A page out of my book-The Gingerbread House on LaCollina Drive-Her Gilded Cage

Chapter Two:
Her Gilded Cage

(A page from Chapter Two-unedited version)

 

               

               

For the first few weeks, I dreamt about my mother, she had no face.  Standing in a doorway she waved to me, welcoming me back home.   Excited to see her I make my way towards her but the closer I feel I’m getting, the further away she became.  I started to run out of panic but she is gone before I reach her. Not giving up, I continue to run as fast as I could until I find myself looking out from the back window of a familiar car.  Below me I see the street lines zipping by taking me away from my mother.  I felt trapped and restricted.  I began to bang on the window hoping to brake free screaming “I WANT MY MOM” but the station wagon keeps on driving away. I hear Mrs. Erickson’s voice from behind me as she drove in the car. “You’re the problem, I’m taking you away” was all she said, over and over again all I hear is “I’m taking you away.”  It echoes in my mind and I just want it to end I want to escape and so I go back to banging on the window with all my might, until it shatters into a thousand fragments. I than find myself falling, and I see street lines zipping by me faster and faster until I awaken.

 

            Although Gary was next to me in bed, I felt alone and sad.  It wasn’t the first time I’ve had that dream, but each time it seems my mother is going further away and her face is becoming more unrecognizable. I could no longer remember what she looked like, and wonder if I even ever knew her. Something else about the dream that up till then I tried not to think about, her waving to me.  For a long time I thought she was waving hello, that she was welcoming me back home but perhaps she was saying goodbye.

                In the passing weeks at the house, I began to address Mrs. and Mr. Spector as Mom and Dad. The Christmas decorations were all gone, all that remained was the tree, stripped of its ornaments and lights as it stood neglected wilting away.  When it was nothing more than a lifeless tree brittle to the touch, it was thrown out. A trail of dead pine needles leading out the front door was all that was left behind, until Mr. Bill, the maintenance man, vacuumed them away.

                Mom was often lost in thought, with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of wine in the other she often gazed out the window, longing for some kind of freedom.  She felt trapped and alone. Her singing career was on hold so she could raise a family, only she couldn’t even do that as that job was also taken from her. Once a lead singer in the group The Ronettes, singing songs such as “Be My Baby” she was slowing becoming like the Christmas tree, wilting away, stripped of her glamor and sparkle.  It was too much too soon, a mansion in Beverly Hills, three kids many dogs and all in a short amount of time. Though she seldom left the house, she hardly seemed present.  Even if in the same room she was somewhere else, detached and alone.  The only thing that awoke her from her trance, was the sound of Dad’s voice screeching through the hallways calling out for her and promptly she went. Her only escape would be signing up to Alcoholics Anonymous. Weather she felt she needed it or not, was not the concern, getting away from Phil Spector was.

A Page Out Of My Book-The Gingerbread House on LaCollina Drive-Caged Behind the Wall of Sound.

A painting I did of the house I grew up in.

Chapter One:                       
A Pair of Twins for Christmas

(This is just the first page from Chapter One-an unedited version)  

      Her name was Mrs. Erickson but I called her mom. As a foster child, I called a lot of people mom. Mrs. Erickson was actually my social worker.  Her job was to find me a family with the hopes that one may actually adopt me; however, I wasn’t alone. I also had a twin brother and Mrs. Erickson thought best to keep us together.

Gary, though 30 min younger than I, took the role of older brother. He protected and looked out for me. He even talked for me. Though having hyperactive tendencies, I was often quiet. I didn’t talk much due to a speech impairment. It seemed no one could understand what I was saying, no one but Gary, witch I’m sure is why Mrs. Erickson didn’t want to separate us, as I was completely dependent on him. Other than having a speech impairment, I was also slow. I didn’t learn as fast as Gary or any of the other kids our age. It’s one reason why I not only called Mrs. Erickson “mom” but all my teachers as I really didn’t know what a mom was. To me it was any lady who looked out for me, read stories to me and pretty much hugged me when I was feeling sad or stood up for me when all the other kids laughed at me for doing something foolish, such as calling teachers “mom.” As a foster child, with little understand of the world around me, I had no idea what parents were but Mrs. Erickson was desperately determined to change that as the years for us being adopted were quickly running out. At the age of five, we had already been to many homes and would be families but with no luck.  However, Christmas was just around the corner and things were about to change.

The Spector’s were a family on the verge of separating. They had already adopted one child in the hopes of keeping their marriage going. Donte was only a few months old when adopted but it was kept secret as Mr. Spector wanted everyone to believe that he was born into the family.  To do so, he had his wife hide a pillow under her blouse whenever friends came by giving the illusion that she was pregnant and handed out births announcements weeks before his arrival.  Because Donte had the same mulatto skin tone as Mrs. Spector, no one questioned it. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to keep the marriage going so three years later in 1971 Mr. Spector decides to adopt another child but all that was available in such short notice was five year old twins.

Mrs. Erickson looked optimistic as she drove Gary and me to our next home-located in the town of Beverly Hills-a dream place for any foster child. The road was LaCollina Drive it was a private narrow road a short distance from the Sunset Strip. Minding the speed bumps, Mrs. Erickson drove her station wagon up the winding road as I gazed out the window exploring my new surroundings. Some of the houses were half hidden and nestled behind foliage and walls blanketed in vines while others were out on display with their elaborately manicured gardens and cobblestone entrances, not at all like the simple stucco built tract homes that I was accustomed to. What was missing were the sounds of kids playing around or any indication that there were kids at all. There was no unattended bicycles or footballs waiting to be thrown. All I heard was the sound of dogs barking in the distance.

Further up the road I saw an elder lady sweeping her porch. She had snow-white hair and upon seeing us, a kind and warm smile. She stopped and waved at me as we drove further up the road. Once she was out of sight, I turned my focus to a long chain-link fence covered heavily in ivy with signs warning us about guard dogs and trespassing.  We followed the fence until we came to the entrance where other signs were displayed. Although the wrought-iron gate was wide open, the signs warned us about entering.  Electric fences and killer dogs were meant to keep us out, but Mrs. Erickson drove in anyway and according to a sign... at her own risk.

Two guard dogs greeted us at the entrance while viciously barking at us from within their cages where they were further restrained by a heavy chain attached to a metal pole. As Mrs. Erickson got out of the car, leaving us inside, she saw one more sign before ringing the doorbell. It had a picture of a gun pointing right at her and read "NEVER MIND THE DOGS BEWARE OF OWNER."

My Memoir, A Journey I Travel Alone

It’s true I have a story to tell, a fascinating one at that, unfortunately, I’m not a story teller.  I wouldn’t even consider myself a writer.  What I do is just jot down my thoughts, opinions and the memories I have from long ago.  A writer is not someone who write words, it’s someone who actually paints a picture in your mind.  They take you were you’ve never been before and create a world you’ve never seen.   They provoke a feeling simply by the words they use.  If you close your eyes, you can envision the place the writer had taken you without ever being there.  You can cry, laugh, feel angry or love for someone you’ve never knew and follow them on a journey without ever leaving your home.   That’s what a writer does.   What I do, is just tell you in words what life was like for me as a child.  I can’t show you, I can only tell you.  I can’t take you on the journey of my life, I can only tell you about it.  For those who still want to call me a writer simply because you’re being kind, then you can also call me a doctor simply because I put a Band-Aid on a cut.  I know, I’m being a little cynical but you understand what I’m trying to say. 

The cover of my book. It's a painting I did
of the house I grew up in.

As far as writing my book: tentatively titled “The Gingerbread House on LaCollina Drive,” it’s a personal project I took upon myself to do.   I took it because I was told I couldn’t do it but it was me telling myself that.   I often tell myself what I can’t do because I was preconditioned to do so. I grew up in a family where support was replaced by ridicule and criticism.  There was never a pat on the back for a job well done but rather a quick reminder that I will never be as great as my father, let alone deserving to be his son.   My Grandmother was a harsh and cruel lady who often reminded me of three things.  1-I was retarded.  She based that upon my speech impairment derived from a hearing deficiency I had while growing up.  Also, I lacked the understanding of things around me.  I was a simple child, sensitive and quiet feeling trapped in a wall of distorted sound and unprovoked animosity.  The 2ed thing my Grandmother often reminded me was that I was adopted.  “You are not a true Spector” she often told me and because of that, which lead to the 3^rd thing, I will never be as great of a person as her son.

The purpose of me writing this book is a simple one: prove to myself I can.  However, like most of

us, I’m haunted by voices of my past telling me otherwise.   I do not write this book because of who my father is.  I do not write this book because people want me to and I certainly do no write this book to make money.  I’m writing it because I honestly think I have an interesting story to tell and the story I have to tell is a simple one:  Don’t let your limitations limit your dreams.  Don’t let your family dictate who you are and above all, don’t stop believing in yourself.  Life is what YOU make it- work with your limitations don’t use them as excuses.   Of course, it’s easier to say these things then actually do them as I’m still struggling to write a book that I’ve started many years ago.  Personally, I wish to hire a writer, it would be so much easier but it would be cheating myself out of a challenge I took upon myself and it would be cheating you out of an honest book.  Too many “celebrities” take the easy way out and hire someone to write their story for them.  I’m not saying it’s wrong, I just feel the need to do something different, something truer.  Of course once the book is done I will hire someone to go over it because as much as I would like the book to be in its truest form, I also wouldn’t want the person reading the book to have to endure all my misspelled words, incomplete sentences, overly long winded paragraphs or my unclear  descriptions.   In the end, when I’m done, it needs to be a book I’m proud of.  In other words, it will be done when I feel it’s done and because I’m not a writer, that may take a while but it’s a journey I need to take alone and the way I write, it’s a journey that the reader can never join me on, but I’m more than happy to tell you what it was like while growing up with my father and how I broke down the wall of  sound and found my voice.

The Awkward Conversationalist

I’m not big on talking. I find myself rushing through conversation as if I need somewhere to be, somewhere other than talking about whatever’s on your mind.  I don’t engage in lengthy conversation and I’m not comfortable with familiarity when it comes to acquaintance at work or in places I shop.  It’s not that I’m stuck up or think no one is worth my time, it’s that I don’t know how to comfortable talk to people.   As a child I never really built up my social skills, hardly had anyone to talk to outside of my home.  I also had a speech impairment and because of that, people found it hard to understand what I was saying.  I grew up thinking no one wanted to talk to me.  They would rather talk to someone who knew what they were talking about then a child who couldn’t be understood.   As an adult, I still feel the same: that the person I’m talking with would much rather talk to someone else.  I wish I could change it, but at my age, I am who I am.  It’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks.   I feel awkward, nervous and fearful.  Scared that they will see the child whose words failed him.  Scared they will think that I do not know what I’m talking about.   Also, around the time I feel a lengthy conversation is on its way I jump ahead of myself and worry about what we are going to talk about next, or if there is anything to talk about at all.  What if I draw a blank, say something stupid or the topic changes to politics, sports or the meaning of life?    What do I say?  It’s just so much easier to excuse myself and leave yet, I wish to talk. Perhaps my desire to play Grand Theft Auto is not so much for the pleasure of the game but for the company of strangers talking to each other.   

Today a lady talked to me, a casual conversation that normally ends before it really begins as my body motions let’s her know I need to be doing something else.    When I thought the conversation over I moved further away, only to be brought back by her continuing interest in what I had to say.  She was sitting down, waiting for her food, I was on her right side, then her left side but never in front.  In front is reserved for the people she would be interested in actually talking to such as her peers or friends.  Not someone like me.   She sat alone expecting no one and waiting for no one.  She just likes to talk. I try to make it a point not to talk about my father, but truth be told, he’s my security blanket.  He’s who I talk about when I fear I’ve got nothing more to say, when I think the person is losing interest.  I hate that I do that, but it’s a habit now more than anything.  It when someone walked by that she got up to say good-by to them when I took the opportunity to leave.  It’s not that I wanted to stop talking to her, I just feel more awkward when left out, as if I’m no longer needed, as if it’s my cue to leave.   Only, I wish it wasn’t like that. I wish I wasn’t so awkward around people or that I believed enough in myself that I felt I was worth there time because though I give the illusion that no one is worth my time, truth be told, it’s the other way around.   

  

Oh, What A Tangeld Web She Weaves

I don’t like Rachelle.  I wanted to be as creative as I could while addressing her, but I just can’t.  I simply don’t like her.   I was thinking of approaching my thoughts on her by comparing her to Mr. Oz, the man Dorothy thought to be a great and powerful wizard only to discover a normal little man behind the curtains.  Rachelle Spector is that façade.   She would have you believe in things that are not true.  For one, her relationship with my father.  Yes, it’s true they are married, however, she volunteered for it when Dad’s first choice declined.  The purpose of the marriage was meant to create an image.  Why would a married man invite a lady into his house and then kill her?  It was also meant as a distraction, keep our thoughts on the good (Phil Spector getting married) not the bad (Phil Spector is a murderer). No I’m not saying I believe him to be guilty, the general public is. What the marriage wasn’t based upon was love.  There was not a meeting of the minds were they talked about religion, politics and music. There was no love at first sight.  It was all a strategy to change the general perception of Phil Spector at the time.  Anyone who knew the truth was quickly shown the door.

Of course Rachelle had some terms before she agreed to anything.  She wanted her first album to be produce by Phil Spector or at list have permission to use his name.  What was probably going through my father’s mind at the time was “let her believe what she wants, once I’m free her ass is out the door.”  Things didn’t go as planned for my father but for Rachelle they couldn’t have worked out more perfectly. 

The first thing for her to do was separate her new husband from his friends and of course his family.  She had me removed from the family side of the courtroom so it would seem I was against my father as I sat with the supporters of the Clarkson’s family.  She also had my father believe my brother was selling one of Dad’s old records to make money off his name when in fact, Gary was just bringing the item in question to our father’s attention.   Furthermore, she claimed I testified against my father when in fact, I did not. 

How she was able to do all this?  It’s easy, my father is a very paranoid person to begin with.  It was his closest friends that usually protected my father and guided him.  He looked to them, George Brand mostly, for insurance of his actions.  Without them, my father did whatever he wanted not thinking ahead.  Had George been there, he would have told Dad “Shut the Fuck Up” but without George, Dad said whatever he wanted as often as he wanted usually ending up putting his foot in his mouth.   

Rachelle took an opportunity of an old man she knew was heading to jail.   And now, she would have all you believe she is a famous person with much titles to her name.  In each interview she did, she did not hesitate to inform the public of her pilot license that she got so that she could visit her husband at list once a week.   What she didn’t know was that planes have a tracking device on them.  If you don’t set it on private, you can follow a person’s flying path.  By doing so, I realized she doesn’t fly as much as she would have you think she does, and she hardly uses her plane to visit her husband, why would she when she can fly to Las Vegas instead. She has since changed her sittings to private but I’m sure her flying patterns have not changed.   Also, according to her Facebook page, she has more than 45 thousand fans but the majority live in Egypt.  For those who didn’t know, you can buy “fan’s” and “likes” on Facebook.  Yes it’s going to cost you a pretty penny, but she has more than enough of Dad’s money to do so. 

I could go on about her lies, but I think you get the point of why I don’t like Rachelle.  She is not the person she would have you believe she is, but I can’t blame her entirely.  Dad plays a part in all this, he just doesn’t know what part that is.   

this is just a video I made.  It is my perception of how I see Rachelle Spector

A Family Divided

 

 Though my family is not a strong bounding one, there was a time when I thought that would all change.  I believed, or wanted to believe, that Dad would come around and invite us all back into his life.  Though he is the reason for the lack of bounding within the family, he is also the only common interest that brings us together.   Each of us are separated in our ways, our beliefs, morals, tolerance and perception.  If we were not family, we would not be friends-though at one time I would like to think we were.  Other than our Dad, we don’t have much to talk about as we don’t share the same interests.   The only kind of bound Gary and I have is our blood and because of that, we’ve stayed together but we are like night and day.  I’m sure Nicole and Phil Jr. would have been the same, a part of me feel they still are though Phil Jr. passed away many years ago.  I don’t think death is ever the cause of separation from the one you bound with, it only means you have to reach deeper inside to feel there presents.  Now don’t get me wrong, I love each of my brothers and sister very much, I just don’t feel connected to them.   Gary with his love for all things technical, Donte with his life’s experience of drugs, living off the streets and the darkness that life as to offer, and Nicole for her flair for bohemian eccentricity as a writer.  As for me, I’m the realist, the idealist and the recluse.  If I were to look through my brother’s eyes, I would describe myself as having a superior complex, very preachy, and fully arrogant.  I’m cold, detached, and don’t have a clue.   That’s the way I feel they see me based upon past conversations we’ve had.  To a degree they are right but that’s only because I’m tired of them using their past as a crutch through life.  I may be wrong, but I get tired of talking to them about our past as if we are still living it.  I’d wish they would let go, move on and be happy.   I hardly ever hear Nicole talk about her father, in fact, I think she would like to live a life separate from anything “Spector” and all Gary, Donte and I are to her is everything “Spector.”   I respect her for that and applaud her for it, if that in fact is the case.  However, I don’t respect her decision to completely ignore us, though I could understand it. 

 As much as I wish they would let go of their past, or at list get a grip on it, I do not want them to let go of the family, and the same goes for Nicole.   I feel I’m the only one who takes the time to read there post, check on them through Facebook, blogs, tweets, or whatever pops up when I Google their names because as much as we are strangers to one another, I very much care about each of them.   Unfortunately, I feel this relationship I have with my siblings only goes one way.  For them, my door is always open but for them to see me differently, they have to let go of the person I once was. I’m no longer the passive, weak and easily manipulated child I once was.   And I understand that we each have a different of opinions about our father and the circumstances, but it would be nice if we gave an effort in finding another common interest than the one we have with the man who separated us.



Finding a Voice

Before February 3^rd of 2003 I was a silent voice and my father was considered the greatest producer of all time.  It’s a personal opinion I know, but one that many in the music business and fans of music have shared. For as long as I could remember, Phil Spector was the mad genius of Rock and Roll and the man behind the Wall of Sound.  Some thought that was a big deal.  To me, I knew the darker side of him but I stayed silent.  Who was I to disagree, argue, challenge or condemn such an icon?  

Eccentric was the choice word when it came to my father.  Often used as an “excuse.”   “Oh, your father is just eccentric, that’s why he carries guns around” or “that’s just him being eccentric, you know he loves you.”  But after February 3^rd of 2003, when Lana Clarkson lost her life, that word slowly faded away and I began to find a voice.

At first I stayed away from any press though they were knocking at my door so-to-speak.  I did that for two reasons: 1-I didn’t trust my voice.  I’ve been silent for so long that I didn’t trust myself not to become the Niagara Falls of information.  2-I needed first to hear it from my father.  To hear him say he didn’t do it.  I didn’t want to hear it from anyone else, not his lawyers, his friends and certainly not the public.  It had to be him and him alone but it bacame his turn to be silent.

There was also a 3^rd reason I kept to myself.  A personal one that involves the family.  It seemed some were eager to talk, be heard and express themselves and for justifiable reasons.  A part of me, the selfish part, waited to see if Dad would scorn them, berate them and disregard them as spoiled, angry disturbed young men whose sole intention was that to destroy their father.  I also wanted to see if Dad would use their words about him to justify his silent treatment towards them- and the only way to do that was, someone had to remain silent.   For one year I said nothing but our father treated us all the same.  Not one of us heard a word from him.  Not a word of his innocence or guilt.  It didn’t matter if we spoke against him or spoke not at all about him, we just didn’t matter and I wanted to prove to my brothers that keeping silent wouldn’t make a difference.

 

 

When I did decide to speak, it was the first day of his trial.  Before then, no one cared who I was or what I had to say, or so I thought. I, along with Frieda (my lady friend) were waiting in the hallway just outside the doors leading to the court room.  Reporters surrounded us, not knowing who I was.  It felt like some kind of reunion, as each seemed to know one another.  Hands were shaken, praises were given, and the recognition between them was obvious.   I was the stranger in the room attracting a small amount of attention.   Perhaps they were thinking I was a family member but that was quickly proven false when Dad walked passed me as if I was a stranger to him.  It wasn’t until the two closed doors opened once again to let a few select people in, that I thought it would be best if I let the person know who I am as I didn’t want to miss my father’s first day of trial simply because I was mistaken for a fan or a morbid person who just loves a good murder trial.  Though I quietly introduced myself as a family member, my words passed though the ears of the reporters pushing against me hoping to persuade the lady at the door for a spot in the court room.   As the lady disappeared to check if I would be considered important enough to attend my father’s murder trial, more eyes were on me.  Notepads were being used and the room became silent.  Perhaps it was in my head, the fear, the judgment or even the attention was all in my head but non-the-less, my heart was pounding as if I was just about to go on stage to perform a play and I forgot all the words.  Then a lady approached me, handed me a card and said “If you want to talk…” and then left.  After that, another person handed me a card as they asked “Are you one of the kids?”  I answered as I took their card and placed it in my pocket with the other card.  Suddenly I realized that people wanted to hear what I had to say and a part of me wanted--no, needed to talk.  It had been many years since anyone cared to hear what I had to say.  I only wish it was my father ears I was talking to, but his ears have been closed to me ever since I was a child trying to find a voice.