*A Wrinkle in Time, or Thirty

After struggling with the decision, I find it’s important for me to include this chapter of the story, introducing my mother as an innocent little girl, because until I saw her as one, my heart was often cold toward her and I didn’t quite understand her at all. I always loved her with a hunger and deep aching in my chest and sought after a relationship, a friendship, a comforting mother-daughtership with her until the very end, though I was also a bit guarded and awkward, which always proved to be empty and unfulfilling.

We all begin as pure, irreproachable little children having vast hopes, big dreams, unbridled laughter, and intense inquisitiveness. We go about life and our feelings are hurt, others let us down, we fail, we succeed, we win, we lose, and every last one of those moments, those scars, whether treasure or trash, wind up displayed on our faces as we live and age, like a billboard for all to see, to cherish or to reject.

Expectation and sorrow walk hand-in-hand—you can’t have one without the other. And they shape us into who we become, if we let them.

Excerpt from chapter two | tiny dancer | Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir

*Healthy As An Ailing Horse

Just weeks before our big wedding day, Mother’s Day 2011 to be exact, Shyam and I took Mum to our favorite little Ojai diner, Bonnie Lu’s, for breakfast.

“I just can’t eat any more. It’s so good, but I’m stuffed,” Mum said, her face a bit pained.

“You’ve only taken a few bites. Do you have a stomach ache?”

“It’s more like acid reflux, I think. It burns, kind of like heartburn, but I also feel really full after only a few bites. It’s been like this for a while but the doctor said I’m healthy as a horse! I usually have antacids with me but I ran out yesterday.”

 I found the horsey doctor report hard to believe because Mum had clearly never taken good care of her body, to put it lightly. But who was I to question? I also couldn’t imagine a doctor using the phrase “healthy as a horse” for any patient, even if he was referring to Mr. Jack LaLanne himself. It sounded more like a Nana phrase than anything else and in the back of my mind I wondered if she was making that bit up because she didn’t want to worry us with a negative health report and she surely didn’t want us meddling with her seven plus beer per night habit. I knew after years of her heavy drinking, her liver could in no way be picture perfect and I worried it would one day fail her. I didn’t see how a damaged liver would cause her to feel full after eating three bites of scrambled eggs.

After breakfast, Mum and I headed to our local health food store and I purchased digestive enzymes and chewable probiotics for her, since they’ve been working wonders for me after my doctor prescribed them for my own digestion issues. Surely this would, if anything, briefly relieve her of some pain and discomfort.

If she’d only stop drinking, I thought.

A week later I called her to follow up.

“I’m still not able to take more than three or so bites.”

“Well, have you gone back to the doctor? Something is definitely wrong.”

“She said I’m healthy as a horse.”

There’s that phrase again.

Excerpt from chapter twenty-nine | feelin’ alright | Everything’s Hunky Dory: A Memoir

*Self-Taught Reading & Seemingly AWOL Fathers (an autodidact is born)

Ever the precocious child, having begun speaking months before the developmental standard, I taught myself to read when I was three. I used words such as “fascinating” and “interesting concept,” having no idea at the time these words in particular would later brand me the dreaded “different,” preparing early for bullying. I chose a glossy, ceramic plaque, covered in pastel zoo animals as my first teacher. The animals appeared to be holding up a scroll, which was representative of my birth certificate, or really more of a birth announcement. Welcome home, little girl, and cheers to your new life, per various random, smiling animals hanging on a pastel plaque, forever.

Prior to my special birth plaque being fired, Mum had written my birth details on the ceramic scroll in red pencil. After asking her once what it said and receiving a barely pacifying answer my prematurely logic-obsessed brain wasn’t satisfied with, I began conjuring up ways which I could find out, once and for all, the burning question plaguing me. The ever repeated “Don’t ask me again” taught me if I were ever to be curious, to keep my mouth shut and figure it out on my own—a lesson I’d love to say I’d unlearned today, but can’t honestly.

She wrote the details in cursive writing, which posed as quite the challenge for a three-year-old, but I was confident I’d decode it soon, Sherlock Holmes’ style.

With a crayon and piece of paper, I’d draw the letter I had in mind and ask,

“Mama, what is this letto?”

“That’s a C.”

“What does C sound like?”

“It sounds like kuh. Like cat.”

Next day:

“Mama, what’s this letto?”

“That’s an H, like hu, for house.”

I painstakingly went through every legible letter attempting to sound out each one, putting them together like a puzzle. My first major challenge was sounding out the C and H together as they just didn’t seem to mesh. I’d add the other letters, which thankfully seemed appropriate. “Cuharlees” was the sound of the name I proclaimed to be my biological father’s.

Excerpt from chapter three | look at me | Everything’s Hunky Dory: A Memoir

Paddle Ball With Mum

Why the paddle ball cover art?

“Our relationship became a game of paddle ball—I was the flat paddle, holding still, hoping to connect; she was the red bouncing ball avoiding contact with every sporadic movement, yet attached by an elastic string known as motherhood.”

The type (Zipper) is the same used on the album cover for David Bowie's Hunky Dory, appropriately.

Excerpt from chapter fifteen | changes | EVERYTHING'S HUNKY DORY: A MEMOIR

Thoughts: International Women's Day

Today is International Women's Day. I can't help but think of the many women in my life who have guided me and helped me be my best. One in particular is a writing teacher I had in the twelfth grade, Jeanne Goff.

I was failing miserably. Not that I didn't love writing, in fact, I had found I was falling in love with the process. However, many of our assignments were to be completed at home, an impossibility for me seeing as things at home were, let's just say, rather blatantly dysfunctional. 

Ms. Goff knew this. I could feel it when she looked at me. I'd avert my eyes, but I always felt she could somehow see into my soul. I wondered if she’d once been a girl in my situation. I felt terrible that I would be letting her down by failing her class. And worse, I might not graduate if I didn't turn things around, and quick. 

I approached her at the end of class, just two weeks before the grand graduation ceremony was to commence.

“I’m having trouble writing at home, but I really love your class—it’s my favorite—but I’m failing and scared I might not graduate because of it. Is there anything I can do?”

She took out a slip of paper, jotted down some notes, and handed it to me.

Woody Guthrie

Library

Mr. Hill (Sid)

“Do you know Mr. Hill?” she asked.

“Not well, but I know who he is.”

“Good. Go to him and tell him I sent you. I want you to write a paper on Woody Guthrie. Do you know who he is?”

“No. Never heard of him.”

“Good. Mr. Hill knows a lot about him. He can be a good resource. Also, if you can, tell your parents you’re doing a project that requires making use of the library so you’ll be needing to spend more time at school before, at lunch, and after.”

“OK. Will do.”

The next day, Mr. Hill kindly handed me two cassette tapes of ancient sounding snap-crackle-pop recordings of Mr. Guthrie’s work. This was not the East Coast Rap or Hip-Hop music I was accustomed to listening to. This was old, twangy music, beyond anything I grew up hearing. Harmonica, guitar, mandolin, fiddle, and passion. Loads of gutsy passion.

With titles such as “All You Facists Bound To Lose” I was certainly in for a treat.

I became absolutely captivated by this man. Apparently I wasn’t the only one, as I’d read he was a major influence on Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, and John Mellencamp as well as many other beyond-talented musicians. I read books, listened to his music, laughed, smiled, completely lost track of time, and began to really embrace our required reading assignment, Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, internally. Much of his music covered his personal experiences in the Dust Bowl era, traveling from Oklahoma to California.

Ms. Goff made a giant out of me. I passed the class. I wanted to hug her but knew that would be uncomfortable as I wasn’t much of a hugger anyhow and wasn’t there a law that teachers and students shouldn’t touch? And I had this newfound passion that seemed to trump any fear or stress or dysfunction going on around me. Writing. Research. Knowledge. 

I began listening, really listening to lyrics, and relating them to my own thoughts and feelings. I began dissecting Dylan’s songs and my mind opened.

She likely has no idea of the impact she had on my life, by showing just a little kindness, a little compassion, and a willing heart. Ms. Goff, my twelfth grade writing teacher successfully made a writer out of me.

Happy International Women’s Day! Be kind, change lives!