by Dan Caro
Matt and I, more or less, allowed the moment to move over us like an out-of-place rain cloud on an otherwise bright day. As I recall, he kind of rolled his eyes as if to say, “Parents! What are you going to do?” And then we headed off in the direction of his room to check out his music collection.
Chapter Seven
Finding My Own Way
School began to improve for me socially after the first semester. Students who’d heard me playing drums respected how serious I was about my music, and I made a few more good friends through the Mandeville High junior band. Music had a way of cutting through a lot of the social stigma that had always surrounded me. It wasn’t long before my brother Scott and I formed a band called Rain Dogs with a few friends.
I was loving music more and more. I started listening to all kinds of bands and genres that, I’m embarrassed to say, I’d never really heard before. The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, and Jimi Hendrix are just some of the artists I “discovered” during this period; and their music had a profound effect on my psyche, as it did for the generations that came before me.
I started reading books about the hippie movement back in the ’60s and found myself identifying with that whole culture of protests and questioning established values. My brother did, too, and often our views about music and society meshed perfectly.
What wasn’t meshing perfectly for me anymore was the drudgery of school. Topics I used to find interesting— which was just about everything—now seemed stilted and boring, and my grades started slipping. I simply stopped caring about what “the establishment” was telling me I had to learn. I knew for sure that I wanted to steer my life toward music and was eager to learn everything about music history, music theory, and playing the drums. But as Frank Sinatra, the most celebrated crooner of my grandparents’ generation, so famously sang, I wanted to do it my way.
I was becoming a bit of a rebel, which is often par for the adolescent course. My parents, however, weren’t at all happy when it came to my declining grade point average and nonchalant attitude toward schoolwork. It wasn’t unusual for me to be grounded for having blown off an essay or for getting into trouble in some other way at school. I was also not shy about blurting out my opinions on whatever social issue I’d convinced myself I suddenly knew more about than anyone else.
In my head, I was a “revolutionary.” But really, I was just a normal teenager in a not-so-normal body, with some pretty atypical issues to deal with. I needed to flex my intellectual muscles, assert my independence, and test the waters of freethinking individuality. In my mind, that included toying with a little marijuana and booze, partly to make things interesting, and partly to deal with some emotional pain I still hadn’t come to terms with.
I made darn sure that my parents didn’t get wind of this particular side of my rebellion—they would have gone ballistic if they’d known—so I became sneaky and learned how to cover my tracks. I think I pulled it off, but then again, my mother and father are very smart people. What I do know for sure is that I was never dumb enough to let either one of them catch me red-handed with a joint! I was grounded plenty of times, but never for doing anything that would have broken my parents’ hearts.
SCOTT AND I SPENT A LOT OF TIME playing with our band. We practiced at least twice a week, usually at one of our bandmate’s homes—whoever could convince his parents to let us have loud jam sessions in their garage that week. When our parents were out of town, my brother and I would invite friends over and have late-night jams at our house. We actually got pretty good as a band and developed a small but faithful following in the area; we’d play at house parties, community centers, coffee shops, and the occasional benefit or battle of the bands.
I began to feel incredibly connected to the Rain Dogs and to the idea that I was really contributing something to the world. I was actually creating art, which reverberated within me as something truly important. This was an ability that was all my own and had absolutely nothing to do with the trauma I’d suffered as a child.
The art of the music was mine, and when I played in the band or even just hung out with the friends who came to our gigs or rehearsals, I felt alive in a way I never had before. It had to do with being part of something creative that was actually outside of my own body. My “sound” was part of my essence—it was truly in me as a striving artist—and floated up and out across the room in the form of a great beat, a rocking rhythm, and a fleeting piece of beautiful music. My art was making people happy.
While I may not have been thriving academically, I did begin to develop musically at Mandeville High. Not only was I playing drums with the junior band and constantly performing with the Rain Dogs, I also began seeking out and landing gigs with other bands when they needed a drummer to pinch-hit.
After I sat in on a gig with my drumming teacher, Glenn, everything started to mushroom—I was getting calls to play for bands all around the area, with musicians who were 20 to 30 years older than I was. This was quite different from jamming with a bunch of teenage boys. I was playing with real, professional musicians and hitting my drums to some of the greatest jazz standards ever written!
It was heady stuff, and at first I was intimidated by the thought of playing with such high-caliber performers with so much experience and expertise. Some of these older men were apprehensive about me at first, too, because of my age and the fact that I was a handless drummer! But in the end, they just wanted to make sure I could play at their level—and after they saw how I handled myself in the throes of a hot jam session, they accepted me.
It was strange, but I fit in with these guys as though I’d been playing for decades, not just a few years. They’d call me out of the blue to sub for a drummer who couldn’t make it that night, and I was there, drumsticks in hand (so to speak). As a developing musician, it was an enormously educational experience to play rock ’n’ roll one night with a bunch of teenagers, and then jazz standards the next with a group of seasoned pros. I learned how to handle myself no matter who or what the crowd was, and that knowledge couldn’t have come at a better time.
FOR SOME TIME, I’D HAD A GROWING FEELING that I needed something spiritual in my life, which my parents’ religion could not fulfill. Along with questioning established authority, I couldn’t help but question what the Catholic Church and my parents had taught me to believe. I came to a point where I’d had enough of my family’s morning prayers and going to church. When it got right down to it, I no longer felt the least bit like a committed Catholic.
Catholicism had obviously been a huge part of my formative years, and it had long been the pillar of my parents’ beliefs. We had prayed the rosary as a family every morning since I could remember, seldom missed Mass on Sunday, and had made two trips to an apparition site in Yugoslavia to pray for the Virgin Mary to miraculously make my ruined body whole. We were most definitely a Catholic family! Yet as I discovered other philosophies and expanded my intellectual and artistic sensibilities, I was forced to take a hard look at what being Catholic meant to me.
For a while, I was confused about my identity. On one level I was an up-and-coming “hippie” idealist/musician; on another, I was an anxious young man who couldn’t even attract the attention of a girl. I was continually tormented when it came to the opposite sex and felt doomed to be alone and without love forever.
As I sank into darkness, I sought further refuge in substances. Alcohol and marijuana were my drugs of choice, and I became very reckless and self-destructive. This all coincided with my rebellion against Catholicism … and whenever someone starts to question his faith, it ultimately comes down to his perception of his personal self-worth.
I bemoaned my fate, wondering why God had chosen me to live a life of misery. It didn’t make sense that I’d been so badly burned, and seemed incredibly unfair. I cursed God for causing me so many years of pain—for inflicting such suffering on me when I was a small, helpless, innocent child. The more I dwelled on how unjust God had been, the more time I sp
ent drinking, getting high, and staying awake all night wrestling with questions that had no answers.
Finally, I listened to my gut and asserted my independence: I stopped going to Mass altogether, breaking free from the Catholic Church. At first the break left me even more alone and confused, and I tumbled down into the depths of my own sorrow.
I know now that all of my inner battles about whether God was to blame for what happened to me were not only silly, but they were a colossal waste of energy. The only thing my negative thinking accomplished was to drag me deeper into the quicksand of self-pity and despair. The more I fought against what had happened to me in the past, the more I sank.
The simple answer is that there is never a way to turn back the clock. There is only the constant beat of forward movement. After a few years, this is what I came to know and understand. The biggest lesson life would eventually teach me is that there really are no negatives—every experience is simply an opportunity, and what we do with it determines if it helps or hurts us.
If someone had told me in the midst of my adolescent struggles that I’d choose to be burned as a child in order to learn valuable lessons, I would have laughed in his face (or better yet, punched him in the nose). And yet today, I’m convinced that the life I have is the life I chose for myself. But we all have to travel our own winding paths to make such discoveries, and in high school, I was still finding my way.
While I may not have become known as a young radical or my school’s resident philosopher, I did earn a reputation as a talented drummer and solid musician; and that reputation opened new doors for me socially, academically, and professionally.
DURING MY SOPHOMORE YEAR , hundreds of other students from Mandeville High and I had to move to another school with the very Louisianan name of Fontainebleau. It turns out that our old school was bursting at the seams with an overflow of students. Fontainebleau High School was a brand-new facility—and in many ways, it was a brand-new start for me.
Unlike my old high school, Fontainebleau offered a special program designed for gifted music students, and I was accepted into its very first class … of which I was the only boy. What’s more, I was only the second drummer allowed into a specialized program in the entire school district. As ridiculous as it sounds, drummers had not been thought capable of comprehending the intense music-theory aspect of such a class. And when the administrators saw me, with my particular “restrictions,” they wondered if I’d handle the compulsory class requirement of playing at least some basic piano chords. Clearly, I had no fingers, and that ruled out the piano. But my teacher, Mrs. Rebecca Gillan, fought hard to get me into that program, and she won.
So there I was, Danny Caro: a gifted young drummer with star potential; a newly minted doubting Catholic; and a teenage boy with surging hormones, the only boy in a prestigious music class full of pretty teenage girls.
Adding to my teenage angst was the fact that Fontainebleau High School was so new that it was still under construction. This meant that some of the classrooms, including our music room, hadn’t been fully finished when the students arrived. So for the first year, the gifted music class was held in a small utility room essentially the size of a large walk-in closet. I spent every class snugly surrounded by five girls who were all exceedingly talented, nice, and (did I mention?) attractive!
For the most part, these girls didn’t seem to mind that I looked different from any other boy they’d ever seen. I had only two-thirds of my hair, I didn’t have hands, and my entire face was completely scarred. I’m guessing they must have assumed that the rest of my body had been burned just as horribly as the parts they could see (but as I’ve mentioned, I was wearing a soggy diaper when I was caught in the explosion, so I’m happy to report that some very important parts of me remain completely undamaged).
Even though my classmates didn’t look like they wanted to flee in horror every time I entered that tiny classroom, as some people have when forced into close proximity with me, none of them seemed interested in taking things beyond friendship. And at first that was just fine. The class was so small, and we worked so intimately together as a group, that a student romance could have ruined the class dynamic. On top of that, ever since an incident with a girl named Mandy in the fourth grade, I’d been hesitant to approach a member of the opposite sex for fear they’d reject or laugh at me—or do both.
Celebrating my second birthday in our backyard, November 16, 1981.
Playing around as a toddler.
At age two, dressed as a cowboy.
At the Shriners Hospital for Children in Boston shortly after the accident, June 1982.
Playing outside Shriners Hospital.
With my mom and constant companion, Marilyn.
Out whale watching while on a day pass from Shriners Hospital for Children in Boston.
Celebrating my fi fth birthday at Shriners Hospital, a few days after one of my surgeries.
Enjoying Christmas with my two older brothers, Johnny (on my shoulder) and Scott, 1983.
With my good pals Pluto and Dumbo, 1985.
An early passport photo.
Dressing up as Rambo for Halloween, 1985.
After yet another of my countless reconstructive surgeries at Shriners Hospital, 1986.
On a road trip with my big brothers, Johnny (left) and Scott.
In the classroom at age ten. Although I’d mastered the art of writing without fingers, it would take another two years before I could tie my own shoelaces. (Photo by Susan Poag, © 2009 The Times-Picayune Publishing Co., all rights reserved. Used with permission of The Times-Picayune.)
The “big game”! Squaring off against an opponent on the basketball court. (Photo by Susan Poag, © 2009 The Times-Picayune Publishing Co., all rights reserved. Used with permission ofThe Times-Picayune.)
Easter 1990, when I was crowned King of the Parade.
With Jefferson Parish Sheriff Harry Lee.
My official school picture, age 12.
At my eighth-grade graduation from Terrytown Academy, 1993.
With other guests of The Montel Williams Show, 1993.
Acting crazy and goofing around at home in 1994.
Celebrating my 15th birthday with my younger brother, Paul.
My 1997 high-school graduation photo.
Playing at the world famous Tipitina’s in New Orleans with the band Dimorphodon.
Playing at the French Quarter Festival in New Orleans with the band Michael Ray & the Cosmic Krewe, 2003.
Speaking at the 2003 Shriners International convention in Minneapolis. My parents, John and Marilyn, are right behind me.
In front of my Brooklyn apartment with my dog, Dixie.
Playing at a local nursing home with my dad (on the trumpet) and some friends in 2007.
With my friend Wayne Dyer in Tampa, October 2008.
MANDY WAS THE VERY FIRST GIRL I ever had a crush on, and to my young eyes, she was the most beautiful creature ever to have drawn breath. She sat directly across from me and had silky-smooth, shiny brown hair that cascaded across her shoulders and flowed halfway down her back. Her eyes were the deep, rich brown of darkened chestnuts; and I felt my stomach do little flips when she looked in my direction. For much of that year, I could only think and talk about Mandy.
By that time I had made friends with many of the kids at Terrytown Academy, was doing well academically, and held my own in any impromptu playground games of basketball or tag. I was a popular student, much more so than Mandy. Because she was also kind of shy, I guess I figured that would make me a shoo-in for her affection. I was sure I had a good shot at becoming her boyfriend, but I wanted to play my cards just right. So I kept my crush a secret until the perfect moment presented itself for me to reveal to her what was in my heart.
After Christmas, I was flipping through the family calendar on the kitchen wall when it hit me. The perfect moment for me to profess my love had already been determined: February 14.
With some friends’ encouragement, I de
signed a personal Valentine’s Day card for Mandy. As carefully as I could without hands, I drew pictures of flowers all over the yellow cardboard paper I’d selected for the special occasion. Then I wrote a little poem to go along with the drawing: Roses are red / Violets are blue / But none of these pretty flowers are as beautiful as you!
On the morning of the special day, I made sure to be in class before anyone else so that I could slip the card discreetly to Mandy as soon as she sat down at her desk. I was so nervous and excited that I couldn’t look at her all morning. I figured she’d come up to me at recess to thank me for my gift, but when the bell rang, the object of my affection was up from her seat and out the classroom door without so much as a glance in my direction.
When I went outside, I spotted Mandy by the swing set she liked to hang out at with her friends. I saw that she was with a group of five or so girls, who were standing in a circle and passing my card around. Each time someone saw the card, a fresh peal of laughter would rise up above the playground.
I hung back out of sight until the bell rang and the girls went back to class. Once they were gone, I went over to the swings and found what was left of my Valentine’s Day offering lying in a hundred pieces in the mud. After her friends had taken turns laughing at it, Mandy had shredded my gift and stomped it into the ground.