Whore, me?...February 18, 2009

Whore.

In my high school years, my policeman father was prone to say to me "You look like just a whore of a girl" Always nice to hear from your dad.

He was strict, and frequently critical of me, the oldest child, and much his chagrin, a girl. My younger siblings were both boys, and basked in the adoration and attention of my dad, while I was the butt of frequent jokes ("OK, Larry, now don't throw the ball like your dam sister")

Teenage rebellion started slowly with me. I was working so hard to be what my parents wanted me to be until I was a sophomore in high school. I had several (although infrequent) boyfriends, and then I started seeking one in particular. He was a nice boy, a little older than me. A musician, he played trumpet in a band that was sort of like Blood Swear and Tears, and had a motorcycle. Not some Harley either, it was a Honda with swept up pipes on the side, a scrambler.
Dad hated him.

He would always make him park his bike in the street, even though we had a three car driveway that was always vacant, since all the cars( and a lot of junk) were in the garage.

This friction eventually was vented on me, especially when I migrated from Mod to hippie. (for those that don't know what mod is, the mod subculture a "fashion-obsessed and hedonistic cult of the hyper-cool" young adults -think Austin Powers).

Rich was into wearing clothes that looked "cool", and I started wearing things like miniskirts and bizarre paisley blouses. Then I stopped wearing my hair in a pixie, and grew it long. I started going to school in bell bottom button fly jeans, boots and a paisley blouse...and maybe a string of beads around my neck. And yes, a flower in my hair.

As Rich got closer to being out of high school, we started worrying about him being drafted. Nixon had gotten elected, and although he had pledged Peace with Honor, instead the war had grown.

This concern on our part, young lovers that we were, culminated in one fall day Rich coming over and saying we were going to the city (San Francisco) to protest.
We rode on his bike down there, to Golden Gate Park, and listened to speeches. I got a flower painted on my face. Then we marched.

When I got home, dad asked where i had been all day, and instead of the usual "oh here and there" I got fiesty and said “We went to protest the fucking war...”
SMACK, the hand across my face, followed by the words "You dirty little whore".

It brings back tears even now. So there it was, the turning point in my young life.
From that day on, I always had a seed of doubt about the love my dad had for me.

As a consequence, I spend my first three years in college studying psychology, trying to understand why parent child relationships are often so difficult. I eventually gave up on that pursuit, and refocused on graduation , and going into the world of work. But the thing is, I to this day have a difficulty accepting unconditional love. My first marriage ended when I discovered my spouse having an affair, and I have asked myself many times if this only reinforced the urge to isolate myself from unconditional love.
I ask myself this even today, after being with my honey 28 years.

Years later I would realize that my dad, under the psychological pressures of his job, had become what is referred to as a functional alcoholic, which explained a lot of his mood swings. Mom says he never really meant it, and he was very proud of me.

Too bad I didnt understand that as a teen...