rather than the graceful form of Michelangelo’s David, I believe I have exceeded my initial expectations and achieved a great deal. 

 I've not been on this page in a while.  I've just been reorganizing and updating it for the last few days.  I will be more active in the days to come.   

Introduction

My name is Louis P. Spector. I am in the process of writing a memoir about my time spent living with my father, a well-known record producer. I was not raised by a mother, just my father, along with my two brothers and the house manager/bodyguard/chauffeur. His name was George, and he was the one who taught me about life. At an early age, I had a speech impairment and learning disability, making it hard for me to grow up. I didn't learn to read until I was 15. Until then, comic books were all I had, the easy ones like Richy Rich, Casper, and Hot Stuff. My younger brother, who was three years old, would read to me on occasions from my other comics, such as Spider-man, Batman, and Superman, on the count of them being too advanced for me to read. My other brother, who is also my twin, often annoyingly corrected me whenever I mispronounced or misused a word, and he was rather stubborn about it. I was not born into the family, something my grandmother often reminded me of, but instead adopted into it, along with my twin brother. We were five years old at the time and presented as gifts during Christmas.

The purpose of our arrival was to save a marriage. Unfortunately, it didn't work out, and six months later, we were without a mom. From that day on, we spent most of our time locked up in our rooms whenever at home. From early on, Dad knew there was something off about me. He assumed I was "brain damaged," and because of that, he felt any education would be wasted on me; fortunately, however, George saw potential in me. He encouraged me to read, keep focused, and be a better person. His approach was direct and stern, like when he taught me how to swim. He threw me into the pool's deep end, where I first learned how not to drown. My memoir is about my unorthodox upbringing, my struggle to overcome a learning disability, and my estranged relationship with my father. Though I grew up in a family of 4, I grew up alone in what I call the Gingerbread House of Beverly Hills, located on the winding road of LaCollina Drive.