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the ghost that's fueled my body dysmorphia for 40 years
The school year of 1986-87 was what would be the lowest point of my teenage years. Not yet having come into the rewards of puberty. I was still sporting excess baby fat, eyeglasses that occupied over half my face, a haircut that epitomized my self esteem in the way it covered my eyes and a gentle demeanor that teachers described as sensitive The year of my seventh grade, after a moment of weakness from feeling guilty, I allowed myself to be talked into moving to Sacramento to live with my dad whose younger wife had just run out on him with his two kids.He had married his secretary's 18 year old kid sister in a quickie Las Vegas ceremony six years prior when he was 32. Now pushing 40, he was reevaluating everything after being accused of neglecting his relationship. This was his way of trying to make up for what was too late for his wife. I had visited him the previous Christmas and been completely taken aback that he actually paid attention to me. He had never taken an active interest in me before and I looked forward to getting to know him over time but moving in with him seemed hasty. I worried about what I was getting myself into as he loaded his pickup truck with my stuff the last day of my sixth grade school year. He had come all the way to my house in suburban Seattle so I knew I had to go through with it. I failed to speak up because I feared that I would offend either of my parents. By silencing my voice, I became a pawn of their guessing games and ended up suffering a watershed year of my development.
The mean spirited kids from my new class at St. Mel's of Sacramento pounced on me the minute I walked into the classroom on the first day. After taking the only available seat in the last desk in the furthest row, I noticed that my legal name of Michael Angelo was written in magic marker on a sticker affixed to the desk. As was the custom every first day at a new school, I raised my hand to let the teacher know I preferred to be called by my middle name of Tommy. Being named Michael Angelo was a result of my father's insistence that he pay homage to his father's brother, a commercial artist who had worked on the Gerber baby campaign. My mother predicted the inevitable artist comparisons in my future and tried to convince him to let me be named by the one she preferred. Tom was the name of her brother and father. They compromised by legally naming me Michael but addressing me as Tommy. I only had to contend with the Michael Angelo thing on the first day of the school year if it was new. This was such a case. After I said what I needed to say, a wave of twittering laughter could be detected among the sea of desks. I wondered what I could have possibly done to warrant such a reaction but I knew the answer in the pit of my stomach. They had detected the reason I preferred to hang out with girls instead of boys. I was never one of the guys and knew I wouldn't be chummy with these boys, all dressed identically in our uniform of grey cords, white shirt and red sweater. The only hint of individuality was in our choice of shoes. Still most of them had shiny burgundy-brown leather penny loafers on in various brands. I was wearing Topsiders. At least I wouldn't get teased for my wardrobe but the kids were standoffish, cliquey and cruel just the same.
Dropping into the culture of established snobbery among the urchins of this parochial school in preppy Fair Oaks, all so called Catholic values of "love thy neighbor" went out the window. Later in study hall, after running out of paper, I asked my seatmates for another piece. "I thought I had plenty", I explained. Suddenly, a group of boy bruisers buzzed around my ear mocking me in lisping tones, "Do you have pleeennnntyyyy Tommy? Do you have P-L-E-N-T-Y?, they whispered in hot breaths into my ear. Maybe it was the way I enunciated the consonants or used the world plenty instead of enough to describe my supply of binder paper but in reality I knew the tell-tale tone of my voice had revealed a discernible gay accent. It was usually most prevalent on the telephone which I discovered when the caller addressed me as Mrs. Angelo.
When I joined the chorus of the Sacramento Children's Theater's production of Grease, it was my first exposure to affiliating with kids from public schools. I didn't hang with kids in general as evidenced by my closest confidante and only contact outside of school being Diana, the most exotic of the three nannies my Dad hired to mind me that year. A self described chanteuse, her roots hearkened from the sequins and stale liquor inherent in the lounges of Bobby McGees and other stripmall pickup joints. It may have been Vegas on the cheap, but it was the closest exposure to show business I would find in Sacramento's square mileage. Diana was hired right around my 13th birthday and presented me with a gift of Shirley Maclaine's autobiography. Shirley was on the cover dressed up as Charity Hope Valentine complete with heart shaped tattoo that said Charlie, one of her exes in Sweet Charity.
Diana recognized my affinity for the genre of dramatic arts and nurtured its blossoming. By the time I went to bed the night I met her, I was armed with a list of golden age films to "must see". This was why she was the best suited to share in my enthusiasm at joining the cast of Grease. Upon picking me up from the crowded warehouse after my first rehearsal, she said, "a star is born" on our way to the car.
Weekend rehearsals were coveted as much as they were loathed on my schedule. I painstakingly planned my outfits to alternate every other weekend,
lest my limited collection of oversized Generra be recognized. Generra, the uber-trendy 1980s label was a result of having a stylish and contemporary mother that influenced my choices. For example, she was the kind of mom who understood the urgency in making a pit stop on the way to a dinner engagement to find me gelly-bracelets that I had identified as de rigueur among teenage fashionistas. After twisting them into the required complementary color combination loop and pushing the sleeves of my sweater up, I could now join the human race. I wouldn't have bothered explaining the concept to my dad because of something he told me once. "We're in this together and I'm not here to hold your hand." He hadn't exactly identified what he meant by "this" but I imagined it as Judy Garland expressed it in a dirge, "When you walk through a storm...walk on through the wind, walk on through the rain..." Once I made the mistake of letting my dad know that Meredith, the most popular of the Pink Ladies lived three doors down from our house on Big Canyon Lane. My dad pestered me to no end about approaching the teen queen about carpooling, a possibility that sent chills down my back. "Why can't you just go up and knock on their door?" my dad would say while driving by her house. "They're never home," I lied. I would say anything to avoid the awful inevitable. Meredith played Rizzo,
queen of the Pink Ladies. Her name was worth total star billing on the marquee of our social scale. My anonymous post amid the cattle of the chorus wasn't enough to bear consequence. Plus she was chummy with the director and crew. I once watched as she was crucified for forgetting to wear her Pink Ladies jacket to one rehearsal. "Well maybe you don't want to be a Pink Lady," seethed the ego driven director. He dangled her star status above her like a candy that could be taken away at any moment. I had once heard kids gossip that Meredith liked to get "fried on acid", a practice that I imagined had something to do with the way she teased her bangs to attain their fried crunchy texture. Meredith was a tormented teen and a source of great mystery. I could never have gathered the gumption to enter her realm, lest she turn my head to stone.
When I wasn't being shuttled to and fro in forced participation of rehearsing crowd scenes, I sat in silent observation of the company's teenage boys. Cast to make up the student body of Rydell High, the older boys stood out like rebels of their own cause. I listened with fascination to their stories of sexual hijnks and scores. Either cast as T-Birds or look-a-likes they were all playing bad boys.
As the show's debut neared on the calendar, rehearsals became more familiar. Soon, I had begun to recognize regulars and put names to faces and musical numbers. One day I overheard a guy attempting to describe someone he was trying to single out as an object of ridicule to be identified by his listening friends had it not been for the name he couldn't remember. As he continued to throw out bits of discernible details to no avail, someone chimed in with, "You mean the one that wears the Japanese sweatshirts all the time?" I knew he was talking about me since he had once asked me where I obtained my clothes and I had answered, "Japan" which was half-true since I did have a handful of knockoffs my stepdad had smuggled back from Korea. I was grateful that this guy's attempt to offer me up for sacrifice went unheeded by the guy holding court and I breathed a sigh of relief at the same time I stuffed a sinking feeling of dread for what it revealed about the way I was regarded in this group.
Backstage on opening night, I snapped photos of the most attractive members of the cast. My cousin Ellen was in the show as a Beauty School Dropout chorine but trying to take her picture proved fruitless as she held up a fishnet hairnet to block her face.I finished out the role by snapping the leads like purloining paparazzi. I had watched the guy cast as Danny Zuko belt out Travolta's tunes like the son of Sinatra. The number Hopelessly Devoted to You was to serve as soundtrack and mantra to my most tangible of crushes. The Latin-like lover of my first Broadway show looked like Rudolpho Valentino and amassed as much fanfare. I surreptitiously tried to snap his photo only to learn upon developing the roll that he was 100% aware of it. Smiling at me from the other side of the high gloss paper, his face revealed a friendly easy gong welcome sign. [I translated it as evidence of his devotion. Then I tucked the photo into my album for posterity. Coming upon the long forgotten photos after two decades of neglect, I decided to dispose of all the forgotten faces except for the dreambeau Danny. My most favorite T-Bird and first boy crush has been captured for eternity. Danny, the first guy I looked up to on stage.. Danny...the older brother figure I never had... Danny had smiled at me and I had a picture to prove it... Dear Danny-- my love... I've always been hopelessly devoted to you. This is for you
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