The Light in My Heart

by Jerry Rosendorn

  Funny about elementary school hearts; they mend quickly as I began to take a closer look at the other girls in my class. They were getting older and shapelier.

  After Annette, I needed to work off some of my energy and frustration; I turned my attention to sports; joining a Little League team and staying after school to participate in team sports.

  Most of my elementary school experience was uneventful. I was a good student and well-liked by my classmates.

  In June 1962, I graduated from the sixth grade. In September, my elementary school gang would be divided between two junior high schools. One school is located in an upscale area called Sherman Oaks; the other school is located in a more modest area called North Hollywood. I was assigned to the school in North Hollywood.

  The elementary school graduation ceremony was held in the school auditorium on the last day of the school year. That evening, the school hosted a dance for the graduates in the gymnasium of a local park. Music was provided courtesy of phonograph records with refreshments of punch and cookies. I was so excited to experience my first boy-girl social event, and, most importantly, this dance gave me an opportunity to see Ronnie in a different setting; I’d been watching Ronnie at school for two years. I wanted to get to know her better, but because she belonged to a click of the snobbiest and prettiest girls in my class; I wasn’t sure if she’d talk to me.

  In September, Ronnie was going to attend the other junior high school. This dance was my last chance to see her for a while, three years to be exact. At that point, both of our junior high schools would feed into the same senior high school.

  Ronnie was tall and pretty with a dark complexion, dark hair, and beautiful deep brown eyes. As I entered the gym, I saw her from across the room. She was standing with the other pretty girls in my class; wearing a blue dress that accentuated her developing figure. As they stood there, it felt like they represented an armed fortress I’d have to conquer. Unless they lowered the bridge, I would not get anywhere near them.

  Before the dance started, two adults gave dance lessons showing us the “Box-Step” and the “Twist.” Everyone had to line up, boys in one line and girls in the other, as the adults walked us through these simple dances.

  Throughout the evening, I watched as several other boys danced with Ronnie. Watching her move so gracefully around the dance floor; I wanted to dance with her in the worst way, but I was shy. She was so pretty; I wasn’t sure if I looked good enough for her. I waited, debating with myself; should I or shouldn’t I? Finally, one of the adults announced the last dance was coming up; I had to make my move.

  I walked up to Ronnie and asked her to dance. Without any hesitation, she smiled and said, “Okay.”

  I held Ronnie as we danced to the song, “Graduation Day.” I could feel all my senses come alive as my heart rate accelerated; I was trying hard to do the Box-Step to the beat of the music while my brain kept reminding me that I was dancing with Ronnie.

  As we moved around the dance floor, she felt so comfortable to my touch. Every few seconds, I looked into her face and saw her beautiful eyes; I’d never been this close to Ronnie. My thoughts moved from the physical sensations to how nice it would be to talk to her; to find out more about her.

  But I froze. I didn’t know what to say; I couldn’t bring myself to tell her how I felt about her. When the dance was over, I dropped my head knowing I’d lost my opportunity. This was my magic moment to conquer the fortress; the bridge was stretched across the moat and I was afraid to move. The only words I could think of were, “Thank you, Ronnie, I’ll see you.” She smiled. I turned my back and walked away from her.

  I never spoke to Ronnie again. Even though I saw her three years later in senior high school, I wasn’t sure she’d want to talk to me after the way I froze at the dance.

  From time to time, I think about her and wonder how she’s doing. A few years after the graduation dance, The Four Seasons singing group released a song entitled, “Ronnie.” In the song, a young boy sings about the girl he loves and tells her, “You were my first love.” From the first time I heard the song I loved it, and even now when I hear it on the oldies radio station, I think of her.

  Chapter 4

  Her focus was penetrating. She stared into my eyes with a sufficient force to implant the purpose of her inquiry. “You lied to your parents. Why?”

  I felt defensive as she impugned my integrity. As an attorney, my honesty is my calling card. “I didn’t really lie. I told my parents I was going to Darryl’s house; I went to Darryl’s house.”

  She responded quickly, “That was a subterfuge. You went to his house to see Annette. You weren’t honest.”

  I didn’t respond, but wondered why a childhood lie was so important compared to other issues.

  Again, she stared with a new purpose to her questioning. “Do you still lie when you want something?”

  I shook my head; why did I agree to go to these therapy sessions? I could feel my face go flush as I responded, “What is your purpose, Dr. Fox? I am not some pathological liar. Yes, I have lied. Yes, I didn’t give my parents all the details; I left out some things. Doesn’t everyone?”

  Her face seemed to soften in bit before she responded, “Do you want a genuine loving relationship?”

  I nodded.

  “Then, you have to be honest with others and with yourself. Any lie can begin to blur who you are.

  “To understand yourself, you have to look deep inside to see what motivates you; you need to look at the truth. As Ibsen wrote, ‘It is no use lying to one’s self.’ Knowing the truth, telling the truth, and acting on the truth, define who you are and your ability to have a meaningful relationship.”

  She refocused as her eyes shifted gears, “I want to go back to your elementary school dance.”

  I wondered what she picked up from that innocent story. I didn’t remember any deceit in my story about dancing with Ronnie.

  “You found the courage to ask Ronnie to dance with you. When she danced with you and the music ended, you walked away instead of talking to her. Why?”

  I felt more at ease talking about this issue. “Ronnie looked so pretty in her party dress; it took every bit of courage I had to ask her to dance. I didn’t think beyond that. When the music stopped, I felt uncomfortable so I left.”

  “Why did you feel uncomfortable?”

  As I dug deeper inside of myself, my thoughts were starting to hurt. “I felt insecure. I was tall and lanky; a bit awkward in my own body. I felt out of place at the party; I was ashamed of my clothes.”

  I saw some compassion on Dr. Fox’s face. As she inquired further, I scored some points on the honesty scale. “Explain it more; be specific. Why did you feel that way?”

  Being trapped back in an old memory bank, I started to feel emotional. “My clothes were old and tight; I was worried about them from the moment I got to the dance. If I made a sudden movement, my pants might rip. It was a reminder to me, I was out of my comfort zone; maybe I didn’t belong at that dance.”

  Dr. Fox wanted more, “Does this still affect you?”

  I answered immediately, “No.” Then, I paused before saying, “I don’t think so.” Wondering if there was any connection between my old feelings of inadequacy and why I couldn’t find a meaningful relationship.

  Chapter 5

  1962-1965

  In July and August, before starting the seventh grade at Madison Junior High School, I took two summer school classes there; I wanted to acquaint myself with the school before the fall semester began in September.

  Some of my happiest years in school were spent at Madison; I formed nice friendships with my classmates and I enjoyed the classes I took, especially the shop classes in wood, electrical and graphic arts; they were a totally new experience for me.

  Back in the 1960’s, life was so much easier; we lived at a slower pace and our day-to-day deci
sions were rather simple; there was far less to choose from. The usual choices were either drink Coke or Seven-Up. When it was time to buy a car, most people bought either a Chevy or a Ford. For kids attending my school, you could choose to be a surfer, socialite, or greaser.

  The surfers were laid back with blonde hair and good tans; they claimed to hang around the beach in their free time. The socialites were clean-cut and well-dressed; they usually walked the halls with their noses in the air bragging about going to boy-girl parties on the weekends. The greasers got their name from their greased-back hair style. These guys acted tough while their girlfriends came across as being “easy,” thus earning their nickname of “whores.” Yet, there was one more social group, “the nerds;” I was a member of this group. I guess we were called nerds because we went to school to learn.

  One of my favorite teachers was my Spanish teacher, Mr. Kressler; we called him “Mr. K.” He knew how to relate to his students and how to motivate us to learn Spanish. He was amusing and very effective in making the language come to life. One of his techniques was to incorporate jokes into his teaching method. One day as class began, Mr. K went to the chalkboard and drew an elephant on a surfboard asking the class, “El elephante es gris?” Translated as: Is the elephant gray? The Spanish word gris is pronounced grease.

  When we all nodded our heads and said, “Si,” he yelled back at us, “No.” One of the students laughed and yelled back, “but Mr. K, elephants are gray.”

  “No,” he said with an exaggerated exhaustion as he picked up his pointer and aimed it at his drawing, “El elephante es surf.”

  On the first day of my seventh grade English class, there was a very pretty girl sitting across the room from me. During roll call, I learned her name was Sharon. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She was tall, with short dark hair, smooth skin, and large brown eyes; if that wasn’t enough, she wore a Star of David.

  A few weeks into the new semester, during the nutrition break, I saw Sharon walking toward the athletic field so I followed her. As I approached one of the far corners of the field, I saw her in the middle of the greasers; smoking a cigarette. I stood there with a shocked look on my face wondering why she was hanging out with them; did that make her a “whore?” And why was she smoking? I was dumbfounded and kept staring when I discovered five greasers looking my way, daring me to come closer. With the odds in their favor, I decided to make an about-face and get away.

  I couldn’t get the image out of my mind: Sharon, hanging out with greasers, and smoking. I always thought Jewish girls were sweet and innocent; I assumed greasers were anything but innocent.

  After making a smooth transition from my small elementary school into a much larger junior high school campus, I did well; my grades were good.

  My life was simple; few choices, no complications, very routine, and always predictable.

  What I remember most about 1962 happened in August before the school year started. One of my idols, Marilyn Monroe, died while I was in summer school. I was heartbroken when I heard the news. My lasting memory of her was from the movie, “Some Like It Hot;” I couldn’t take my eyes off of her especially when she was wearing a low-cut dress.

  In the eighth grade, I continued to see Sharon walking around school;

  I stayed away from her; when she walked by I looked around for greasers. Then, along came Sandy.

  Sandy wasn’t a pretty girl; shorter than Sharon, her dark features had no style or distinction, and her figure was undefined. Yet, she had an engaging personality and a nice smile. Most importantly, she was interested in me.

  When Sandy told some girls she liked me, the so-called “grapevine” spread the word; now with the information public, I knew it was safe to approach her.

  This was also the time in my life when I first came across boys being disrespectful to girls. While in the school cafeteria, I heard two classmates, Scott and Bob, talking graphically about how they touched their girlfriends; I thought they were nice girls and I never thought about sharing intimate details with my friends. So, when I heard them, I turned and walked away feeling disgusted.

  Sandy and I became quite an item in the eighth grade. We were always seen in the hallways where I carried her books from class-to-class. Each day we’d meet and sit together in the cafeteria during nutrition and lunch. Since everything was going so well with Sandy, I wanted to see her outside of school.

  At the beginning of the eighth grade, I used my savings to buy a new ten-speed Schwinn Varsity bike with curved handlebars to make me more wind resistant when I rode. It was competition blue in color, sleek in design, and the ten gears gave me more speed. I rode the four miles to school every day with my friend Bob; he lived a few blocks from me. My bike gave me the freedom to ride through the streets from my home to school and back again.

  On one of our morning rides, I told Bob I wanted to see Sandy after school. Promising not to tell anyone, Bob understood and rode home alone. After school, I rode to Sandy’s house.

  I saw Sandy once a week after school; I enjoyed being with her and got to talk to her parents. They were wonderful folks who always greeted me with great warmth; it made me feel important when they asked me about my day. I also liked how they displayed affection; always greeting each other with a kiss, and when they walked down the street together, they held hands or her father put his arm around her mother. I never saw those signs of affection from my parents.

  I couldn’t tell my parents I was seeing Sandy after school. Instead, I told my mother I staying after school to participate in sports.

  Wanting to spend even more time with Sandy; I started going over to visit her on Saturday mornings. We’d walk around her neighborhood talking about life. It was wonderful being with her; she made me feel so comfortable that I got brave and began to hold her hand.

  Sandy was just an average student, but she had a passion for music with a good singing voice; she always performed in the school musicals. In the eighth grade, our music department put on a production of “Bye Bye Birdie.” Sandy was one of the kids singing, “The Telephone Hour” where the friends of Hugo and Kim are singing about them going steady. The show was terrific; I felt so proud of Sandy that I sat through it twice.

  Unfortunately, “Bye Bye Birdie” was the end of me and Sandy. During rehearsals, Sandy met Ron who played Hugo. When they became friends, her attention turned away from me; I developed a new and strange feeling inside: Jealousy. This feeling was so overwhelming, I had to confront them. When I found out they’d kissed, I could hardly hold back my tears. My trust was gone, my heart shattered, and my ego was totally deflated.

  With my after school and Saturday visits over, I found solace in watching more television, listening to music, and of course, following my Dodgers.

  With music as part of my everyday life, my favorite singing group was “The Four Seasons.” Many years later, I saw the musical “Jersey Boys.” I was swept back in time to songs I grew up listening to; one in particular was my favorite, “Dawn.” This song is about a young boy telling the girl he loves to go away because he was poor and not good enough for her. He tells her “Now think what the future would be with a poor boy like me.”

  Because this song expressed teenage angst, I identified with it and each time I heard it on radio station KRLA, I felt sorry for myself. After all, I grew up thinking I was poor; always wondering if I could keep a girlfriend.

  The truth was that even though my parents watched every penny they spent, we were a middle-class family. My father was a schoolteacher and my mother was a stay-at-home mom. We owned our home and two cars. Yet, my parents wouldn’t spend on anything besides food, utilities, and a few items of clothing. I remember when we went to Pacific Ocean Park, known as “POP,” an amusement park built on the Venice Pier; I was not able to totally enjoy the park. Through work, my father got free admission tickets; but the rides were extra. I knew a lot about the park because of
the television commercials; I knew the names of most of the rides and I wanted to experience them.

  As we walked around POP, my parents didn’t buy a single ride ticket. Imagine you’re in a restaurant and just being allowed to look at the food? What a bummer!

  My parents were so worried that our country might have another depression, they refused to spend money on anything extra; my material needs were only met to the minimum. I had very little clothing that was sparingly added to when my mother took me shopping every September. The drill was always the same. She’d buy me three shirts, three pairs of pants, three pairs of underwear, three pairs of dark socks, three pairs of white socks, one pair of nice shoes, and one pair of tennis shoes (PF Flyers or Keds). Thankfully, she washed every other day. In the eighth grade, I felt very uncomfortable with only three new shirts so I wisely asked her to buy me madras shirts; those shirts bled. When the colors ran, it looked like I had more than three.

  A big event occurred in the eighth grade: “The Beatles” invasion. When I heard some girls talking about “The Beatles,” I thought they were talking about insects.

  All the talk about “The Beatles” began on the Monday after their first appearance on the “The Ed Sullivan Show.” The girls were writing on their three-ring binders: “I Love John” or “I Love Paul.” Knowing that they were scheduled to appear the next week on the show, I decided to watch that Sunday to see what these four guys were all about. Their performance was amazing; I was entranced by their music, their sound and music was so original. This gave me a new identity when I talked to my classmates the next day; their music became important to my teenage life.