Read Online Naked in the Promised Land by Lillian Faderman - Free Book Online
Authors: Lillian Faderman
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mother left for work, I stripped my nightgown off and gazed at my naked self in the dresser mirror. The reflection confirmed what I'd felt even more than looking down at myself could. My waist was the same, but my hips had definitely grown out of their little-boy shape. And farther, down there, little tendrils spread from the center like delicate new twigs on a tree. But it was the flesh on my chest that awed me the most—not like my mother's full breasts, but beautiful in its own way, soft and so tender, almost like something seen through mist.
No doubt about it, I was on my way to becoming a woman. Standing there opposite the mirror, I envisioned myself in the ravishing trappings of womanhood that I'd adored on actresses—flounced and draped gowns and opulent furs, seamed nylons and high heels, glossy lips and come-hither eyes. But the pleasure in my new self was bittersweet, really. I was leaving childhood. I would never be a child star. I'd failed in my life's first mission.
***
In a decayed old building on the corner of Wabash and Evergreen avenues, there was a radio and phonograph repair shop, and in its window stood an ornate record player and a cunning statue of a dog whose head wagged perpetually at his master's voice coming from a giant horn. Most days on my way home from school I stopped to stare at the dog and the record player and, farther back in the window, the dusty assortment of wooden radios and tape recorders with big reels. Suddenly they were all gone. Through the window I could see that the shop was empty of everything but dust. For weeks it stood empty.
Then, a few months before my twelfth birthday, two plaster masks—comedy and tragedy—appeared in that same window (spotlessly clean now), surrounded by pink satin toe shoes and black patent leather tap dancing shoes, and above, in a grand flourish with gilt paint, a sign announced, THEATRE ARTS STUDIO! OPENING SOON! REGISTER NOW ! Next to it hung a picture of a woman—with blond hair that fell to her shoulders in shiny waves, full lips that turned up in a fetching smile, a scooped blouse that revealed creamy skin. IRENE SANDMAN, EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR , it said under the picture (the title alone dazzled me, though I had no notion what an executive director was). I could hear myself breathing through my mouth. Could it be true? Could there suddenly be a place like this in East Los Angeles, with a woman who looked like a movie star, an EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR who might show me the way to Hollywood?
I came back every afternoon to try to find out what register now! meant and to gaze, slack-jawed, at the beautiful picture, but the door was always closed.
One day, finally, though the inside was still dark, the door to the Theatre Arts Studio was open, and there stood the woman of the photograph, hanging a watercolor of little tutued ballerinas on the wall. My heart shook. I'd never seen anyone so splendid-looking in the flesh, so statuesque on her high heels and long legs, her deep slim waist clenched by a broad golden belt. I stood at the door and her heavy perfume reached me. My head whirled.
Her arms stretched gracefully to straighten the framed picture, then she turned. I'd startled her, and she blinked. Violet blue eyes with long
dark lashes. I hadn't known such eyes existed off the movie screen.
"May I help you?" Her voice was movie-actress rich. Later, when it played itself in my head over and over, I called it
liquid gold,
though I'd never seen such a thing. I imagined liquid gold would be as bright as a brand-new penny, yet mellow somehow, and smooth.
My cheeks felt stiff. My tongue—a dry, useless wad—must have mumbled something.
"We'll be starting classes on April first," she answered. "What aspect of theater arts are you interested in?"
I must have said acting. Later I remembered that she'd said I could take private lessons for $1.50 an hour. I must have left the magical dimness where Irene Sandman stood and gone back outside to the
No doubt about it, I was on my way to becoming a woman. Standing there opposite the mirror, I envisioned myself in the ravishing trappings of womanhood that I'd adored on actresses—flounced and draped gowns and opulent furs, seamed nylons and high heels, glossy lips and come-hither eyes. But the pleasure in my new self was bittersweet, really. I was leaving childhood. I would never be a child star. I'd failed in my life's first mission.
***
In a decayed old building on the corner of Wabash and Evergreen avenues, there was a radio and phonograph repair shop, and in its window stood an ornate record player and a cunning statue of a dog whose head wagged perpetually at his master's voice coming from a giant horn. Most days on my way home from school I stopped to stare at the dog and the record player and, farther back in the window, the dusty assortment of wooden radios and tape recorders with big reels. Suddenly they were all gone. Through the window I could see that the shop was empty of everything but dust. For weeks it stood empty.
Then, a few months before my twelfth birthday, two plaster masks—comedy and tragedy—appeared in that same window (spotlessly clean now), surrounded by pink satin toe shoes and black patent leather tap dancing shoes, and above, in a grand flourish with gilt paint, a sign announced, THEATRE ARTS STUDIO! OPENING SOON! REGISTER NOW ! Next to it hung a picture of a woman—with blond hair that fell to her shoulders in shiny waves, full lips that turned up in a fetching smile, a scooped blouse that revealed creamy skin. IRENE SANDMAN, EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR , it said under the picture (the title alone dazzled me, though I had no notion what an executive director was). I could hear myself breathing through my mouth. Could it be true? Could there suddenly be a place like this in East Los Angeles, with a woman who looked like a movie star, an EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR who might show me the way to Hollywood?
I came back every afternoon to try to find out what register now! meant and to gaze, slack-jawed, at the beautiful picture, but the door was always closed.
One day, finally, though the inside was still dark, the door to the Theatre Arts Studio was open, and there stood the woman of the photograph, hanging a watercolor of little tutued ballerinas on the wall. My heart shook. I'd never seen anyone so splendid-looking in the flesh, so statuesque on her high heels and long legs, her deep slim waist clenched by a broad golden belt. I stood at the door and her heavy perfume reached me. My head whirled.
Her arms stretched gracefully to straighten the framed picture, then she turned. I'd startled her, and she blinked. Violet blue eyes with long
dark lashes. I hadn't known such eyes existed off the movie screen.
"May I help you?" Her voice was movie-actress rich. Later, when it played itself in my head over and over, I called it
liquid gold,
though I'd never seen such a thing. I imagined liquid gold would be as bright as a brand-new penny, yet mellow somehow, and smooth.
My cheeks felt stiff. My tongue—a dry, useless wad—must have mumbled something.
"We'll be starting classes on April first," she answered. "What aspect of theater arts are you interested in?"
I must have said acting. Later I remembered that she'd said I could take private lessons for $1.50 an hour. I must have left the magical dimness where Irene Sandman stood and gone back outside to the
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