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.  

From Shallow Roots

The way I live my life isn’t the best way, but it’s my way.  And really the only way I know how. I live life as if I shall never see tomorrow, yet I know not when tomorrow will come.  It’s not like living your life as if TODAY is the last day of your life as that would provoke one to do what they wish knowing tomorrow will never come.   Kiss the girl, take a dare, a chance or a risk.  Jump from a plain for the first time, skydive, quit your job and travel.  Whatever it is you fear to do, do it.  However, for me, I live my life as if any day could be my last, like the impeding dome is just around the corner.  I’ve always felt that way while growing up.  When I was young I used to faint.  I didn’t know why, I just black out.  I assumed life would be short for me, that something was wrong.  I also didn’t feel loved or needed and so who cared if I was gone.  Of course years later I learned it was because I was malnourished and often dehydrated.  Nothing that would actually end my life, but as a child, I didn’t know that.  Then as I grew up, I started to get sharp pains in my chest.  Because I couldn’t afford to see a doctor I was left with assumptions, one being that I had a weak hart and any day it could stop.   It was heartburn and nothing more, again not life threating however, I was already conditioned that life could end any day. 

As miserably, gloomy and depressing as this may sound, there are actually benefits.  I don’t hold a grudge.  I’m very tolerant of things.  I enjoy the little things of life and I try not to dwell on the difficulties it offers.  Why waste my time on such things when in the end, it doesn’t even matter.   I’m not going to “kiss the girl” (Frieda would kick my ass) jump out of a plane or quit my job on a count of I will have to live with the consequences of my actions.  However, I am also not going to burn bridges, become a jerk, do something I would regret or be motivated by wealth simply because I may not have a chance to apologies, fix any burnt bridges, undo what I did or spend the money I made.   I pretty much take one day at a time and assume I shall not see the morning. That’s the way I live my life now and how I lived it as a child.  I suppose because of my shallow roots, I’ve never felt really grounded, as if a strong wind could simply blow me away.   Fortunately, I have Frieda to grab hold of me and keep me grounded

Ignorance Was Bliss-Or So I Thought.

Donte and Louis

As a child I’ve always had difficulties with learning.  Retaining information was a challenge.  My father assumed I was damaged in the head while my Grandmother thought I was retarded.  I didn’t read or write, just watched T.V. when permitted or played with what few toys I had in my room.  Although Donte was three years younger than me, his reading skill were far better than mine.  To keep each other entertained while locked up in our rooms, Donte would occasionally read stories from anyone of his many books.  Even though we were locked in our own separate rooms, Donte and I were still able to talk to one another through an adjoining sliding door.  It too was locked but we were able to open it just enough that we could see each other.  During the day, with nothing to do, he would read and I would listen.

It did bother me that Donte could read and I couldn’t.  I didn’t know why I couldn’t or how he learned how to. In my school I didn’t have a reading class or a writing class and I assumed neither did he.  I tried reading at home but I didn’t have books in my room except comics and a collection of Disney’s Golden Books (Hansel and Gretel was my favorite) but nothing challenging.  I assumed reading just came later in life, like talking or walking-It just happens and for some people it’s a faster process.  I wasn’t one of those people. It wasn’t until I turned 13 that I knew different.   

From the age of 9 to 13 I attended a school that was more a daycare than an actually learning facility. It started off in a small office building with no more than 15 students ranging from 8 to 15 years of age.  As the years past it grew and moved to larger building but not one set up for a suitable school.  There was no playground, just a small parking lot that we played on.  The “cafeteria” came in the form of a public lunch truck that would park near the curb and was opened to anyone off the street.   As far as the classes, we learned to play backgammon, and a few other games.  We also had story time, that is, if someone had something to share, they did.  Reading was not a required subject nor was it considered a necessity and there was a reason for that.



My Classmates from Clearvew
I'm on the bottom right

The majority of the kids at the school had some kind of difficulty, whether it was a learning disability, behavioral problem or a mental handicap.  Because the school was small, there wasn’t really a separation from one level of difficulty to another, it wasn’t uncommon I would be in a class with mentally challenged kids.   However, age did play a part as did performance.  While some kids with greater challenges than I would move on, I would linger behind simply because I didn’t know any better.  I mingled with the hyperactive, the trouble makers and the kids who were unwilling to learn, after all, school was a place for fun and games.  At least that’s what I thought.    

When I turned 13, Dad sent me to my first public school.  Bancroft Jr. High and I was promptly placed in an E.H. program.  By inquiring the meaning of E.H. I learn the term learning disabled.  Educationally    Handicapped is what they called the program, E.H. for short.  I thought it meant Extra Help.  It’s discouraging and depressing to learn you are dumb or as my grandmother would say “retarded.” For weeks I withdrew into a world of silence because of something someone told me,   “It’s best to be silent and let people think you’re smart then to talk and prove them wrong.”   Though no one would have considered me shy before, I was becoming very shy, withdrawn and self-conscious of everything from the way I dress to the way I talked and acted.   I hated that I couldn’t read but most of all, I hated that I was separated from the “normal” students just like I was separated from my family at home.  It was then I decided to pick up a book and read.  The first books I read were children books and I worked my way up to books written from movies, not movies written from books but books like “Rocky” “Superman the Movie” and “The Karate Kid.”  I did that so that I could use the movie as a reference.  I would read the book first then see the movie to make sure I followed along with the character in the book.  If, however, I though the book to hard I would see the movie first then read the book.  That was how I taught myself to read.  Writing wouldn’t come till years later, but that’s for another story.    

 

VIDEO- Do Angels Ever Dream They're Falling

 

This is a video I made using a song written and sung by Ronny Elliott. 

 

"Do Angels Ever Dream They're Falling" 



Darth Vader allowed me to hate Phil Spector

“You never mean to let me down.   But you do. You know, it’s all well and good to talk about happy endings, but if a person can’t deliver, if he keeps screwing up.  Well, eventually I guess you just have to say Fuck You”    Becca Moody to her father from the show Californication

 

Late into the night Dad would wake me up by unlocking my door. It didn’t matter if it was a school night or not, if he wanted company he got it. He would tell me to be in the hallway or downstairs in a few minutes.  Gary and Donte got the same instructions as well.  I would rush to get dress because Dad was in impatient person. He hated waiting for anyone however, a few minutes to him could be anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour.   In that time, he “suited up” as we patiently waited in the hall or downstairs.

When he first unlocked our doors he would be casually dressed.  Cotton sleeveless, hooded jacket with matching running pants and flip flops, his usual attire when around the house, and of course his cotton light blue bucket hat.  He wore it to conceal his thin hair.  He was very self-conscious of his hair, even around us.   He was self-conscious about a lot of things when it came to the way he looked.  Often he used his hand as a shield to cover his receding hairline while talking to us, hardly making eye contact. He was shy, fragile and awkward but I loved him.  He was my Dad.

As we waited for him, the transformation would take place.  Sometimes I dreaded it because I hated the person he transformed into.  Not all the time, but mostly.  The flip flops were replaced by elevated boots giving him a few more inches to his otherwise small demeanor.  He wore dark jeans and a black jacket along with a vest over a rather colorful shirt and tie.  He also wore shades to hide his peering eyes and of course a weave to conceal his balding head.  As for the accessories he wore one red button that read “BACK TO MONO,” a built buckle with his name “PHIL” spelt out in large lettering, and a bottle of Concord grape Manischewits wine.  It was the bottle of Manischewits wine that determined if I was going to like him or not that night.  Without it, he was cocky, arrogant and fun to be around.  With it, he was loud, violent and evil.   For years I hated this person I called Dad, at least until I saw the whole trilogy of Star Wars.  It was then I decided that “Phil Spector” is a disguises.   A character my father manifested into an image he himself would like to be perceived. A figment of his own imagination that became more developed though embellished stories as the years passed.   Like Darth Vader, there is a kind, gentle and yes balding man underneath the dark, menacing suit and his name is Anakin Skywalker.   My true father’s name is Harvey, he is the one I love but “Phil Spector,” not so much.     

Why I paint when I should be playing the piano.

As a painter I think I’m pretty good.  Of course there is room for improvement, but that’s how it should be with all artist.  I haven’t panted anything for over a year, I guess I just don’t have a passion for it, a talent yes but not a passion.  It’s just something I know how to do.  Perhaps, if I had the passion to paint I would be doing it more often.  I wish I learned how to play the piano as a child, that’s where my passion lies.  I remember I used to play the piano in the house as often as I could when I was a teen, but because Dad often told me to play with the foot pedals down, it was hard to really enjoy the sound.  Funny that “Mr. Wall of Sound” didn’t encourage me to play or learn music but rather tried to muffle any desire I might have had.  He did however, send me to a private class after convincing him of my passion in playing the piano.  It wasn’t a prestigious class with a strict teacher disciplining how you should positions your hands before you even hit your first note as much as it was a teacher who taught you how to play “Marry Had A Little Lamb” on your first day and by the second week, “Chariots of Fire” if he liked you.   He had no problem teaching me “Chariots of Fire” because that’s what I wanted to learn, discipline, respect of the keys and correct positions will come later, at least I think that was the plain.   I didn’t last long enough to find out. 

 

Dad didn’t make anything easy for me.  He didn’t spoil me in any way or allow me to live the pampered life that is not only common with the wealthy but expected.  He didn’t buy me things that would benefit me in anyway.  All my art supplies came from my next door neighbor’s generosity.  When I got a job at Taco Bell, I bought my own clothes and school supplies.  Though I was old enough to drive, he would never buy me a car.   I accepted that and never expected anything from him as most of my friends where in the same positions I was, only they didn’t live in mansions in Beverly Hills. So it kind of sucked that I had to take not only one bus to my piano class but two.   And when I missed one, which I hardly ever did, I would end up walking.  The day I missed the class entirely was on a day I felt kind of down. I had already missed the first bus and walking seemed kind of a drag but I ventured forward only to end up missing my second bus because it broke down.   Still I walk forward but only to get to the class an hour late.  Upset, I walked all the way back home.   The next day Dad yells at me for missing a class and then informs me that he had canceled my lessons.   Because I normally felt at fault for all that I did, I didn’t argue with him and just added it to one more thing I wasn’t initialed to.   

Fortunately, painting required no classes.  I didn’t need to take a bus or walk a distance to get there.  Painting was just something I did in my room while listening to music in the background, preferably Mozart on the piano.  Painting was just something I did to clear my mind.