by Jennie Garth
I stopped riding immediately.
I didn’t tell my parents or anyone else about what had happened, and I pretty much shoved it to the farthest corner of my mental vault until much later in my life. I do know that, at the time, I felt embarrassed and oddly ashamed that this had happened, as though, in some way or another, I’d asked for it just by having the audacity to feel safe in a strange place. Like too many young girls do, I figured that, just because this whack job was a grown-up, he somehow had the right to do this kind of creepy stuff and I was powerless to stop him.
What?
As the mother of three girls—one now a full-fledged teen, another on the cusp of teendom, and one, mercifully, still pretty little—I mean . . . hello! How could I ever have believed that that incident was in any way possibly my fault? Even for a nanosecond? God, I just get angrier and angrier when I think about it now. Of course, I hope this kind of thing never happens to my girls, but statistics say it likely will, so, in the awful eventuality that they find themselves faced with a dude who cannot control himself, I will teach them to shout, punch, kick, scream, call out, or tell faster than GBJ got us out of there. I do not know why it’s taken me becoming a mother myself to feel this kind of fierce protectiveness—toward my own girls and toward my poor younger, supernaive self, but I’m there now and it’s a good, good thing.
But back then, I felt like I was the only person this had ever happened to. It wasn’t until pretty recently, when, I think, I was reading one of Chelsea Handler’s books, and she mentioned that this same kind of disgusting thing had happened to her, that I realized that at least I wasn’t the only one. In the end, having to see Mr. Small Dick on the horse trail was the worst kind of sexual abuse I had to confront, and I know I’m very lucky for this. Way, way too many girls have it much worse.
So I gave up horseback riding, which was, for me, just like riding a bike—it was the most natural thing in the world, and the thing I most loved to do. I couldn’t hide out in my room for the rest of my life, so I started to randomly patch in other things, ridiculous activities that would signal to the world, and hopefully to me, that I was actually okay, like making the cheerleading squad in seventh grade. This turned out to be dangerous in its own way, because, as the new girl on the squad, I got branded as a “stuck-up bitch” by a tough cheerleader from the other side of the tracks, the ringleader, so to speak, who managed to get all the girls to align with her. I cannot for the life of me remember that girl’s name, but she decided immediately that it was absolutely necessary to kick my ass. When the moment actually came and she called me out, I just gave it right back to her and . . . it was on!
This was during lunch recess, and we upperclassmen (this was middle school, remember) were all hanging out by the monkey bars. Miss Head Cheerleader got all up in my face and so I got all up in hers. There was a little bit of slapping and name-calling (have you ever heard two thirteen-year-old girls swear?), and of course I was in a dress and a pair of ridiculous grown-up shoes. (We were all trying to be mature, and so we would wear heels to middle school. It was just so . . . pathetic.) Despite being in absolutely the wrong wardrobe for a schoolyard brawl, I didn’t back down. And I even did my fair share of hitting and hair-pulling. Most important, I didn’t give up. Now, on top of being known as a “stuck-up” cheerleader, I also became known as a “tough” girl, and neither of these labels helped me to feel more settled or popular. I mean, where was my big sister Cammie in her badass El Camino when I needed her? Middle school, there is no doubt, is its own ring of hell. At least it was for me.
On top of all this drama at school, there was a quieter drama brewing in my very own home.
My dad had been struggling ever since his heart attack to find his footing. All those years ago, recovering from quadruple bypass surgery was, it seems to me, a much bigger deal than it is now. It seemed like my dad had to start all over again—on every single level—and now here he was, over fifty with a bad heart, and he needed a job; he needed one soon. It was terrible to know that my already weakened dad was now facing life as a newbie, just like me. We were both trying to pull ourselves out of our separate, but equally deep and mucky ditches.
Before his heart attack, my dad had been pretty heroic in his life, and I’m not saying this from the vantage point of an adoring daughter who couldn’t find any fault with her daddy. He was actually a really accomplished person and had been hugely instrumental in establishing and running the adult-education program in the greater Champaign/Urbana region of Illinois. He even founded and ran a school for low-income adults, providing them with an opportunity to learn to read and gain literacy so that they could improve their circumstances and earn more and parent better. When he’d come home from work, he’d bale hay, tend to the animals, rebuild car engines, and keep a pretty substantial family farm running. He was big and strong and charming and funny and able to lift me, throw me in the air, then catch me with ease, in his fuzzy golden arms. After the heart attack, he could barely catch his breath, let alone me. He became, almost overnight, a completely different man, not just physically, but emotionally, too. He became less demonstrative, less voluble, as though he didn’t trust that he’d have enough energy for even this kind of effort. The transformation in him was remarkable—and devastating for me. I’ve often considered this the first time I ever felt “abandoned” by an important man in my life—the most important man in my life. Of course, this was in no way his fault—and I never blamed him—but the loss really did a number on me. Sorry, Dad.
So here we were—here he was—trying to figure out how to make a living in this strange new place, and my mom was doing the same, and they were both just as dislocated as I was. They’d had to let go of so much (their home, their older children, their incomes), and the toll that must have been taking on their marriage was way more than my prepubescent mind could process and . . . so . . .
At some point in those lost Arizona years my dad moved out of Glendale and up to a tiny patch of barren land in Prescott Valley, Arizona. I guess this was an attempt on his part to go back to the land, to go back to a lifestyle that made more sense to him. GBJ and the rest of our animals were shipped up to his place, and I’m sure this brought him comfort and a sense of purpose. At least he was away from the traffic (and the flashers!) and an education system that couldn’t find a place for him. I know he was just trying to keep an important part of our heritage intact, to keep a way of life that had been so good for our family alive, however nominally. I think he wanted to find a way to keep things from changing too much, to keep things from slipping away from him, and I understand this, I do, because I’ve done this in my own life, too. I finally get this about him, and I totally respect it. He just wanted to keep the best of us, the best of the Garths, alive to the best of his ability.
But my parents never did explain that separation to me, and all I can really remember about it is that I would go up to my dad’s place on weekends to spend time with him and to visit the animals, including GBJ. I was a restless, more than slightly dazed and confused teen, and so I’d be bored out of my mind up there, itching for something, anything, but who knew what? I look back now and regret that I’d whine to my dad about how boring it was to be there with him. I wish I could take all of that petulance and restlessness and put a lid on it. I’d go back and take one of those long drives we’d take in his battered little pickup truck, when we’d drive through the mountains of that valley, two strangers in a strange land, trying to chart our course.
Maybe I’d even tell him that I was scared and lonely, and that I missed Cammie and my other brothers and sisters, and that I didn’t understand why we had left home. But if I couldn’t, because I’d become too shy, too hesitant, then at least I’d ride along beside him and let myself feel settled and secure just because he was right there, driving me around in his old truck. If I could do it all over again, I’d let myself ride along beside my dear, sweet dad and just “be.”
Back in Glendale, my mom and I, now o
n our own, left that house in the weird “farm” suburb and moved into a condo in town, and after trying her hand at selling various products like vitamins or insurance through one kind of pyramid scheme or another, she got her real estate license and started selling houses.
Meanwhile, I made it through that middle school (which was, if I recall correctly, on the campus of Sunburst Elementary School) and started high school. Seemingly overnight, there were strange new things in my life, like eyeliner and boys, and, most important, big hair. It was the eighties, after all, and so I had frizzy, ridiculous yellow hair, a young girl’s version of badass makeup, and suburban mall semislutty clothes. I now looked like every other girl at that school, which was exactly what I was aiming for. I honestly didn’t give any of these things any real thought; I just desperately wanted to look like everyone else and fit in, so I could fade into the background. At the same time, I threw myself into a whole bunch of socially acceptable activities in an effort to feel more connected, to act as if I somehow belonged.
There was a dance studio right near our condo, and so I started taking dance classes. I began to spend time there even when I didn’t have class, because I liked the teacher so much. She would let me help out with some chores around the studio, and as I progressed through her classes, I even began to take on some teaching myself, assisting her with the very little girls in beginning tap and beginning ballet. This was, for sure, the most fulfilling part of my Arizona life.
I also—for some inexplicable reason—got a modeling card at this time. There was a strip-mall modeling school there, a franchise with a vaguely European-sounding modeling entrepreneur’s name attached to it. I think my mom thought it would be a good mother-daughter activity, or maybe she was growing concerned as to what had happened to her once sweet, forthcoming little girl. So she enrolled me in the school, where I learned how to walk prettily, apply makeup in an inoffensive way, interview, go on casting calls, take a head shot, and all the seemingly important things that would put a nice polish on that perfect life of mine.
Pretty soon, I started modeling locally. One of my first jobs was for a band uniform catalog. Those uniforms were made out of the weirdest polyester blend and looked sort of like they could have been designed as the flight-attendant uniforms of a third-rate Mormon-run airline. But you know what? This was a real job, and I was getting paid (a tiny amount, but how many kids my age were making money?), and I took it all very seriously. I showed up, put on one of those itchy, hideous band uniforms, and smiled like crazy. I did everything in my power to make those band uniforms look hot. I wanted to do a good job, so I was never late, and I was always polite. I wanted to help my parents as best I could, because they were both struggling. In the end, these first jobs were baby steps toward my future.
CINDERELLA IN THE DESERT
When I was fourteen and a freshman in high school, I heard about some beauty-pageant/talent-show scholarship thing. I honestly cannot remember how I caught wind of it; my mom seems to recall that I was drafted into going by the mothers of my young dance school charges. Since they wouldn’t be allowed backstage, they’d feel better knowing I was there, tending to their little darlings. It wasn’t something I sought out, and it wasn’t something I had ever dreamed about doing; that’s for sure. There was the scholarship, for the winner, which was meant to encourage her to deepen her pursuit of her chosen talent, and I liked the idea of that, seeing that I aspired to be a professional dancer back in those days. But despite these pluses, at first I said no. My mom, however, coaxed me into it, appealing to the girlie side of me, convincing me that it would be fun to dress up and wear makeup and heels, and hey, I couldn’t argue with that. Plus, if I actually could win that money . . . it would be so great if I could pay my own way some and give my parents a break. So I went ahead and signed on.
What was that pageant like, you ask? It was like a suburban fantasy miniversion of the whole Miss America thing. I wore a big, shiny, satiny blue dress, big hair, lots of makeup. When it came to the talent part, I put on a leotard and flitted around the stage doing some kind of lame version of modern dance while my chosen music was played on a boom box. When I watch the video of that performance now, I can see that there was some kind of divine intervention at play, some force that kept me from trying to make a go of it as a professional dancer. But you know what? I was able to speak when interviewed, and I didn’t fall during my dance routine, so in the end, I felt pretty good about it all. The crazy thing is, when they announced the winner, they called my name. I made my way to the stage and a crown was placed on my head. It was all pretty strange.
What I didn’t realize was that winning that pageant, my first, meant I was expected to attend the state-level pageant and do it all over again. That was the only thing about winning I did not like.
I really did not want to do another pageant. In fact, I was so not into it that I told my mom I was more than happy to let the runner-up from that first pageant take my place. My mom had other plans. She’d already read through the long-weekend itinerary, and so she kept ignoring me and instead went on about how fun it was going to be, how it would be like summer camp, but a girlie summer camp, and again, that did it: Now I was a bit . . . intrigued. There would be makeup lessons and shopping excursions. It was going to be quite the big deal over there in Bullhead City, Arizona, where it was to be held.
My mom thought it would also give us some much-needed mother-daughter time, because since we’d landed in Arizona, I’d become even quieter and more withdrawn than I had ever been before. She pointed out that the runner-up from the Phoenix pageant would actually already be there, too, in the all-important role as the first alternate, so see? I would already know one of the other girls, and since we’d all be staying in the same hotel, it was just going to be a blast! The emphasis was all my mom’s, of course: Anybody who knows me has trouble imagining me joining up happily for this kind of thing. Ever.
But what else was going on in my life? Not enough to make me say no, apparently, so off we went to Bullhead City.
Once I got there, I surprised even myself and jumped right into the whole thing. I have to be honest: It was kind of fun being in this hotel with other girls my age, who, by and large, were also pretty clueless as to what they were doing there. Rehearsing the big group dance numbers was really fun, and there was great food and candy, and the whole thing just felt so luxurious for someone who had never stayed in a hotel before. I had traveled around a lot with my family back in Illinois, but that was in the “Pink Zimmer,” our family’s bubblegum-pink mobile home, which was, I must say, still the most fun place to spend a vacation.
I mean, this whole pageant world was the first organized fun I’d had in such a long time, if ever. I didn’t feel any pressure at all, in terms of the “competition”; I just liked being in an air-conditioned wonderland that had a pool and room service, and where my mom and I were treated really well. It wasn’t so bad.
When all was said and done, the girl who won belted out “New York, New York” like she’d been singing it in smoky bars all her life. She really brought the house down. She was also one of the few girls who had grown up in the pageant system, and she had one of those terrifying tiara mothers who makes you instinctively take a step or two back. I came in a respectable fourth, which meant I didn’t suck, and which—more important—also meant that I would never have to do this again.
At the end of this whole experience, just as I was making a beeline for the door, one of the judges, a man named Randy James, whom I now affectionately call “Mr. Showbiz,” approached my mother when I was out of earshot.
Now, I have to stop here and say that Randy is in no way one of those creepy guys who lurks around pageants looking for some kind of trouble. In fact, he was the opposite of that. He—like me—had not even really signed up for this at all; he’d been drafted into it, just as I had. His former boss, a big casting director at ABC television in New York, had been signed up to go, but at the last minute he couldn’t, so
he asked Randy if he’d take his place. Since the man was an old friend and colleague, Randy agreed, not only because he was a good guy, but because it would also give him a weekend away with his new bride, Kelle.
Randy had only recently, at that point, moved to LA to start his own talent agency, and it was Kelle, Mrs. Showbiz, who had pressed him to approach my mother and me.
So we did meet Randy, and I liked him. And I liked Kelle, too. He handed me a stack of index cards, what he called “sides” (short, specific script scenes that are used in auditions), and then he asked me if I’d memorize them and come back and read them for him the next morning at breakfast, before we all left for home.
I found myself saying, “Sure,” only because Randy and Kelle were so great, so nice, so . . . normal.
So we went down to breakfast on our last morning in Bullhead City and I went and sat with Kelle and went through my lines with her while Randy and my mother talked about the “business.” This was my first experience acting, if that’s what you want to call it, and when Kelle thought we’d read through the sides enough, I went and sat with Randy and we ran through them again. When I was finished, he told my mother, “Your daughter is the only girl here who could have a career in film and television.” When she told me this, after we’d checked out and were driving back to Phoenix, we laughed and laughed. We thought it was the most hilarious, most ludicrous thing we’d ever heard.
My mother also told me that they’d talked a little bit about what it took to work in Hollywood, but she had told Randy, in no uncertain terms, that she didn’t understand how I could work if I didn’t drive yet, hadn’t even been out on a date yet. She just found the whole notion of me somehow getting work in show business to be preposterous relative to where I was in my life; I was a young fourteen, still knee-deep in childhood in so many ways. She knew how terribly shy I was, and there was no doubt, despite the fact that we hadn’t communicated well with each other since our move, that I was still her little girl.