Kids from the New York tri-state area crammed into back seats of family cars for the annual summer pilgrimage to Catskill Mountain bungalow colonies. The mostly family owned “resorts” swelled with middle class Jewish families seeking relief from brutal summer city temperatures. Siblings interlocked like hand-crafted puzzle pieces to make room for supermarket cardboard boxes packed with sheets, and pots.  Dented cartons were the containers used to transport  household necessities  to recreate the comforts of home in tiny rented summer cottages.

Catskill Mountain bungalow colony

Arriving safely, without being  harnessed by seatbelts, the soundtrack for the hours long drive was “Are we there yet?” At least one of my three siblings always fell asleep, at least one of us got car sick, and all of us annoyed my parents with our incessant chatter. Notwithstanding, the journey, my family rejoiced in spending summers in the country.

“Tighten Up” by Archie Bell and the Drells was number one on the charts in the summer of 1967 when I learned to dance. I was eleven. My mother, two sisters, baby brother and I left for the months of July and August, leaving my dad home alone to fend for himself with two towels, a box of cereal, a container of milk, and all the quiet of an empty house. In our own way, each of us experienced an uncomplicated carefree vacation.

Dad’s Chair

Our childhoods unfolded in the ten years my family spent summers upstate. My sisters and I learned to swim, shoot archery, and play volleyball there, things we would have never learned in Brooklyn. In between playing sports and roasting marshmallows at campfires, I came face to face with my newly developing feminine wiles.

Summer fun, roasting marshmellows

Little girl becomes a woman

I also learned to talk, or not talk to boys. Learning to flirt was a big part of my summertime experience.

Two Teenage Couples Learning About Love

The short window between day camp ending, and being called home for dinner found all the emotionally reluctant boys, and curious girls hanging out together in the enormous bungalow colony clubhouse. Late afternoon sunlight created the illusion of nighttime, and made us feel like grown-ups.

The Music We Loved

Girls sprawled across the jukebox listening to Mony Mony by Tommy James & The Shondells, and music by the Boxtops; sometimes we fed the machine a quarter to play a wistful Lovin’ Spoonful song. Girls encamped on one side of the room, boys staked out on the other, pretending not to notice each other.

Painfully Obvious

Boys thrusted their hips against mighty pinball machines, fervently pressing flippers in hopes of influencing the balls trajectory, questing to win a free game, and earning bragging rights.  Day after day, week after week, pre-teen boys and girls fumbled through being together, desperate to conceal painfully obvious crushes.

Drum majorette inside a classic pinball machine

Many evenings after all the kids had been fed, the wistful  husbandless moms met to play mah-jongg or Canasta. My sisters and I would promise our mom that we would watch our younger brother, but we esentially ignored him, and spent the evening listening to the playlist of a New York top 40 station with a barely audible signal. We swatted mosquitos, ate ice cream, and practiced dancing, thinking about  standing next to a cute boy at  flagpole assembly the next morning. My sisters and I fell asleep listening to the sound of chirping crickets, and left the door unlocked for my mom. Boys too young to shave, whose voices were just starting to sound more like their father’s than their mother’s awkwardly spent the  summer getting to know  girls who were just starting  to shave their legs. We weren’t really friends, and we didn’t know how to be anything else to each other. Just as a newborn foal is determined to stand up and walk on its own, it was inevitable that  our clumsy interaction would lead to learning something about the opposite sex. These summers were my primer for boy meets girl, and what to do, or not do. They were the summers of love…

Daycamp Crush

The date of my wedding was August 18th. I signed divorce papers twelve years later, almost to the day. Signing those documents during the summer annihilated the innocence I once associated with carefree warm weather months.

Sitting in a blur

Jill and daughters outside Santa Monica house, newly divorced.

As a divorced mother of three I again faced figuring out how to navigate and integrate with the opposite sex. Faintly recalling memories of sweet summer love and innocent crushes, I struggled to recover from the loss and betrayal connected to my divorce, and wondered if adult intimate relationships would always and forever cause me pain.

With my innocence about love blown to smithereens, I was knee deep in confusion, remorse, dark humor, shame, and sometimes anger. My clumsy adult interactions with the opposite sex still sometimes leave me feeling as naive as when I was eleven. Damn It…

Jill in heels

I’ve been on blind dates wishing at the start that I wouldn’t feel terrible about myself if I introduced myself as Jill’s twin, saying she had suddenly been called out of town. A stab at on-line dating found me reading emails from men (on two separate occasions) who felt compelled to let me know that they thought my face was “so skinny” they would never date me. One evening when leaving an event, I ran into a guy I casually knew and asked him if he would like to get a drink. I was sure I wasn’t inviting him on a date, but he interpreted that question differently. He ordered two drinks and something to eat. I sipped a single malt scotch and picked at the shared order of fries. When the check came I said I had no cash. Before I could finish the sentence he too said he had none. I let him know that I was sure the waiter could put half on each of our cards. “You don’t seem to understand, he said, I don’t have any money, and I don’t have a credit card. I don’t leave my house with money. You invited me out, so I assumed you’d pay.” Knowing in that instant that I would never intentionally see him again, I paid the check, and left.

The Wind is Up

One night out with a group of friends, I was seated next to an attractive guy.  Shortly after the meal began I got a text saying “Will you go to dinner with me sometime?” It was sent by the same man sitting right next to me. I turned to him letting him know I would prefer if he actually asked me personally. More than a decade my junior I knew from this interaction that we did things differently. He never asked me again.

Love in the Foreground

And when another man I briefly went out with, more than ten years my junior asked if we shouldn’t consider seeing each other until someone better or more appropriate came along, I  again knew that I would prefer to date someone closer to my own age. After an absence of many months I recently ran into him at an event, where he made sure to tell me he was seeing someone. Hmmm. I’m sure my mother would have an expression for him in Yiddish. And although lost in translation, the guttural sound of the idiom would suggest that he should grow like an onion with his head in the ground.

True Colors

And then there are the married men who think no one will find out. The ones who casually suggest some kind of interlude, tryst, affair… I’m not sure why they ask me, maybe it’s my “bedroom eyes”, or my just got out of bed hairstyle, but I’m not interested in salacious, can’t be seen together in public sorts of clandestine relationships,and I never say yes.

Recently one of the most handsome men I’ve ever met, also many years my junior handed me his card and TOLD me to text him. I was flattered, but speechless.  He didn’t ask me, it was a command. Presumably innocent on his part, my past experience with demanding men immediately triggered fear and foretold of what an interaction with him might be like.  His cavalier swagger was a harbinger of what was to come.

Dark Room

He told me not to tell anyone about us. There was no us, but that didn’t stop me from wondering if he was married, or was there some other reason why he wanted to keep this encounter a secret?  He was very tall, with a beautiful mixed race complexion, and was so incredibly handsome, but what did I already know about him? I knew that he was commanding, which in my mind translates immediately into adamant, forceful and demanding. Given his insistent and secretive nature, I knew that despite any desire I might have felt, it wouldn’t be in my best interest to contact him.

Always Next Summer

It doesn’t end there… I could retell other encounters of the ill-fated attention I have received from the opposite sex, but I think my entanglements of boy meets girl are amply clear. But there’s always next summer.

Golden Dream -Pedro Ruiz

“Your task is not to search for love but to find a portal through which love can enter.” – Eckhart Tolle

…Hey, I just met you,

And this is crazy,

But here’s my number,

So call me, maybe?

And all the other boys,

Try to chase me,

But here’s my number,

So call me, maybe?

Before you came into my life

I missed you so bad

I missed you so bad

I missed you so, so bad

Before you came into my life

I missed you so bad

And you should know that

I missed you so, so bad…

Carly Rae Jepson – CALL ME MAYBE

RAW REFLECTION: I chose not to contact the man that commanded me to text him. As I drove through afternoon traffic that day I wondered what it might have been like if I had. What would you have done?

To read about my past relationship with a very controlling man please see – http://rawcandor.com/ive-heard-that-before/

Nobody knows why a relationship works, but everyone knows when it doesn’t. Much like Tolstoy
said “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” So many
relationships begin based on attraction, but ultimately a person’s physical appearance loses its
appeal. Sometimes they’re a match, often not.

The couple in Yesterday didn’t end their relationship overnight; they slowly, almost imperceptibly
became distant from one another. The delicate flower behind the Humpty Dumpty couldn’t
withstand the climate it lived in and subsequently dissolved, much like the imaginary couple in
the painting.

Regardless of perfect image I found myself perpetuating in my day to day life, I painted the
anguished couple in Yesterday as a reflection of the life I actually lived. It wasn’t intentional, but
when so many people asked me if the blond woman was me, I knew I had painted what I felt.

d-Raw what you live, even if you’re not an artist. We’ll know what you’re trying to say.

[Me, second row from the right, 2nd seat]
Growing up I lived in a neighborhood where people didn’t knock on doors. Either the doors were left open, or we just walked in. Sometimes we barged in, and at times the velocity of our enthusiasm made it seem as if flew in. We announced our presence with a staccato shout of “are you here”, or maybe “I’m here, are you home?” sometimes we simply called out the person’s name, but we seldom if ever knocked.

We answered the door after hearing a soft knock. Rochelle was standing on our front porch. She lived one house away and was the perfect age for both of my sisters and me to play with. She was a year older than one of us, the same age as another, and a year or two younger than the other one of us. We all loved her. My sisters and I didn’t give much thought to who we played with. Our friends were the kids that lived on our block, but Rochelle made each one of us feel like she liked us best.

When Prints Collide

All three of us made fun of the way Rochelle dressed. With no regard or interest in fashion she combined prints decades before Missoni made it derigueur. She stood on our porch wearing a solid color winter coat. Stark still she announced that her father was dead. He simply dropped dead.

Marty was virile and handsome. He was tall with a full head of dark wavy hair. The kind of man that looked good in a white short sleeved T-shirt. The type of man that appeared strong and healthy. Marty died shoveling snow outside his two story attached brick house in Brooklyn.  In my neighborhood we pushed the snow to the edge of the sidewalk, piling it high enough to clear a path, but not so high as to prevent you from walking over it to get to your car.

Tears in a Box

They carried Marty inside and laid him on the couch. Someone must have removed his black rubber goulashes that were most likely pock marked and stained by the rock salt he would have spread to form some traction to make the sidewalk safe for all of us. Rochelle stayed our house. My dad went over to be with Tessie. Marty had a fatal heart attack. He was thirty-six. He was the first person I ever knew that died. It was a Tuesday.

There was static on the radio in my office yesterday, so I shut it off and listened to music for the rest of the day.  It wasn’t until I was in my car at the end of the day that I heard the NPR announcer say Andy Griffith had died.

Mr. Griffith, Sheriff Taylor

My parents had a TV in their bedroom when I was growing up. Whenever my mother was convinced that I was sick enough to stay home from school I’d spend the day watching television in their bed. I Love Lucy, Leave It to Beaver, Father Knows Best, and my favorite The Andy Griffith Show. The make believe town of Mayberry featured an understanding and wise father, a precocious but respectful son, a loving mother figure, and a wacky much beloved cast of characters.

Rocking Mayberry

Throughout the day my mom would bring me hot tea and toast and sit with me for a while. It was unusual in my house to get much alone time, as my mom tried to divide her attention equally among all of us. I relished the individual attention I got before my mom went back to doing her chores. She would come up periodically to check on me, or sometimes I would call her to change the channel.  I grew up before televisions came with remote controls.

I pictured living in a town where everyone knew each other, and watched out for one another. I envied the fictional Taylor family’s Sunday Supper. My family was kosher. On special occasions our Sunday Supper was Chinese food on paper plates. Even though I loved eating spare ribs and fried rice, I longed to be eating fried chicken, biscuits and gravy, Jews don’t eat gravy. I wanted to be served mile high slices of chocolate cake alongside a cold glass of milk that would be poured from a glass pitcher. In my house we demolished gallon after gallon of milk on a daily basis. The cake was Entenmans; albeit delicious it wasn’t homemade by the fictional Aunt Bea.

After leaving home what I came to realize is that I did come from a place where everyone knew each other, and cared about the well-being of one another. There has never been a time in my life when watching The Andy Griffith Show hasn’t made me happy.

A Faint Smile

That show was the personification of a loving family. When I was a little girl I thought I was watching characters so unlike me. In fact I was just like them. As a child my family cared deeply about me. They continue to love and support me. I have had many father-daughter talks with my dad, very much like the kind that Sheriff Taylor had with Opie. My family and neighbors still watch out for me.

Andy Griffith is remembered as being kind and generous. During a past interview NPR played yesterday of Mr. Griffith he said he was jealous of Dick Van Dyke back in the day because the Dick Van Dyke Show had higher ratings. I loved that show as well. Dick Van Dyke is so funny and talented, but Andy Griffith made me feel as if I belonged. Yesterday Ron Howard, the now famous director, once child actor that played the part of Opie was interviewed. He talked about how much he loved and admired Andy Griffith. How Mr. Griffith played a large part in shaping his character. I don’t think we really know what makes us the kind of person we ultimately become but the memory of my mother caring for me, and my dad caring for all of us gives me the feeling that I really did grow up in Mayberry.

Rest in Peace

Andy Griffith died yesterday in his home state of North Carolina at the age of eighty-six. It was a Tuesday. Rest in peace. I will miss knowing you are in the world Mr. Griffith.

An American Master

For years women have been seduced by promises of support. Garments once called girdles or corsets have been wiggled into to alter our appearance, with a guarantee of perfection. This assurance has lured women of all shapes and sizes into wearing undergarments restricting movement, if not casual breathing. Lace trimmed, silk brocade, or firmly boned, many of us would wear anything to appear flawless.

Foundation

The construction of these types of garments has changed, as have the names. No one says girdle, corset or brassiere anymore. Bras and all types of foundation garments are advertised on television now, making it acceptable to admit our flaws, and ask for support out loud.

Happily Ever After?

I however looked for support in places other than what I was wearing. I looked to my husband, suspecting, but not believing that the foundation of my marriage was built on quicksand, and would erode almost from the beginning. I don’t think people thought that someone with a petite frame like mine would consider wearing something to smooth the contours of my body, but I like so many others thought I wasn’t good enough just the way I was.

Given that, I own my fair share of body shape wear and control top tights, but regardless of what I wore, I felt unsupported in the strength I was seeking from the relationships I was in. And while I became satisfied with my physical appearance, I’ve spent decades wishing I could be my own source of strength.

My Girls

Our Dog and Us

It wasn’t until I became a mother that I understood that what I was doing would be a model for my children, all of whom are girls. I have three daughters, and it’s been a decade since I lost custody of them. Ten years of sadness has blanketed my life. Foundation garments can smooth the surface and minimize bumps and bulges, but when shimmied out of at the end of the day there you are, just as you are, and it’s either okay, or it’s not.

Sinking

I wanted to go on with my life after the devastating decision was made for my girls to go live with their father, and I tried. But regardless of what I wore to make me seem unblemished, I was suffering, and I believed that my girls were also unresolved about what had happened.

Yesterday

We Grew Up To Hate Our Mother

As an artist I began to paint the images that haunted me. People asked questions about my paintings, and upon seeing my work, told me stories of their painful pasts and uncertain futures. I knew it was time for me to unveil what had happened to me and my girls, believing I would feel my own strength if I stopped trying to hide our story.

Jill Slaughter

It’s been a year since Raw Candor launched. I’ve posted every Sunday for almost one year. My tagline is Always candid. Always truthful. Sometimes funny. And I have been all of those. Every other post has been written by a guest. People I know well and some people I have never met in person have written about things that echo in their hearts. I’m grateful so many people have responded to my work and to my family’s story.

Tens of thousands of people have read Raw Candor. Thank you! Over the summer I won’t be posting as often. I’ll be taking time to work on some new projects that I’ll write about from time to time. This may be the perfect time to for anyone new to the blog to go into the archives, or some of you may want to re-read Raw. Please continue to contact me with your own raw stories, comments and/or questions.

Writing Raw Candor has changed my life. My children now know my story, and I see myself as a little bit stronger. In the immortal words of Miss Kelly Clarkson…”what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

I love you all for supporting my writing, and for sharing yours.

As always I can be reached at – jill@rawcandor.com

In A New Direction

The silver ring on the left is called The Freedom Ring.  I designed the ring to reveal one’s own skin where a jewel would usually be set to remind the wearer to value oneself as the jewel instead. When I got divorced I missed wearing a ring, but didn’t want to wear something that was a validation of how someone else felt about me. The Freedom Ring is a visual symbol to promote the value of self, and become free of emotional bonds, ergo… Freedom.

The Freedom Ring will be sold on Raw Candor in the Fall.

Writing Raw and reading your stories has shown me that I’m not the only one, whatever the story may be.

Enjoy the summer!

Catholic girls in my neighborhood wore knee length plaid skirts in muted shades of gray and blue as part of their school uniforms. They wore white blouses and navy blazers with gold embroidered crests on the breast pocket. Dark colored knee socks and loafers with pennies in them were standard issue for these young girls who were reluctantly packaged for learning.

Pony Love – D. Contreras

They left their houses weekday mornings with shirts buttoned at the collar, and hair pulled back in ponytails. No makeup, and no accessories, but for the ubiquitous gold crosses on short chains which hung delicately around their necks. With socks pulled up, and skirt lengths appropriately modest, the girls gave the appearance of innocence.  An inch or two of skin exposed at the intersection of skirt and sock was the only thing that kept these young ladies from being almost completely covered.  Sometimes a portion of a tall girl’s thigh would be visible. With no regard for tailoring, fit was unimportant.

Even in the coldest weather girls wore skirts. Only boys were permitted to wear pants to school in the early 1960’s. Stockings were forbidden, and wearing tights was reminiscent of childhood for these girls teetering between schoolgirl and bad girl. They would have done anything to not seem adolescent. So instead of keeping warm they suffered red knee caps in winter.

I walked behind the clannish group of girls for ten or so blocks on my way to school. I observed them in lock step cadence which made their skirts all gently swish in the same direction. I was envious of their austere appearance.  Uniforms seemed to be the great equalizer. These girls didn’t have to wonder what to wear, or if what they were wearing was fashionable.  I hoped that whatever I had on would not put me in the line of fire by the girls in my school who routinely compared what everyone was wearing to what everyone else was wearing.

The route to school was so familiar that the girls talked without ever looking where they were going, and then as if someone pulled the cord on a bus signaling the driver to stop, they all turned and walked into a colorless five story building with an enormous cross on the facade.  At the end of the day they left school looking just as neat and tidy as they had hours earlier when the doors had closed behind them. Nuns in black and white habits stood sentry at the doorways as their students began to leave, and the school day ended.  The nanosecond these seemingly pure and chaste girls were out of sight of the sisters they became almost completely unrecognizable.

Hi Lo Log Goes To Objectified Woman

Afternoon dismissal signaled a transformation. Skirts were immediately rolled up at the waist, making the length significantly shorter. White pearlized buttons on the starched shirts were unbuttoned; socks were pushed down, or taken off, and shoved into purses and book bags, while pony tails were loosened. Naked lips were slathered with sticky fruit flavored lip-gloss. And stashed cigarettes were lit three on a match. They all smoked.

Sisters and Brothers

But in the morning the girls once again soldiered up, taking orders from the nuns who were cast as foreboding and scary.  I overheard stories about rulers making contact with the tops of the girl’s hands, and punishments being doled out, but I never asked for details.

What’s In A Name

Some of the nuns had masculine sounding first names; others answered to Sister Ignacious and Ursula Constance. Between the hours of eight in the morning and three in the afternoon the girls were obedient. By 3:15, all bets were off.

The red light on the answering machine in my office was blinking. The voice was female, but husky and monotone.  Sister Lucinda was speaking. She had a thick Italian accent. I speak Italian in the way that someone who learned a foreign language decades earlier speaks, but that didn’t help me to understand her. I’d never spoken to a nun. Upon hearing the sister’s voice I instantly thought of the stories my childhood acquaintances had told of their parochial school experiences. I returned the call immediately.

Wooden Symbol

She asked to meet me, rather told me when she was available for a meeting. I was unable to accommodate her request for the time she preferred, and wished that I would have been able to rearrange my schedule. She said she didn’t really like the phone and liked emails even less, insisting that the only way to get to know someone is to meet them. I was a little afraid of her.

Two days later, dressed in modest attire I arrived ten minutes early to meet the sister and waited stiff backed in her office for her arrival. I’d never been summoned to the principal’s office as a kid, but waiting for her, I imagined this is what a ten year old child might feel like in that situation.

The papers for my presentation were neatly compiled in a folder which I handed to the sister, and began to explain the project she had initially called me about. It took only a few minutes for her to tell me that it would not be right for her students at this time. She kept the information and we stood, indicating that the meeting was over. On my way into the building I noticed a ceramics studio and asked if she wouldn’t mind showing me around before I left.

That’s when I was introduced to a few of the other sisters and the lay staff. The studio had a small section of hand-crafted items for sale. Amongst the statues of angels and assorted bric-a-brac was a small plaque which said “you are in my prayers.” My youngest daughter will be leaving for college in the fall and I wanted to buy this for her to put in her dorm room as a physical reminder that she wasn’t really going to be alone in her unfamiliar surroundings.

Laughing Zazu

The little piece had a sticker on the front, $4. I had no cash, and told the sister why I wanted to buy it, thinking I would come back to get it for Zazu. Sister Lucinda took it off the shelf and handed it to another nun, asking her to wrap if for me. “I want to give it to you.” The girls I grew up with were wrong about nuns.

We said goodbye, and agreed that I would visit again next year to talk about the same project I had come to discuss that day. I walked out the door and was more than two car lengths away when I heard the sister say “Come back Jill.” She hadn’t called me by name even once. Not on her initial phone message or during the meeting. There is no “J” in Italian; ergo Jill is neither a familiar or popular name. But this ninety-two year old nun had heard every single word I said.  Of course I turned and came back, wondering why she beckoned me to return.

The sister is small in stature. I was wearing heals, which elevated me at least four or five inches above her. She opened her arms and drew me to her. She hugged me, tight, and long, and hard. Softly saying “I will pray for you to be happy in your heart and for you to have a wonderful life.” I hadn’t told the sister anything about  the indelible sadness I live with, but she knew.  I walked away with tears in my eyes. I walked away knowing Sister Lucinda loves me.

Sincerely Devoted

I could mail invitations to her for the exhibition we discussed, but knowing how she feels about the phone and emails I can only hazard a guess that she doesn’t much care for mail. I’m going to hand deliver some to her, and make a donation to the gift shop in cash. I mailed the plaque to my daughter in Los Angeles.

The Sincerity Project

A Sincere Invitation

Raw Candor Event Schedule

Jill will be reading Raw live at Sailboat Bend on May 19 and June 9 http://www.facebook.com/events/263772817041266/

Jill will be speaking on May 25th at Nova Southeastern University – Inspiration University Conference. http://www.inspiration-university.com/2012/04/25/iu-league-meeting-rsvp/

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Work by Diana Contreras http://www.facebook.com/pages/Diana-Contreras-Art/146501198702523