Mommie Dearest

by Christina Crawford

  It was a frustrating time because I was just at the age when it was important to fit in and not look like a total freak. For someone who had been so fashion conscious herself, who in fact, had built a public image on being beautifully dressed, mother seemed quite content to have me look like the ugly duckling. She had her own ideas about what was proper to wear and those ideas were rooted back in the forties. She didn’t change her hemline or her padded shoulders or her makeup or her anklestrap shoes.

  When I was little I loved dressing up in her clothes once a week as a treat on the nights she went to work in the Hollywood Canteen during the war. But at thirteen years old in 1952 and 1953, I was not at all thrilled by her rigid ideas of what she thought was or was not appropriate attire for me at school.

  Since none of my pleading or protests worked to solve the problem, I had to find another solution. Borrowing, it also became clear, was also not going to be an effective means of dressing myself. It was tiresome to the other girls and became humiliating for me. I therefore devised a scheme to get enough money to buy clothes for myself to wear just at school.

  On the bar at home there was a three foot tall imitation scotch bottle with a slot in the neck that was used as a bank for donations to some charity. Whenever mother had guests over for drinks, she would cajole them out of a donation that was put into the big bottle. In the bottom there was a lot of change, but on top there were numerous folded bills in various denominations. I figured a way to tip the bottle on its side without making very much noise and slide the folded bills up to the open slot. Once the bills were over the slot, I’d take a table knife and manage to pull them through the slot and out of the bottle. I never took much at one time and would replace whatever I got with a one-dollar bill so that it wouldn’t look as though the bottle’s contents were being emptied. Once I hit the jackpot, pulling out a one hundred dollar bill. After that I had all the skirts, blouses and sweaters I needed and quit raiding the money stash.

  On weekends that I stayed at school, it was not unusual for one of the faculty members to be going down the hill into Redondo or San Pedro. I’d manage to get a ride with one of them occasionally and do my shopping. I never bought much at one time so no one would get suspicious, because everyone knew from the year before what a problem I had with my mother and clothes! But little by little and piece by piece, I managed to get just enough so that I didn’t look like the perennial orphan in borrowed clothes and hand-me-downs.

  I can honestly say that I didn’t feel even a touch of guilt about stealing the money. I was always scared that I’d get caught of course and then I knew that the consequences would be awful. But at the time I was desperately trying to make a life for myself at Chadwick and there didn’t appear to be any other solution. I was too young to get a job and I was at boarding school anyway so that possibility was out. Mother wouldn’t give me any money, so that door was closed. The charity, whatever it was (which I never found out, nor did I ever hear it mentioned either), got most of the money intended for it, and I figure that in a way, I was a charity case myself!

  After I managed to solve my wardrobe problem, it became obvious that there was a far more serious problem that needed immediate attention.

  The school had grown quite a bit since my seventh grade year. Though two years seemed like a long time to me, it was curious how the story of my preadolescent misadventure with the boy in the stables seemed to be transmitted anew to the incoming students. What I thought I’d long ago paid for, over and above what was necessary punishment for misjudgment on my part at eleven years old was apparently one of the better pieces of gossip that was passed along to the new students. In this way, I was continually having to fight the battle for my reputation and trustworthiness over and over again.

  The boys were worse than the girls in some ways. The girls made up their minds whether or not they wanted to be friends with me pretty quickly and that was the end of it. The boys were different. Some of them simply made rude remarks or ignored me. That hurt my feelings and made me mad but there wasn’t too much I could do about it. Others would pretend they liked me and I’d be all pleased and excited about having a nice boyfriend until the first time they’d ask me to one of the school dances and then take me out into the bushes and try to be fresh. When I said no, as I always did, they’d get mad at me and tell me they’d already heard the story so what was I putting on such an act about. Well, that would be the end of that “romance” and I’d vow never to care about any of them.

  After about four months of ninth grade, one night before dinner there was a rather large group of us standing around the outside patio waiting for the dining room doors to open. There was a lot of laughing and joking going on as usual and I was talking to some older students who were in a group near the fish pond in the middle of the patio.

  Next to me there were three or four guys from the eleventh grade who were new students that fall. It was impossible for me not to hear what they were saying although I was in no way trying to eavesdrop on their conversation. It began to dawn on me that I was the topic of their conversation and that one was telling the other the old, tired story of my seventh grade mishap, only over the years the story had considerably embellished. Since none of them had been at school at the time, the story was way out of proportion and bore no resemblance to what had actually happened.

  I was so tired of fighting this battle time and time again that I felt sort of sick to my stomach hearing it like this. Even so I think I would have let it go as though I hadn’t heard it, or just given the group of them a dirty look and gone into the dining room if one of the guys who’d just told the story hadn’t tried to slide his hand over my bottom as a joke in front of everyone. He was standing with his back to the fishpond and I had my back to him during his telling of the story. When he had the nerve to try and feel me up as part of the punch line, I lost my composure.

  It happened so fast I don’t remember thinking it through. It was really two years of hassles and innuendoes and sly smiles and lost boyfriends and not being totally trusted by the faculty. It was two years of week after week proving myself capable and fighting to regain my own self respect. It was two years of trying to make friends and working hard to build a place for myself. It was two years of anxiety and frustration and anger that went into my closed fist as I whirled around to face this young man who towered over me. Without a second thought or a moment’s hesitation I carried through with my fist and belted him right smack in the gut. It was so unexpected that he lost his balance, staggered a few steps backward, tripped and sank into the fishpond.

  While only two or three people had seen me slug him in the stomach, half the student body population witnessed his spectacular plunge into the fish pond. Water splashed everywhere and a couple of large goldfish went flying out into the patio. Everyone roared with laughter at him as he sat in the middle of the pond totally drenched and completely bewildered. After a moment, even I laughed. Neither he nor his two friends said a word to anyone about how he’d ended up sitting in the fish pond. He had to miss dinner and I walked away with a feeling of silent triumph.

  I knew I didn’t have to worry about him ever bothering me again, but I also knew that I couldn’t go around punching guys when they said something I didn’t like or that hurt my feelings.

  It sounds funny to say now, given that at the time I was just thirteen years old, but I was getting so tired of fighting all the time. Not fist fights like Judy and I used to have in public school, but the constant pressure on me because of my mother’s erratic behavior and the school’s feeling that they had to watch me more carefully than most of the others. I was just tired of fighting for every little victory, every single accomplishment, each day’s progress. I was definitely making progress. I was carving a place for myself and making friends I knew I could count on, but I needed to do better and I wanted a little rest from the pressure.

  I knew what had to be done, but I didn’t know how to go about doing it. I was not basically manipulat
ive so it never occurred to me that what I needed was someone to help me.

  I didn’t have a brilliant track record as far as boyfriends were concerned though I was as attractive as most of the girls who were considered very popular. I was also sort of shy and tended to get those painful crushes on boys who never even knew I was alive. It just seemed to me that the boys I like never liked me and the ones I didn’t care much about were the ones I got stuck with. I did have some really good friends that I could laugh and joke with like Hoagy and Jim Fadiman, but while we teased and joked and talked a lot, we didn’t consider one another “boyfriend-girlfriend” types.

  It came as an unbelievable piece of information, therefore, when one of my girlfriends, who was very popular and was going with a senior, told me she’d heard that another senior classman was interested in me. After my initial shock subsided, I was convinced that she was playing a very cruel joke on me and decided not to pay one bit of attention to any of it.

  A few days later, she came back to talk to me and asked why I hadn’t even tried to see Walter or get to talk to him. I looked at her in total disbelief. I told her I thought the whole thing was a joke. She, in turn, looked at me like I was a martian.

  Walter was a senior and I was only in ninth grade. Ninth graders were generally considered the babies of high school and just to be seen with a senior was a giant status boost. In addition, Walter was captain of the football team and student body president. He may not have been the most handsome man in the senior class but he was certainly the most respected, the most powerful and the best liked. Everyone loved Walter. He was built like a defensive lineman and nobody argued with him very much nor for very long. He was also a very nice person and always had a group of friends around him. He loved to laugh and joke and had a smile for anyone he met. I had seen him in school for several years but always at a distance. I think I’d only spoken to him once or twice and voted for him when he was running for president.

  In light of all that, I found it very difficult to believe that out of all the girls in the school, Walter had even noticed me. But evidently this was not a joke after all, and one day after lunch Walter came up to me and asked me to go to the dance with him on Saturday night. I tried my best not to act like a total idiot and managed to nod my head and say, “yes, I’d love to.” Then he smiled and walked me to class which in itself made heads turn and whispers start.

  Even though I was hopelessly nervous, Walter and I had a wonderful time at the dance. It was one of those informal “sock hops” so popular during the ’50’s to which we wore jeans and sweaters. I was surprised how gentle Walter was with me despite his size and powerfulness. I began to feel comfortable with him and to notice a difference in the way other people were treating me. His friends were nice to me and smiled and talked quite naturally, even if we’d never spoken before. The faculty members seemed to approve of my being with Walter and they seemed to relax a little. I had a wonderful time. A wonderful time. I felt accepted and comfortable and nice.

  Not long after that, Walter asked me to go steady with him and I accepted happily. I wore his ring on a chain around my neck and took my place among the “popular” girls.

  When I walked hand in hand with Walter across some part of the campus, people talked to us and smiled at me. I really didn’t care if they genuinely like me or not, so long as they weren’t rude to my face. Even when I was alone, no one bothered me anymore. I had Walter beside me whether he was physically present or not.

  In a way, the rest of that year was a breeze. I sailed through the social events without a bit of trouble, doubt or loneliness and my schoolwork continued to get me good grades. I guess I was second in my class with nearly straight A’s except in math. I was not in love with Walter but I cared about him and genuinely tried not to give him too much grief. I didn’t have very much experience with romantic relationships but most of the time we got along fine. We had arguments but that came with the territory of going steady. I always thought that he cared more deeply about me than I did about him, but it didn’t really get in the way of our having a good time together. So, except for some minor difficulties, the year was a happy one.

  After school ended in June I went home. I had made arrangements for one of my girlfriends to take the clothes I’d bought myself home with her over the summer so my mother wouldn’t find out about them.

  Walter had graduated and I didn’t know exactly how we were going to keep in touch, except that I was supposed to be coming back for summer school and I told him I’d call him. I didn’t want him to write me at home because my mail was always opened and it was always touch and go with telephone calls. Sometimes I got in trouble for them and sometimes I didn’t and I was never sure which way it was going to be.

  Going home was always a challenge. I was away so much that when I came back everything seemed to be in sharper focus. I never minded the tour busses with their loudspeakers blaring away the brief history of each movie stars home when I lived there all the time, but after having been at school for a while I found them a totally offensive invasion of privacy. Even though we had very high fences covered with ivy, I hated the way tourists in the buses would stand up and strain to peek over the fence. If I was in the front yard I’d always go inside the house when I heard them coming down the street.

  A small group of women who were fans for years would come and spend the entire day sitting on the garage steps, waiting for a chance to see mother. I couldn’t imagine why they did that every weekend. It seemed so tiresome, but week after week, there they were sitting on the steps.

  Chris and I got to know them very well because they were the same ones who were commandeered for the special work details that mother ran when the garden furniture needed washing or the basement needed cleaning, or the fan mail had stacked up. These three women were secretaries by profession but all of them were single and I guess being a fan was more interesting than being alone, so they always jumped at the chance to work their asses off in the service and presence of their favorite movie star.

  And work they certainly did. Manual labor and menial tasks … nothing was too small or too heavy or too dirty for them. I never did understand it. I hated doing those jobs with a passion and I worked right along side them. They didn’t seem to mind a bit. They almost never accepted any money, though upon occasion mother did offer to pay them. Their total reward was serving their idol. They never spoke up to defend themselves when mother heaped abuses upon the quality of their work, they just looked heartbroken and worked all the harder. They never disagreed with anything mother said or did, even when she pushed them to the limit. They always said yes to whatever she asked of them, even if it meant giving up all their spare time and energy. They were like a small band of puppets moving and swaying to her every wish and whim. They served her with loyalty and devotion and were totally self-effacing about it. They wanted no money, no praise … they only wanted to serve.

  That’s really what mother secretly wanted from everyone around her and it drove her into a blue fury that I wasn’t like the fans. I hated doing the dirty work of the house when I came home from school. I hated being treated like a puppet. I had to say “yes, mommie dearest” so many times that the very sound of it nearly made me vomit. And even when I dutifully said “yes, mommie dearest” I often got in trouble anyway for the tone of my voice or the look on my face. She wanted me to be one of those puppet fans and I couldn’t be that.

  There were times when I thought the things she did were just flat out wrong and even if I didn’t say anything for fear of getting my mouth washed out with soap until I gagged and choked or afraid of getting a beating, she knew by the look on my face that I disagreed with her and it made her totally crazy.

  It was then that she’d fly into one of her fits of temper and accuse me of doing things I’d never done. Then she punished me for the story she’d made up. If I denied what she accused me of doing, she called me a liar and told everyone how she was at her wit’s end with me because I li
ed all the time. It was like living with a lunatic. No one believed me. I guess it was impossible for an adult who had not been present to believe me. I guess it was impossible for an adult to believe that she was the one who was making up the entire story and I was the one telling the truth. She was always so convincing. She appeared to be so genuinely upset over the situation that in addition to believing her, there was also a certain amount of empathy for all her troubles. And she never hesitated to tell anyone who would listen what a difficult time she had with me.

  The pendulum swung full circle and I had gone from being the golden haired princess to the family scapegoat for all of mother’s pent up hostility and anger and frustration with a world she couldn’t fully control anymore. In me she saw so much of herself and yet so much that was separate. She couldn’t force me to say “yes” anymore or to curtsy or to be the perfect and adoring child. I was slowly becoming a person with my own ideas and dreams and thoughts about what was right and wrong.

  At school we were encouraged to think independently, even though the social rules were strict. Thinking for yourself, at least on an intellectual level, was a virtue at school and forbidden at home. At home Mother was the only one allowed to think for herself and the rest of us were expected to jump to her command. We lived by her rules without discussion whether we were her children or her fans or her servants or her friend. She told everyone what to wear and what to eat and tried to tell them what to think.

  By now the domestic help problem was acute and the fans filled more and more of the void. We’d already had one of the fans for a nurse. Mother had been unable to keep anyone, even the temporaries. The twins were still very young and they at least needed constant supervision. The fan whom we all liked the best quit her secretarial job and came to live with us as our nurse. She was not nearly as strict with us as mother wanted but when mother was at home she made us keep all the rules intact. When mother wasn’t there, she was more lenient but made us promise not to tell anyone. We grew to love her and she became our friend.