Read Online The Tooth Fairy: Parents, Lovers, and Other Wayward Deities (A Memoir) by Clifford Chase - Free Book Online
Authors: Clifford Chase
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Shandy
.
Every twenty-two-year-old is lost in the effort of formation, but some more than others—more secretive, more fumbling, more
“from scratch,” more thwarted, more hopeless, more undaunted, more against-all-odds.
Chris broke out giggling at the slightest sign of humor, so he was constantly saying, “Sorry. Sorry. Go on.”
Chris also turned out to be gay, but that was later.
I reread
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
.
Liz told me she had never met anyone so sensitive.
The fear of exposure, the self-ridicule, the inward no-no-no, the ickiness, the closed loop, the hope that somehow I
could
be different, the forced blooms of hetero desire, the sheer effort of it all, the constant expenditure of mental and emotional
energy.
“Can you name, name, name, name them today?” sang Kate and Cindy on the morning of my exam.
In the book-lined office I took my seat before the three professors—and froze.
I couldn’t seem to answer any of their questions.
At one point I said, “Am I getting warmer?”
“He was, however, clearly nervous,” said the evaluation, “and this led to a self-consciousness in his answers that produced
a rather blocked exam. There was a disappointing tentativeness to his performance—though he knew his texts, he hadtrouble deploying them in the exam context … When encouraged to develop a perspective he had thought through, he tended to
lose the edge of his argument and become distracted and diffuse … He managed to convey an ability he did not fully demonstrate.”
Afterwards, Mike comforted me over a beer.
Of Liz I wrote: “There is something missing—what is it?”
Whenever I told my therapist I might be gay, he threatened to send me to the gay counselor on staff.
Description of Liz: “She is Chinese. She has long hair, a face like a Gauguin. She is very insecure. But when we are just
alone and talking, none of the negative matters.”
Invitation from a friend in Texas to come live in Austin, where a guy she knew was making a movie that I could work on.
Describing a single B-52’s song from start to finish would be like climbing inside a dream of my frustrated, secretive youth.
Regarding Liz: “I want to kiss her, I want to touch her. But there are blocks, blocks, BLOCKS. Obstacles.”
“Can I ever stop pressuring myself to feel certain things?”
Tinny sixties organ, like some forgotten Morse code. “Remember,” Cindy breathily confides, “when you held my hand.” A succession
of girl-group fragments. She’s stuck in a world of clichés, seeking glamorous wisdom. I feel for Cindy—she’s lost her man.
The faint toy piano: generic scary-movie“insanity.” At last the stock phrases give way to screams: “Why don’t you dance with me? I’m not no limburger!” Comic but
also kind of heartbreaking. She’s only screaming like I wish I could. Fred chimes in now, the circus ringleader: “Dance this
mess around!” Whipping up the animals, egging on the dream. The guitar insists, and now Kate tells of parties at which she,
also a “mess,” is danced around in various styles—“shy tuna … camel walk … hippy shake.” I, too, knew the hippy shake—it could
still be seen at parties in Santa Cruz, circa 1980. I, too, a mess—though never so artfully described as by Kate’s trumpet-y
soprano, slightly raspy, almost screechy—singing the title sentence over and over, in ever wilder melodies, as if in madness
or abandon, while the others sing their “yeahs”—affirmation at last?
A cute guy from the dorm told me he freaked out on acid and saw a giant grasshopper up in a field.
Chris ran as a convention delegate for Ted Kennedy, who opposed Carter in the Democratic primary, but I voted for Chris out
of personal loyalty rather than political zeal.
“All afternoon I was lying here trying to have a nap and feeling like I am breaking apart emotionally. Pressure on all sides:
parents, school, myself, Liz, and finally my
.
Every twenty-two-year-old is lost in the effort of formation, but some more than others—more secretive, more fumbling, more
“from scratch,” more thwarted, more hopeless, more undaunted, more against-all-odds.
Chris broke out giggling at the slightest sign of humor, so he was constantly saying, “Sorry. Sorry. Go on.”
Chris also turned out to be gay, but that was later.
I reread
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
.
Liz told me she had never met anyone so sensitive.
The fear of exposure, the self-ridicule, the inward no-no-no, the ickiness, the closed loop, the hope that somehow I
could
be different, the forced blooms of hetero desire, the sheer effort of it all, the constant expenditure of mental and emotional
energy.
“Can you name, name, name, name them today?” sang Kate and Cindy on the morning of my exam.
In the book-lined office I took my seat before the three professors—and froze.
I couldn’t seem to answer any of their questions.
At one point I said, “Am I getting warmer?”
“He was, however, clearly nervous,” said the evaluation, “and this led to a self-consciousness in his answers that produced
a rather blocked exam. There was a disappointing tentativeness to his performance—though he knew his texts, he hadtrouble deploying them in the exam context … When encouraged to develop a perspective he had thought through, he tended to
lose the edge of his argument and become distracted and diffuse … He managed to convey an ability he did not fully demonstrate.”
Afterwards, Mike comforted me over a beer.
Of Liz I wrote: “There is something missing—what is it?”
Whenever I told my therapist I might be gay, he threatened to send me to the gay counselor on staff.
Description of Liz: “She is Chinese. She has long hair, a face like a Gauguin. She is very insecure. But when we are just
alone and talking, none of the negative matters.”
Invitation from a friend in Texas to come live in Austin, where a guy she knew was making a movie that I could work on.
Describing a single B-52’s song from start to finish would be like climbing inside a dream of my frustrated, secretive youth.
Regarding Liz: “I want to kiss her, I want to touch her. But there are blocks, blocks, BLOCKS. Obstacles.”
“Can I ever stop pressuring myself to feel certain things?”
Tinny sixties organ, like some forgotten Morse code. “Remember,” Cindy breathily confides, “when you held my hand.” A succession
of girl-group fragments. She’s stuck in a world of clichés, seeking glamorous wisdom. I feel for Cindy—she’s lost her man.
The faint toy piano: generic scary-movie“insanity.” At last the stock phrases give way to screams: “Why don’t you dance with me? I’m not no limburger!” Comic but
also kind of heartbreaking. She’s only screaming like I wish I could. Fred chimes in now, the circus ringleader: “Dance this
mess around!” Whipping up the animals, egging on the dream. The guitar insists, and now Kate tells of parties at which she,
also a “mess,” is danced around in various styles—“shy tuna … camel walk … hippy shake.” I, too, knew the hippy shake—it could
still be seen at parties in Santa Cruz, circa 1980. I, too, a mess—though never so artfully described as by Kate’s trumpet-y
soprano, slightly raspy, almost screechy—singing the title sentence over and over, in ever wilder melodies, as if in madness
or abandon, while the others sing their “yeahs”—affirmation at last?
A cute guy from the dorm told me he freaked out on acid and saw a giant grasshopper up in a field.
Chris ran as a convention delegate for Ted Kennedy, who opposed Carter in the Democratic primary, but I voted for Chris out
of personal loyalty rather than political zeal.
“All afternoon I was lying here trying to have a nap and feeling like I am breaking apart emotionally. Pressure on all sides:
parents, school, myself, Liz, and finally my
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