I would just like to mention that, in 1994, Carrabba's was not yet the big mega-chain restaurant it is today. Back then, I believe there were only two locations, both in Houston. I saw the owners there every time I went, which was about twice weekly for several years. It was truly a family-run place.
24 May 1994: (Carrabba's) At the next table, a floridly made-up woman with coal black hair (colored?), New York accent, speaks very loudly. Her voice has that particular brand of huskiness which comes of too much loud talking and raucous laughter in noisy, smoky places. She has informed her more sedate dinner companion that she's going to get him drunk. I'm not entirely sure he's pleased with the prospect.
Had nothing to eat so far today except Reese's and Kit Kats. Will forego dessert. Seems wise.
A new crop of waiters here which has evolved over the past few months, but now they all know me. It's pleasant here at my regular sunny table next to the window, the waiters waving and calling me by name.
The loud woman is still laughing and saying that everything reminds her of her mother; I haven't yet been able to hear her companion's answers, which perhaps are so low-pitched in order to compensate for her loudness. They're obviously regulars here—Spencer-the-manager has just greeted them heartily. Funny that I haven't seen them in here before.
She emits a husky chuckle, five staccato eighth notes; lips, generously coated with crayon-red lipstick, form a grossly exaggerated heart around large teeth.
The room is half-full now, most of the patrons in the non-smoking area (of course). Men in ties and shirt-sleeves, their jackets stashed away in their Beamers, women with their manicured nails and carefully chosen jewelry speaking to each other over open menus which they do not read. They only read them when the waiter comes to take their orders. He stands with his hands on the back of an empty chair while they hem and haw and try to decide between ordering something healthy, or eschewing their "look how healthy I am" competitive personas and ordering what they really want.
25 May 1994: (again at Carrabba's) No loud-talking New York woman today. A pair of very old women in white, one has lost half an arm, poor thing. And the ever-present men in ties and shirtsleeves. I'm very hungry and it's been a trying day.
I've been thinking a lot about my childhood lately. My early musical career. I entered my first competition when I was in the fifth grade, and gave my first solo recital at age 11. The first vocal recital I played for came a year later; it was with my junior high choral director, Mrs. Klier, for the Tuesday Musical Club, and my fee was $25. I remember some of the program: she opened with Brahms ("Botschaft," "Vergebliches Ständchen," a couple of others); there was a group of early Berg, both arias from Floyd's Susannah, and Norina's aria. Big stuff for a 12-year-old.
Mrs. Klier is one of the few teachers that remain in my memory in a positive way. She was young (25), good-looking, was always fashionable in an unconventional way (to the amusement of the other teachers), and she wore a different wig every day. She was an excellent director, knew how to handle us kids, and we all adored her. When she left to have a baby, it was a huge calamity in our lives; we shed gallons of tears, but managed to send her off with a wonderful baby shower. I gave her a yellow blanket with matching rattle. She had a daughter, Tiffany, a beautiful dark-haired porcelain doll of a baby with enormous eyes.
When we did Carousel in 1990, I was pleasantly shocked to see that "little" Tiffany was one of the dancers. Yes, Mrs. Klier had said that she wanted her little girl to go to ballet school. And there she was at that first Carousel rehearsal, still the dark-haired porcelain doll with those enormous eyes.
26 May 1994: I took out my songs and poems, just to look again. They raise the question: why was I such a creative child? What made me write all those songs, some of which astonish me with their depth? Why did I start keeping a journal?
Despite coming from a large family, despite my good friends, I was lonely. There was always turbulence inside me—I see it in my lyrics and the few poems that I still have from childhood; I hear it in the tapes of my playing. How well I remember the ever-present sense that I didn't belong, that no one liked me. Certainly no one really knew or understood me, just as no one knew or understood Alice. So I suppose, with all those songs and poems and my journal, I felt—still feel—a tremendous need to leave something behind that would explain everything. To whom? Doesn't matter. To someone. Anyone. Everyone.
My family don't know me. They don't know me at all. I love them, but they don't know me. Maybe if they all outlive me, they will read these things and come to understand the Leticia they never really knew. And I will be a real person to them, instead of this eternally young, irresponsible, floundering little girl who never married.
When I was very little, before I started school, the most vivid memories I have are of being afraid. A big dog would pass by, and my sisters would hide me because I was afraid. They would take me to the playground and were puzzled and exasperated because I was afraid to get on the monkey bars or the big stone animals. When I started school, one of my sisters always had to take me to the bus stop because I was afraid to go alone.
I was convinced that everyone in my family liked my friend Caroline better than me. She was very pretty and friendly and fearless. Everytime I liked a boy, I was convinced that he liked my best friend better because she (whoever it was at the time) was prettier, blonde, blue-eyed; she could talk to people without trembling; she wasn't afraid.
I never felt accepted, popular. My music was such a blessed refuge. People liked me when I was onstage; I earned their respect and admiration; I didn't feel ugly and awkward and unwanted. Yet when my parents wanted me to play for "company," I always refused, or, if I complied, I did so very reluctantly. "Company" could never appreciate or understand the specialness of my music. I couldn't bear the stiff smiles and half-hearted compliments with which they tried to mask their ignorance and indifference. They were too close; I needed the stage. I just couldn't bear their patronizing "company" smiles. Those people just didn't know, they couldn't know. I wanted sincerity. Don't say you like me when you really don't.
What brought all this on?
No comments:
Post a Comment