My Earliest Political Statement

To be truthful, I do not remember this story AT ALL.  It is family lore and has been told to me many times.  Keep in mind; my mother's memory is both selective and creative ... so I cannot vouch for the accuracy of this story. I was December 1970 or 1971. My father, after completing his duty in Vietnam flying Med-Evac helicopters, was flying Marine Corps One for President Richard Nixon.




The White House was having some sort of Christmas party for the staff. It was a candlelight tour of The White House. Knowing my Mother and Father, I am sure that they spent all day getting ready.  My Mom with her hair rolled up in rollers the size of soup cans, except for her bangs, which were taped to her forehead with that pink tape everyone used back then. She probably used enough Aqua Net that night to make her own personal hole in to ozone. My father, in his office, with his groovy music playing on his big reel-to-reel stereo system, polishing his medals and bars. His already perfectly starched and ironed dress blues would be hanging by the door. I am sure that Francis, my heavy-set, black nanny, had scrubbed me up and made me sit still and play quietly until we were just about ready to leave. Right before my parents would leave, she would put me in a clean diaper, stuff me in my starched dress and set a big bow with scotch tape to my nearly bald head.


I imagine that the white house was beautiful. The entire house decorated for Christmas, pine boughs, red ribbons and white twinkle lights placed throughout the building.  Tables of hors 'd orderves and sweets displayed meticulously as staffers went by and tasted the fare. The time came for my mother, father and I to greet the president. The story, as told by my mother, goes something like this:


"Your Father and I took you up to see the president.  He was smiling and seemed very excited to meet you.  Your father introduced me to the president and I shook his hand.  He told me you were a very beautiful baby and then outstretched his arms to hold you. I handed you over to the president; he sat down on a settee and set you on his knee. He was smiling and talking to you, you were smiling and drooling (you were teething and a drool factory at the time) and then all of a sudden, his face changed.  He lifted you up and handed you to me. I noticed a wet mark on his pants where your butt had sat. The president excused himself and I took you to the bathroom to change your diaper. When I came back from the bathroom, your Dad was mortified and the president was wearing a different pair of pants. That is the story of when you peed on President Richard Milhous Nixon."

Toddler Race Relations

After finishing his second tour in Vietnam, my father had been assigned to fly Marine Corps One for President Nixon.  It was a prize assignment for my father, but it meant that my mother and I would be moving out of California for the first time in our lives.  My mother was far from being a southern belle and was having a hard time adapting to being an officer's wife. Virginia in the early 1970's was culture shock to my mom, "the Orange County surfer girl".

We had only been living on base for a few weeks when I informed my mother that Englishmen were moving in next door.  First, she wondered how I knew they were English.  Second, she questioned why Britons would be living on an USMC military base. I was insistent that they were Englishmen and my mom decided to go outside and investigate.

She took one look at our new neighbors and figured it out.  The "Englishmen" moving in next door were not British they were African American.  In my short life, the only black people I had met was Mr. and Mrs. Smalley, our British neighbors. I had assumed that all black people were from England.

A few days later, I was in my kiddie pool in the front yard.  One of the new neighbor's sons came over and got into the pool with me.  I got out.  So he got out.  I got back in.  He got back in.  I got out again.  He got out, came over to me, dipped his arm in the water and wiped it against mine and matter-of-factly said; "See, it don't rub off."  After that, he and I became fast friends for the rest of our stay in Virginia.

My Third Step On The Slippery Slope

Step One

Step Two

From birth until age 10, I wasn't exposed to a lot of cursing in my home. My mom didn't curse, my stepfather didn't curse and aside from that one time at Christmas, I didn't curse. Then my parents split up. My mom had caught my stepfather cheating on her. Something in her changed from the mother I was familiar with, she became a disco dancing, smoking, wild woman.

One night, we came home to find that my stepfather had broken into the house and taken half of everything. Half of the food. Half of the linens. Half of the furniture. Half of the tools. Half of the Christmas decorations. If it could be divided into two, he took half of it, save for my belongings. My mom was livid. She got on the phone and started yelling at him. After about 10 minutes of screaming she yelled, "YOU PRICK!" and hung up.

I didn't think anything of it. So a few days later when some stinky boy stole our ball during a two-square game, I hollered, "You prick!" as I ran after him. My teacher was on yard duty that day and he called me over immediately.

Mr. K: "Michele, What did you call him?"

Me: "A prick?"

Mr. K: "Do you know what that means?"

Me: "It's like a poke with a needle and you can call someone that when they steal stuff."

Mr. K: "Where did you hear that?"

Me: "My mom called my Dad that the other night when he stole her bed."

Mr.K: "Well, that is a grown up word. I don't want you using that anymore, ok?. I am going to call your mom today."

Me: " Ok."

Six months later, my life changed dramatically. And so did my vocabulary.

She Put In Her Five Years, Then I Was On My Own.

My mom read to me EVERY day for the first 3 years of my life. After that, I had memorized most of the words and would "read" to her for the next two years. By the time I started elementary school, I was a pretty advanced reader and I loved doing it. I would bankrupt my mother with the monthly Scholastic Book orders. She eventually restricted my book orders at school, but would take me to yard sales and book sales once a month and let me pick out as many books as I wanted for $15.00. She never monitored what I was reading, she was just glad that I enjoyed it.

In 5th grade, we had a special time in class called SSR (sustained silent reading). We could read anything we wanted. I brought my books from home. I was reading my latest garage sale book and came upon a word I did not know. I went up to my teacher and asked to use the dictionary. He asked why and I said I didn't know what a word meant in my book and I wanted to look it up. He asked my what the word was.

I replied "Phallus".

All the color drained from his face and he calmly asked, "What are you reading?"

I replied, "The Exorcist".

He said, "Does your Mom know you are reading that?"

I replied, "Yes, she bought this book for me on Saturday."

He gave me the dictionary. Later he gave my Mom a phone call.

When Misha Became A Potty-Mouth

It was Christmas Eve, 1974 and I was one month away from my 6th birthday. My Mom, Step-Dad and I were making sugar cookies to leave out for Santa. We were getting near the end of the batch and the dough was starting to stick to the cookie cutters. I was getting very annoyed. I was shaking and shaking the cookie cutter, but the cookie wouldn't fall out.
That is when I said "Fucking cookie!"
My dad said "What?"
I said, "Fucking cookie won't come out of the cookie cutter"
My mom said "WHAT DID YOU SAY?"
At this point, my dad is turning bright red; shaking and starting to sweat, he was doing everything in his power not to laugh.
I said "Fucking cookie."
She interrupted me and said "Michele Marie! Where did you hear that?"
I replied "Anatoly."
She mutters "Oh that little commie bastard!"
Now, here is the back-story:
I was going to Kindergarten at a very "hoity toity" private school. My mom and Step Dad were paying big bucks for me to get my basic kindergarten education along with the "hoity toity" additions of: Art class, Ballet class, Swimming class, Acting class, Foreign Languages, Etiquette classes, Cooking classes...the whole "hoity toity" package.
I wore a plaid skirt, blue blazer and saddle shoes to class every day. My family wasn't rich, my mom worked extra to pay for my tuition. But the children I went to school with...Well, their folks were rolling in the bucks. Anatoly, the aforementioned "little commie bastard", was the son of the Soviet Consulate General, or something important like that. My mom and Step Dad, being ULTRA conservative, were not pleased that he was my classmate. This was just the ammunition my mom needed to try and get this kid out of the school.
She stewed all Christmas, she started to boil around New Year's, by the time school started again...She was white hot. We arrived at school early; my mom met the Headmaster at the door. She started off well, talking calmly, telling him how our Christmas was scarred by the education I received by Anatoly. Apparently, she did not get the response she liked from the Headmaster. Because what I heard from behind that closed door was my mom, screaming;
"I BUST MY ASS TO PAY FOR THIS PRESTIGIOUS SCHOOL. I WANT MY DAUGHTER TO COME OUT OF THIS PLACE EDUCATED. I DIDN'T SEND HER HERE TO LEARN GUTTER LANGUAGE FROM SOME LITTLE COMMIE BASTARD. YOU BETTER FIND A WAY TO FIX THIS. I WANT THAT LITTLE COMMIE BASTARD...GONE!"
The meeting didn't go the way my mom planned. I finished the year at the school and the next year I was put in Parochial School. It was there, in first grade, where I learned what a "BONER" was.
My mom just couldn't win.