I, Driven: a memoir of involuntary commitment

New Memoir Website--I, Driven: memoir of a teen's involuntary commitment

2008-08-22T13:37:00.000-07:00

Prologue: Caged

[My ex-husband] may feel uncomfortable with my treatment of him, but this memoir isn’t about our life together but our life apart at a time when we wanted to be together.

--The Politics of Memoir

(February 19, 1969)

-
I was driven to Cherokee.

A hazy memory of riding caged in the back of a police car.

Two shadows in the front seat, the county sheriff and a female escort, jabbering. I, cargo, to be delivered from the Woodbury County courthouse to the Cherokee Mental Institution.

Outside, the Iowa landscape bleak:

Cloudy and cold, condensation and frost riming the windows, piles of dirty snow dotting the countryside.

Inside, hot and steamy.

Still, I shivered, my teeth chattering. Please turn up the heat!

But cargo has no voice.

For all the importance of this drive–then and now–I remember little, except for one question:

Am I really crazy?

* * * * *

From I, Driven: memoir of a teens involuntary commitment ("Prologue")

© 2008, by Jennifer Semple Siegel

Excerpt may not be used or copied without author’s permission.

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Jefferson Airplane: "White Rabbit" and "Somebody to Love"

Jefferson Airplane performing live both "White Rabbit" and "Somebody to Love" on the Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour. More
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Additional excerpts, out takes, and new essays

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For New and Improved Page

(Updated Text and Video Clips),

Go to

NewMemoir.com

An Open Query Letter to Literary Agents and Publishers

2007-10-13T18:26:00.000-07:00

I was driven to Cherokee, caged in a police car.

Destination: The Cherokee Mental Health Institute in Cherokee, Iowa.

I had never been charged with a crime–just with youthful indiscretion and recklessness. The Woodbury County court system labeled me, an 18-year-old girl, as mentally ill, a "fit subject for custody and treatment in the Mental Health Institute" (from my court records).

I, Driven: memoir of a teen's involuntary commitment opens with a short scene: I, caged in the back of the police car.

The narrative then shifts to Hollywood, California, Christmas Eve, 1968.

Sex, drugs, and hard rock. Rebellion. Hippies. Flower Power. Vietnam. Make Love, not War. Turn On, Tune In, and Drop Out. The Establishment. The Generation Gap. Naked John Lennon and Yoko Ono. The White Album. Student protests. Hair. The Doors. Women's Liberation.

Richard Nixon. 2001: A Space Odyssey. LSD. Purple Haze.

Blue Moons.

As I grooved on, my frightened grandparents, who raised me, plotted to lure me home to Sioux City, Iowa, to help me "get my head on straight." The memoir’s primary narrative thread covers the months between Christmas Eve 1968 through May 9, 1969: my psychedelic days in Hollywood, return to Sioux City, involuntary incarceration in Cherokee, and, finally, escape to York, Pennsylvania. The narrative also includes some flashbacks to Fall 1968 and from my childhood. In addition, there is a secondary 2004 thread contemplating my return to Cherokee–this time voluntarily and as a visitor.

The manuscript is 415 pages (about 86,000 words). My target audience: baby boomers–those who walked my path and those who wish they had (well, perhaps a little). Also, the book is likely to draw a younger audience; the first person primary narrative thread recreates the youthful voice of 18-year-old Jennifer L. Semple, who could appeal to an 18 to 35-year-old reader.

My publications include The Re-feeding Program, excerpt from "The Big Diet" (short story), The Non-Dieting Weblog (2006); Copyright: Ethics Versus Education in Macedonia (article, page 12), American Writer: Journal of the National Writers Union (2005); Persona Grata (essay), Writer’s Digest Online (2005); Are You EVER Going to be Thin? (and other stories) (2004).

Below are links to a book summary, blurb, synopsis, notes on narrative thread, and research note. In addition, I have also included short excerpts from the memoir.

I would be happy to send to interested AAR agents and/or traditional editors hard copies of the above and/or print copy of the full or partial manuscript. For more information, e-mail me. If you have read this far, thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

Jennifer Semple Siegel

* * * * *

Email Author

Table of Contents for Site

Summary; Book Blurb; Synopsis; Notes on Narrative Thread, Flashbacks, Other Voices, and Dramatization; and Research Note:
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Summary: I, Driven: memoir of a teen’s involuntary commitment

Book Blurb: I, Driven: memoir of a teen’s involuntary commitment

Synopsis: I, Driven: memoir of a teen’s involuntary commitment

Notes on Narrative Threads, Flashbacks, Other Voices, and Dramatization: I, Driven: memoir of a teen’s involuntary commitment

Research Note: I, Driven: memoir of a teen’s involuntary commitment

* * * * *

Excerpts from I, Driven: memoir of a teen's involuntary commitment:

Prologue: Caged

Going to Cherokee: Chapter One (1)

Going to Cherokee: Chapter One (2)

Going to Cherokee: Chapter Two (1)

Going to Cherokee: Chapter Two (2)

Going to Cherokee: Chapter Two (3)

Going to Cherokee: Chapter Two (4)

Going to Cherokee: Chapter Two (5)

Going to Cherokee: Chapter Two (6)

* * * * *

About Jennifer Semple Siegel:
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Resume
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Bio

* * * * *

2001-2007: Never Forget

2007-09-11T20:22:00.000-07:00

Cherokee Memoir is Now Finished!

2007-08-04T22:15:00.000-07:00

I have just completed this memoir, now titled I, Driven: memoir of a teen's involuntary commitment.

The excerpts in this blog are rough drafts of the memoir, which chronicles my 1969 involuntary commitment to The Cherokee Mental Health Institute in Cherokee, Iowa, pictured in this post (I snapped this photo in 2004).

The institution is still in business, but has added a new twist to its business: incarcerating sex offenders.

I'm in the process of shopping the memoir around to agents and editors. For those of you who are writers, you know how difficult it is these days to gain the attention of the powers who decide what gets published. So I have decided to try something a bit different:

I have set up a web page with an open letter to agents and publishers regarding my memoir. I'm also going to try the old fashioned way, but the other night, as I was checking out a domaining blog, I got this brainstorm: why not find a generic domain name and put my promotional information on it?

Amazingly, some great generics having to do with memoir were available and just ready for the plucking (for cheap), so I grabbed several variations. For now, you can see how I have used one of them (I'm still a bit slow with creating web pages):

www.NewMemoir.com

This domain name was parked on Sedo for less than 24 hours and received three browser type-in hits, so I decided to pull it and DO something with it--that's my goal for all my parked pages; I just need to find the time without devoting my entire life to creating web pages. But this one felt important (at least personally).

Don't be afraid to promote yourself and your artistic endeavors on your own blogs and web pages; it may be the only free advertising you will ever get.

Best,

Jennifer

Chapter Thirteen (January 10, 1969)

2006-11-17T13:00:00.000-08:00

Friday, January 10, 1969

(Canoga Park, California)

I’ve split the pad, now at Mom’s.

This morning, when I got back to the apartment from Levi’s, Dee Dee was waiting for me; the place was a mess–he was definitely grossed out.

That pad was never a palace, but Stoney and his creepy doped-up friends didn’t help matters much, smoking weed, shooting horse, dropping acid. Leaving dirty dishes, garbage, and clothes all over–like I’m their mother–and burning plastic bags and letting them drop to the floor, just to see what would happen. Like you couldn’t predict the burn holes in the carpet.

I was going to clean up, but when Dee Dee appeared out of the blue, my plans changed dramatically.

Rudy sold me out for 40 bucks–can you believe that shit? Now Dee thinks all hippies are snitches–made a big show of paying him off.

Rudy would sell out his mother.

Stoney’s still in New York City with all that acid, but I don’t think he’s coming back, and maybe it’s just as well. I don’t think he’s capable of loving anyone, he’s so screwed up. For Christmas, he gave me that jade ring and petrified wood, but then Levi told me he lifted them from Metamorphosis. What a bummer! Some Christmas presents. But I shouldn’t talk–the other day, I lifted some jeans, but never again. I don’t like how I felt afterwards–like I had dirty hands.

I’ll tell you, I’m not going to live with another man out of wedlock; the next boyfriend will have to marry me first. I met a guy two days ago; I thought we were just friends, but he made it very clear what he wanted, but I said, "No, I’m not ready for that yet." Then I told him I had the clap, and he let it go.

Still, I feel so used.

I need to get Stoney out of my head.

Stoney’s so hot right now; those two dicks coming to the apartment on the 5th really freaked me out, but, now, at least, the heat’s bearing down on Rudy. Shooting off that gun didn’t exactly lower his profile–thank God no one got hurt from that stupid stunt–just rattled the whole building; even the other crazies think Rudy’s gone too far.

Those cops warned me they’d be back, though. I don’t want to end up in jail, but Stoney’s headed there, and I could go down with him. I’ve already been picked up twice, for, of all things, curfew violations. But when I proved I’m 18–I always carry my birth certificate–they had to let me go.

I hope Jeff doesn’t get all mixed up with dealing; he doesn’t have the mind set for it. I wonder if he’s coming back? I haven’t heard from him lately, just after Christmas, and he didn’t have anything exciting to report about his holiday. In my last letter, I told him about my close call on New Year’s Eve.

He probably thinks I’m a total idiot.

____________________

Chapter Ten (August 18, 2004)

2006-11-17T12:42:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, August 18, 2004

(Delta Flight to Omaha, Nebraska)
-

I would never see Stoney again.

I have no pictures of him, and yet his image remains grooved in my mind–my first real love, however ill conceived.

Shortly after we parted, I drew a picture of him from memory. I needed to take something from that relationship, to make sense of that whirlwind month.

I may still have that charcoal somewhere, hidden in my attic.

Seems odd to me now, but I never knew much about him: where he came from; who his parents were; where he was born and where he went to high school; what he thought about; his real politics (though we pretended to be liberals); his religion; and his hopes, dreams, aspirations.

I don’t even know if the full name he gave me was genuine or fake.

In 1969, this is what I knew about Stoney: he liked rocks, rock music, and dope; he was born February 2, 1948 (or maybe 1949), making him an Aquarius; and he was tall and handsome in a dangerous sort of way: large amber eyes, slightly slanted, with long dark eyelashes; porcelain skin; and dark wavy hair, cut fairly short–above his shoulders.

He reminded me of the smooth-talking, slick version of the devil.

This is what I now know about Stoney: he didn’t like or respect women very much.

This is what else I know: The day he split for New York, I was dealt the luckiest hand of my life.

____________________

Chapter Seven (January 2, 1969)

2006-11-17T09:10:00.000-08:00

Thursday, January 2, 1969

(Hollywood, California)

Marina Elizabeth Habe, 17-year-old daughter of an actress and a writer, was found slain late Wednesday at the bottom of a thickly wooded ravine off Mulholland Drive. The body was found fully clothed.

The dark-haired daughter of Hans Habe of Zurich, Switzerland, and Eloise Hardt, Habe was home on Christmas vacation from college. She was last seen on Sunday night. "We know the cause of death, but it will be a few hours before it is made public," a sheriff’s homicide officer said, three hours after the body was discovered.
Witnesses said there were no visible marks on the body.
–The New York Times (1)

Stormy

You were the sunshine, baby,
-

Whenever you smiled

But I call you Stormy today

All of a sudden that ole rain’s fallin’ down

And my world is cloudy and gray

You’ve gone away
-

Oh, Stormy, oh, Stormy

Bring back that sunny day

–"Stormy," Classics IV (2)

Stoney pulls himself together after his super acid trip/heroin fix and announces he’s hitchhiking to New York City to sell those 500 tabs of acid–bought cheap in San Francisco last month–
Minus 13 tabs.

I beg him not to go–on so many levels, hitching cross country is too dangerous. Cops, rednecks, thieves, killers, all just waiting to arrest, beat up, roll, or even kill someone careless like Stoney.

Devil-may-care Stoney. I’ve never met anyone who was so slapdash with his dope.

"This shit’s so hot on the east coast," he says. "And I can make a killing."

"I wish you wouldn’t go."

He sighs. "I have to."

I cry as he sews 487 tabs of STP into the lining of his coat.

He kisses me goodbye. "I’ll see you in two weeks."

"Will you?"

"Don’t worry, I’ll be back."

____________________

(1) Excerpt from "Body of Author's Daughter, 17, Is Found in Ravine on Coast." The New York Times, 2 Jan. 1969, 24.

Marina Habe Murder

Possible connection to Charles Manson

Another possible connection to Manson

(2) "Stormy," performed by Classics IV, Written by Perry "Buddy" C. Buien and James R Cobb

Full Lyrics

Chapter Five (January 1, 1969)

2006-11-17T06:26:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, January 1, 1969

(Hollywood, California)

Fire
-

I am the god of hell fire, and I bring you
-

Fire, I’ll take you to burn
-

Fire, I’ll take you to learn
-

I’ll see you burn...

–The Crazy World of Arthur Brown (1)

We’re still rapping as smoke fills the room–I start coughing and gagging.

Panic!

The damn place is on fire!

"Let’s get out of here!" I scream at Mel, Eleanor, and Caesar as they disappear into the smoke."Where are you? Help me, I’ve gotta get out!"

But no one answers, just a chorus of screams.

Somewhere, I find my last bit of strength, and I jump off the bed and run blindly around the room. But I can’t see anything now; the room is dense with gray smoke, the kind that stings your eyes.

I’ve got to get out!

I don’t want to die!

I’m near a window; I stick my head out and take a deep breath. The clammy air feels good, but fires spread fast, like that Chicago fire that killed 99 school kids when I was seven. Afterwards, firefighters found the dead little kids, stiff in their desks, still holding their pencils above charred pieces of paper; I see into the future, my charred body in this room piled on this old, grungy bed–I can’t die like this–

–I’ve got to get out of here.

Will I have to jump?

The concrete slab below seems so far away–how many bones will I break? Maybe I’ll even die.

People scream and cry as they grope their way through the hallway. I start out the window, but halfway out, something clicks in my head–maybe it’s that guardian angel I forgot about–

I’ll take my chances in the hall.

As I grope toward the door, I trip over Caesar. I kick him. "Get the hell up!"

He groans and raises himself up, so I figure he’ll be okay, and why should I care anyway? My so-called friends left me here to die.

Cowards.

In the hall, blinded by smoke, I drag my fingertips along the wall as I navigate toward the stairs, but I can’t get any air into my lungs. Stumbling down the stairs, I hold my breath. The walls don’t feel hot.

Where are the flames?

Suddenly, I’m outside in the cold L.A. air, and I can’t get enough of it into my lungs, and my chest heaves back and forth. My lungs, hurting like hell, fill with air; I hack and cough, and everyone’s coughing up their guts. Outside, on the street, Stoney is passed out, flat on his back, and–

Oh-my-God-he’s-dead!

–But he moans. Caesar, Eleanor, and Mel stand over him, cajoling him to get up–how did he get out, drugged up like that?

"You made it," Eleanor says, as if my making it out alive were of minor consequence.

Cops, hundreds of them in gas masks, rush into the Mission Hotel, their guns drawn.

"What the fuck?"

The Preacher Man, who, an hour ago, was shooting up heroin with Stoney, says, "Tear gas, Jennifer. A goddam police raid. Can you imagine such stupid shit?"

I’m relieved no one’s burned up, but then I’m goddam pissed off because of the window. I would’ve jumped out the goddam window, the goddam fucking window....

____________________

(1) "Fire," from The Crazy World of Arthur Brown album, performed by Arthur Brown

Full lyrics of "Fire"

About Arthur Brown

Chapter Four (December 31, 1968)

2006-11-17T06:12:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, December 31, 1968

(Sioux City, Iowa)

What a mess.

Jennifer’s been missing about a week; my sister-in-law Hazel hasn’t heard from her in ages.

The doorman at Hazel’s building said that a few weeks ago Jennifer and some long-haired hippies tried to talk their way into Hazel’s apartment while she was away, in Las Vegas. Jennifer told him some cockamamie story about leaving a dress behind and wanting to pick it up, but the doorman didn’t buy it–he was sure they were there to steal. He wouldn’t let the hippies in, but agreed to accompany Jennifer to the apartment, where she glanced around and announced, "I can’t find it; I must’ve taken it with me," and left.

I can’t believe that a child of mine would steal, especially from a relative. This can’t be my little girl–it must be the drugs driving her to such despicable behavior.

* * * * *

My little girl. Seems so long ago when we took her away from Mary Lou. Back in ‘57, we had no choice but to go out to L.A. and get Jennifer and the baby out of that situation. Neighbors called, said those kids were running wild, Robin not even two yet, Jennifer her only caretaker. Plus, Mary Lou’s drinking and her fights with Stan escalated, becoming loud and violent–the police called several times.

Then we found out two months after the fact that the girls had been run over by a truck. Thank God, they weren’t seriously hurt, but it was only a matter of time before they’d be injured or worse.

We decided to go out, see for ourselves. We didn’t tell Mary Lou we were coming–too easy for her to mask the situation.

Stan’s a decent man, but our Mary Lou proved to be too much of a handful.
In L.A., with Stan’s help, Olive and I rented, on a month-to-month lease, a furnished two-bedroom apartment in the same building and got ourselves settled and organized.
When we showed up, well after one in the afternoon, Mary Lou was still in bed, hung over. When she came to the door, she looked twice her age, not the 26-year-old woman we gave birth to, her skin yellow and lined, makeup smeared, her snarled hair bleached blond with dark red roots.

"What do you want?" She lit up a cigarette, her hands shaking.

We had some words–not very nice.

We found Robin in her crib, her pajamas sopping wet. The smell was overwhelming–I wouldn’t treat a mangy dog that poorly. She played with her stuffed bunny, talking to herself.

Amazing what kids will tolerate.

"Where’s Jennifer?" I asked.

"Where do you think, asshole? In school."

"No lip," Olive said. "Your father just asked a simple question."

"Who needs it?" Mary Lou asked.

"Why does everything we say have to result in fighting and name calling?" Olive said.

She wasn’t helping matters much–sometimes, it’s better to ignore the nasty words and move on.

"How does she get home?"

"She walks. Do I look like a taxicab?"

I wanted to slap her, but it was more important to pick up Jennifer, get her settled into our apartment, at least for the time being.

"I wasn’t making a judgment. I just want to meet her, that’s all."

Mary Lou mumbled the name of the school and gave me some rough directions.

After a few more angry words, Mary Lou agreed to allow us temporary custody of Robin. Olive took her to our apartment to bathe and feed her; I went to meet Jennifer.

I spotted her about two blocks from home, walking with a boy her age. They held hands.

"Jennifer," I whispered. I didn’t want to frighten her–she might not recognize me right away.

Two years is a long time for a seven year old.

She kept walking.

"Jennifer." A little louder now.

Still, she paused, and didn’t answer.

"It’s Dee Dee, honey," I said, invoking my family nickname.

"Oh, oh, oh!" she said to the boy. "It’s my grandmother, I mean, my grandfather. You’re really here." She took my hand, and tried to steer me to the middle of the block to cross.

"She’s afraid to cross at the crosswalk," the boy said. "But at the jaywalk, she ain’t."

"Don’t worry," I said, gripping her hand. "You’ll be safe with me."

It’s a promise I’ve tried like hell to keep.

* * * * *

I don’t have a good feeling about this situation. We should have done something about Jennifer when we were out in October, but she assured us she was doing fine, although she admitted to experimenting with pot last summer. Said she was through with all that, and she looked okay, so we didn’t intervene–she was working, after all, her employers pleased with her job performance. She caught on fast; they were thinking of sending her to school for more training. But now, I hear, she’s walked off the job–hasn’t called in–nothing. Her supervisor says her job performance has dropped off, but, he, too, is puzzled by her odd behavior, it was so sudden. So unlike her. And then there’s the overdrawn checking account, the bad checks. She’d saved a lot of money–I wonder if someone else is draining her account dry.

Apparently, she’s moved out of the dorm and into some hippie apartment building, God knows where, apparently without a phone. She refuses to tell Hazel or Mary Lou her address, and sporadically shows up, all bedraggled, dirty, and barefoot, looking pathetic and hinting for money and food.

I don’t have any choice. I have to fly out and find her.

–Harley Semple

____________________

Chapter Three (December 31, 1968)

2006-11-17T06:02:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, December 31, 1968

(Hollywood, California)

The window opens to the freeway. As the sun slips behind a hill, I lean forward and breathe in. The air, still unseasonably warm, foreshadows a chill, the specter of the diminishing year only hours away.

Stoney and I’ve been living together since early December at 2001 Ivar Street–we call it our space odyssey, but it’s just a drab, stucco apartment building next to the freeway. The end of the line for a few acid heads, speed freaks, heroin addicts, prostitutes, and crazies with guns. At first, living here was kind of fun, but now I’m getting tired of dealing with these marginal people.

I’m scared.

I’m afraid of getting killed by Rudy, an old freak with no front teeth–he lives downstairs and always packs an iron in his bell bottoms. I’m afraid Tessa, that spade chick a few doors from Rudy, will end up stabbed or shot to death. I’ve never seen so many mean-looking dudes going in and out of the apartment next to hers. Tessa’s so strait-laced, and those creeps always bug the hell out of her, pounding on her door, baiting her. Maybe I shouldn’t care what happens to her, but I do. I’m not that stoned.

Death is too final, too real.

I’m so tired; I drop five bennies, just to get pumped up for the New Year.

-
Ever since he dropped acid yesterday, Stoney’s been acting kind of weird.

Thirteen tabs of STP.

I thought he was going die; he slipped into unconsciousness, face twitching like an epileptic’s, head puffed out like a balloon. I was afraid to call the ambulance, there was so much dope in the place–still is–so I watched until he opened his eyes. I can’t put my finger on it, but he hasn’t been the same since. He keeps talking weird shit, like spreading his wings and flying out our second-story window.

He really scares me.

* * * * *

I hear there’s going be a big blowout at the Mission Hotel tonight. Free dope. You name it, someone’ll have it. As we leave for the party, Stoney’s face is still puffy, his eyes dull. Like, maybe his intelligence was sucked out of his head–like a yolk from its shell. We haven’t made love in days, and at first, we made love all the time. He busted me almost three weeks ago, December 10, 1968. We’d just moved in together. Imagine: me, an 18-year-old virgin. At first, I thought Stoney loved me, he wanted me all the time. Then he started shooting Horse and dropping tons of acid and whatever else he could get his hands on. It doesn’t matter what he drinks, smokes, drops, snorts, or shoots, just so he’s on another plane. Now he’s just another broken down freak, gone out of control. As I watch him zip up his jeans, I sense we are through.

"What’s going to become of us?" I ask.

He looks up at me, his eyes half closed, his mouth hanging open, drool running out of the corners, and he says, "Huh?"

I want to throw up.

Maybe I’ll meet some friends at the party–too bad Jeff’s not here, but maybe Ratt, Eleanor, or Mel will be there. I could use a good friend about now, a shoulder to cry on.

God knows I can’t depend on Stoney anymore.

We hitch a ride to the Mission Hotel. A straight couple from San Jose picks us up. The wife tries luring me away from Stoney, promising me a hot meal and warm bed. Salvation from my life of degradation. Sure. Like I really want to spend New Year’s Eve with Perry Como and his old lady. She thinks I’m only 14–I don’t tell her otherwise. If I keep my mouth shut, maybe she’ll give me some bread.

Sure enough, just before we hop out of the car, the woman slips me 20 bucks.

"Get yourself some help," she whispers.

I stash the money into my pocket, mentally calculating how much weed it’ll buy.

The Mission’s a broken down joint, but it’s happening tonight. Every room’s filled with at least four people. The two-dollar rooms are five bucks ‘cause of New Year’s, but we know just about every freak here–I’ll find a place to party and crash.

Stoney’s on his own.

On the first floor, we stop off in a room full of heroin addicts shooting up; I leave as Stoney ties off a rubber strap around his arm, makes a fist, and taps for a vein. He’ll be out for the rest of the night. I make my rounds to each room, taking a toke here and a toke there, keeping my eyes open for some familiar faces.

On the second floor, I find Mel, Eleanor, and Julius Caesar, an old freak decked out in a Roman soldier costume appropriated from 20th Century Fox, and we sit on the bed, rapping. I tell them I’m sick and tired of all the dope and heroin addicts crashing at the pad, and I just want to go home, maybe even back to Iowa…

____________________

Chapter Two (October 15, 1968)

2006-11-14T13:32:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, October 15, 1968

Hey, Jude, don’t make it bad
Take a sad song and make it better
Remember to let her into your heart
Then you can start to make it better (1)

Crisp Fall evening. It was after eight, and Rick was still missing.

Damn him. A total jerk.

I kicked at the ground, scuffing my shoes on the pavement.

If he weren’t so cute...

"Hey, Eleanor, would you turn up your radio?" From my left, a male voice, not too deep, with a funny accent I’ve never heard before.

I turned and saw a strange dude sitting next to me, tapping his right foot, his left foot on the wall, his knee tucked under his chin. A homemade cardboard badge, with "Rent-a-Cop" written in Magic Marker, safety-pinned on his hat. He wore a plaid shirt, denim jacket, and bellbottoms, the outfit worn and ragged, the pants baggy and much too big for him.

He had long light brown hair, thin and a bit scraggly.

Horned-rimmed glasses, thick lenses–probably almost blind without them.

Not too spectacular–not even a good pickup line.

"I’m not Eleanor–she’s my roommate. I’m Jennifer."

"Oh. Sorry. But could you still turn up your radio?"

"It’s Eleanor’s radio," I said, turning it up as loud as it would go.

"Hey Jude," my favorite Beatles song, wafted out of the speaker.

Paul McCartney sings like an angel, and I don’t care if the lyrics are about shooting heroin, as some people seem to think.

"That’s why I thought you were Eleanor; I recognized the radio. So you’re Jennifer." He smiled. "I should have looked at the chick, not the radio."

He had a kind smile, showing perfectly white teeth, but one front tooth slightly overlapping the other–he seemed almost too innocent for the street, and yet he looked older, at least 25.

"That’s okay."

"No, it’s not okay. Sorry about the mistaken identity. Call me ‘Virgil,’ but my real name is ‘Jeff.’"

On second thought, maybe this guy wasn’t so strange, after all. He seemed pleasant enough, definitely not a pervert.

On the street, one never knows.

"Well, then. I’d better call you Virgil, because my family and friends back home call me ‘Jeff’ all the time. It’s been my nickname forever."

He laughed. "So how does a girl get a boy’s nickname?"

"My cousin Tim couldn’t say ‘Jennifer’; he called me ‘Jeffer,’ which got shortened to ‘Jeff.’ So I got stuck with it. How’d you get your nickname?"

"I made it up. I needed a street name, and I’m a Virgo. Seemed logical."

"I didn’t think you looked like a Virgil."

"Well, you don’t look like a Jeff, either."

We both cracked up, laughing at the silliness of it all.

Usually, I feel so awkward when meeting new people, but I felt totally comfortable around this guy.

Rick never showed up, but it didn’t really matter–I had such a groovy time rapping with Jeff–he was funny, smart, and super sweet.

He’s from East Berlin, Pennsylvania, and had been in L.A. only about a month, hitchhiking cross country because he wanted to see the world.

But, now, he was homesick for his family.

Born 1950, his birthday a few weeks before mine. At first, I didn’t believe him, but he showed me his driver’s license–he seemed so much older, but in a good way, not at all like Establishment. He lived on Hudson Street, where he rented a room from some chick who agreed to give him cheap rent in return for some babysitting.

His favorite Beatle album: Sgt. Pepper, but The Magical Mystery Tour followed a close second.

Maybe I’d see him again, though not as a boyfriend.

More as a pal.

We exchanged phone numbers.

____________________

(1) "Hey, Jude" (John Lennon-Paul McCartney)

Chapter One (December 30, 1968)

2006-11-14T13:15:00.000-08:00

Monday, December 30, 1968

Stoney didn’t come home last night. I’m worried sick he’s been busted, so I hunt all over Hollywood and Silverlake for him.

I even check with the fuzz down at L.A. County.

I find him hanging out at Metamorphosis, flirting with his ex old lady Syndi, she hanging all over him. She’s a skinny chick with short red hair, in a pixie style popular about three years ago, all doe-eyed, and looks about 15. But there’s nothing innocent about her; she’s fucked half of Hollywood, and I wouldn’t put it past her to have another go-round with my old man.

"You better not be screwing that bitch!" I yell.

I shove Syndi away from Stoney.

Stoney pushes me away. "So what if I am?"

We get into a huge argument, right in the shop, and stay at it until he shoves me smack into the wall. I lose my balance and start to fall, but Stoney grabs me, steadying me to my feet.

"Fuck you!" I push him away. "You’re an asshole!" I stomp out of the shop.

I go back to the apartment and sulk–trying to think up things to make his life miserable.

I could kill that bastard.

An hour later, he drags himself through the door of our pad. He apologizes–says he ate some strange mescaline; it made him sick, and he passed out at the shop–couldn’t move. That’s all. He didn’t fuck Syndi–why would he want to get all hung up with that bitch again?

"No way. Took me months to get rid of her," he says. "Why would I want to open up that can of worms?"

I believe him. I still want to sock him, though I’m so glad to see him safe at home.

But then he ruins our good karma.

After the bad mescaline, you’d think he’d be a bit reluctant to use any more dope, right?

Wrong. He pours those 500 tabs he bought a few days ago onto the table, counts out 13.

"I wonder what would happen," he says, holding them out in the palm of his hand, "If I dropped every last stinking one of these?"

"I wouldn’t try it," I say. "Probably kill you."

"I’d have one helluva super trip."

"Maybe your last trip."

"The ultimate trip!" Then he pops them into his mouth.

"No!" I try prying open his mouth, but it’s too late–he’s already swallowed the tabs.

He gets a Coke from the refrigerator and guzzles it. "I’m on my way to the best trip of my life!"

"Oh, shit!" What am I going to do? Call an ambulance? I can’t call an ambulance; there’s too much dope in this place–after the doctors pumped his stomach, we’d each get about 50 years...

Stoney laughs. "Jesus, Jennifer, you’re such a drag."

God damn. If he’s willing to risk his life for the ultimate trip, then who am I to stop him?

I’ll stay here, pop some bennies, keep watch on him all night, and if he gets to a critical stage, I’ll get Rudy from downstairs to help me out; he’ll know what to do without ringing in the heat.

Stoney slips into some strange trance-like state; he doesn’t move, but his eyes and muscles twitch like crazy, and his carotid artery looks like it might pop out of his neck. Yet when I put my ear to his chest, his heartbeat sounds regular, though I don’t know exactly what constitutes a normal rhythm. His face is puffy, and he’s a little redder than usual, but he doesn’t seem to be dying.

He’s even smiling–something cool’s happening in there, so who am I to ruin a perfectly good trip?

Okay, so he blows some circuits–

I think he’s done that already–

What’s a few more?

While I watch over Stoney, the mail arrives–a letter from Big Brother Jeff. He writes such cool letters–maybe a bit over my head. But he’s the grooviest and most sensitive guy I’ve ever met. I feel so happy and warm reading his fantastic words. I can’t help but compare Stoney to him–

I doubt if Jeff would ever drop 13 tabs of acid. He’s too smart.

Jeff says he and Pam are worried about my head. Hmmm...I’m seriously considering putting down acid. It’s so groovy, yet, at the same time, it’s scary. I don’t really want to screw up my head and body for good.

God, just look at Stoney–that shit’s got to be eating up his brain cells.

It’s strange...

I love Stoney, but I don’t always like him.

We don’t do regular things together. Yeah, we drop acid and, sometimes, make love, but he leaves me alone a lot–does his own thing–and, at times, he can be hateful and mean.

And then he does stupid crap like dropping 13 tabs.

Sometimes, I wish Stoney were more like Jeff, not do so much dope...

But some of the time, he’s very sweet and gentle.

Then there’s Jeff...When he was still here, we did a lot of fun stuff together–we laughed and carried on like two kids, ran around the strip.

Haven’t I known him forever?

No, only since October.

____________________

Chapter One (December 29, 1968)

2006-11-14T13:01:00.000-08:00

Sunday, December 29, 1968

Stoney and I look at a VW van today, but it costs $1,000; I was thinking more like a funky $300-$400 van–that way, we could fix it up the way we wanted. I found my old savings passbook from Sioux City: outasight! I still have $136.14 left. We just need a few hundred yet.

If we don’t get the van, then maybe I’ll use the money to visit Big Brother in Pennsylvania.

I love Stoney, but I’m getting sick of being stoned all the time. If I’m not wired, I’m in a daze, always tired and feeling like shit. And the dope is getting scary; last week, we smoked some grass cured in embalming fluid, and I passed out.

That can’t be good for my brain cells.

Also, I don’t need to be dropping acid three and four times a week. Two weeks ago, I almost flipped out on that purple shit, and, ever since, I’ve been having flashbacks. I don’t like that at all; dropping acid and having a good time for 12 hours or so is one thing, but freaking out when I haven’t dropped anything is totally bizarre.

It’s freaky when you’re at work and start tripping for no reason.

Anyway, I’m glad I quit that stupid job–I hate that bank and those stuffy people, and I don’t give a fuck about who gets a loan for a Toyota or Ford.

John Steinbeck died about a week or so ago, and I just found out. Bummer. I kind of like The Grapes of Wrath, even though I had to read it for Mr. O’Brien’s class.

After we look at the van, Stoney drops me off at the apartment and leaves to score some mescaline for New Year’s, says he’ll be back in an hour or so.

____________________

Chapter One (December 28, 1968)

2006-11-14T12:28:00.000-08:00

Saturday, December 28, 1968

-
(Los Angeles)

Hair Songs Too Hot to Handle, Authors Claim

Artists are shying away from recording songs from Hair, charged its two authors James Rado and Gerome Ragni, because the material is too explosive in its attacks on society.

"Music is the medium of today, the medium of the revolution," Rado said. "If any period should be put to music, this is it. Contemporary music is the language of the kids."

Ragni added: "Hair is the surface symbol of the rebellion of kids who want to show in a dramatic way they are rejecting the values of society all the way." (1)

(Hollywood)

Stoney’s back.

The minute he walks in the door, we drop some acid–yeah, I am going to put down for good, but just one more trip...

Stoney undresses; we try making love, but it just isn’t happening. Turns out he visited some dealer friends on the way home and shot up heroin. God, I hate that stuff. How can anyone enjoy shooting up a drug that makes you stupid?

Heroin addicts are the scum of the earth; they just lie around, drooling and slurring their words. No fun at all, human door stops, always passed out.

Once the acid kicks in, I no longer care about screwing Stoney–I’m off on my own trip, a bummer...

Enter the King of Schlock...

Slip, slip, slip into Bobby Goldsboro hell–"Honey," "The Straight Life," and a world of clowns:

See the funny little clown
See him laughing as you walk by,
Everybody thinks he’s happy
Cause you never see a tear in his eye.
No one knows he’s crying,
No one knows he’s dying on the inside...(2)

At the peak of my trip, five of Stoney’s drug dealing friends show up; everyone’s a clown, I’m in a roomful of clowns, red cheeks and noses, white pancaked faces, all in clown costumes, with ruffles around their necks, hands, and feet. Big curled up shoes and psychedelic wigs the color of rainbows, and they’re all singing "See the Funny Little Clown," some cartwheeling all over the place, others balling up bread bags, setting them on fire, and dropping the sizzling balls to the rug.

Smoke and burning plastic fill the air.

Even the naked clowns still wear their shoes, ruffles, and wigs, even as they make love with other clowns...

I’m just a spectator.

____________________

(1) Billboard

(2) Lirama

Chapter One (December 27, 1968)

2006-11-14T09:04:00.000-08:00

Friday, December 27, 1968

(Pacific Ocean)

Apollo 8 returns to Earth, splashing down at 10:52 a.m., successfully wrapping up the first manned lunar mission. (1,2,3)

(Hollywood)

I’m still waiting for Stoney to get back, but it’s early yet. I just got up–I slept 14 hours straight, I was so tired, I just crashed in the middle of writing a letter to Jeff. I’m definitely going to cut back the dope; I wish Stoney would too.

He can be a difficult person to live with, especially when he’s high, but who isn’t?

He’s careless with his dope, leaving it all over the apartment. The other day, when I picked up a newspaper, weed and seeds fell all over the floor, and I had to pick it all up by hand.

What if the cops come?

We’d never flush that shit down fast enough.

God, I’m so worried about him–he’s bringing back a lot of acid, hidden in the lining of his coat. I think the heat is onto him–it’s only a matter of time before the cops nail him.

We might both end up in jail, and that would really freak my grandparents out.

____________________

(1) Brainy History
(2) The Galactic Crossroads: Astronomy!! "Apollo 8"
(3) Virtualology.com. "Apollo VIII"

Chapter One (December 26, 1968)

2006-11-14T08:08:00.000-08:00

Thursday, December 26, 1968

(Hollywood)

Stoney’s gone to San Francisco, left 45 minutes ago, to score some acid. We decided it would be best if I stayed behind–save money to buy a van.

It’s so cold in here, no heat, no one to keep me warm. I wish I could have gone with Stoney. He says he’ll leave Frisco right after scoring, by tomorrow evening at the latest.

I can’t wait.

I’m so alone right now; no one’s around anymore. Pam went back to Arizona for the holidays, and Jeff split weeks ago.

I can’t believe Big Brother would just up and leave like he did, without even a goodbye kiss on the cheek. I don’t understand why going to Pennsylvania was so important. He talked about it, but I never thought he’d actually do it.

Now that Stoney’s away, I’ve been thinking a lot about Big Brother.

Jeff Brown. He’s a puzzle.

If Jeff were here, I’d find him and invite him over. We’d sit up all night and rap about music, movies, and books. He’s really bright, but sometimes he talks over my head, with all that philosophy stuff. He should go to college, do something important with his life, not bum around like Stoney and me. He could go to college at USC or UCLA and still be a part-time hippie.

I wrote him a letter, begging him to come back.

What does Pennsylvania have that California doesn’t?

I have no desire to go back to Sioux City or see any of my relatives–I’d rather stay here by myself.

This apartment is strange, bright blue paint, hardly any furniture. A smelly, dirty dump. The first day here, when I was cleaning up, I turned on the tap, and whoosh! A pipe was missing. Water, water, everywhere. What a mess. The good news; we’re only going to stay here about another month. I really didn’t want to move out of the dorm until after Christmas, but we had no choice. Miss Miller said Pam and I had to get out by the first of the year, but we decided to split by December 1; we were getting hassled by Horton and Miller because they hated our friends, didn’t like Stoney or Jeff smoking in the sitting room (la, de, da). And Stoney needed to get out of Metamorphosis–the owner was getting paranoid about Stoney’s stash. So Pam, Stoney, and I pooled our money together for this place, though Pam stayed back at the Dorm.

I’m still trying to figure out why she kicked in if she’s not going to live here.

I could use something good to eat right now; I’m getting tired of cereal, oranges, and cookies. The other day my stepfather happened by Wallich’s and hailed me over. I think he’s spying on me, but I bummed a meal off him. Couldn’t eat it all, so I took part of it back for Stoney.

Now I’m flat broke, no job; I quit two weeks ago–well, I just stopped going. I think the bank has figured out I’m not coming back.

I wrote a bad check last week, but I had no choice–Percy, a friend, needed help–though he turned out not be such a good friend, but a ripoff artist and bullshitter–says he has sex with rich and famous queers for money and needed a loan to get a dose for the clap. Said he got it from Liberace.

Gross.

Percy spent the money, my money, on new boots and a cowboy hat.

He did buy me breakfast, though.

Far fucking out.

____________________

Chapter One (December 25, 1968)

2006-11-14T07:20:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, December 25, 1968

(Lunar Orbit)

Apollo 8: at 1:10 a.m. EST, in orbit above the far side of the Moon, the spacecraft’s SPS engine is ignited to accelerate it out of lunar orbit. Astronaut Lovell says, "Please be informed...there is a Santa Claus," as the spacecraft begins its way back to Earth. (1)

(Hollywood, California)

Some super shit–Stoney and I don’t come down until after three–we crash for a few hours. Then, about seven, we go to Cecil’s Stand for cheeseburgers and fries.

Later we exchange presents–he gives me a jade ring and a petrified wood ashtray in psychedelic colors; I give him a blue rock. Both from Metamorphosis. I wasn’t sure what to buy, but he likes rocks...

After we open our presents, we argue about his being too wild when we play.

He wrestles too goddamned rough sometimes, today getting me into a hammerlock and flipping me on my back. Something snaps–my back hurts like hell.

"You jerk," I say, "You could’ve broken my back."

"Shut up, bitch, stop your squawking."

We exchange more words.

Don’t I have the right not to be injured?

We calm down.

"Let’s not wrestle anymore."

He has an unfair advantage.

"That’s cool," he says.

I think Stoney understands; he apologizes, anyway, promising not to be so rough.

We’ll see.

The two of us look like hell.

I feel like hell.

We go to bed early and make love, and rap about our acid trips.

Weird. I thought we had connected last night, but we didn’t, not really.

We were on separate trips.

Stoney only remembers shooting heroin and balling.

For me, it was so much more.

____________________

(1) Spaceline

Chapter One (December 24, 1968)

2006-11-14T00:13:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, December 24, 1968

(Lunar Orbit)

Commander Frank Borman, Command Module Pilot Jim Lovell, and Lunar Module Pilot William Anders broadcast live from Apollo 8, the first manned mission to the Moon, showing pictures of the Earth and Moon.

Lovell says, "The vast loneliness is awe-inspiring, and it makes you realize just what you have back there on Earth."

"For all the people on Earth," William Anders says, "The crew of Apollo 8 has a message we would like to send you."

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.

And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.

And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.
Jim Lovell:
And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night.
And the evening and the morning were the first day.
And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.

And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so.
And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day.

Frank Borman:
And God said, Let the waters under the heavens be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so.
And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that it was good.
And from the crew of Apollo 8," Borman adds, "We close with good night, good luck, a Merry Christmas, and God bless all of you–all of you on the good Earth." (1)

____________________

(Hollywood, California)
As I lie on the kitchen floor, the dots on the linoleum rise up and float all around, enveloping me, a blanket of dots: blue, red, yellow, green, purple, orange planets swirling around, bursting into balls of hard rock colors.

The birth of many galaxies, bursting into points of life...

Out of sight....

Maybe God felt the same awe...

A burst of light: I am the creator of these galaxies, I am responsible for all these millions and billions of new lives–they’re my responsibility, and if they go bad, it’s my fault.

Oh-my-god. I’m God.

I must destroy them, before they spread viruses.

A butterfly net appears in my hand, my mission clear: capture these galaxies, trap them in a mayonnaise jar, smother them before they have a chance to destroy me, their creator. Because they will, just as we have destroyed our God.

Is God dead?

Define "dead."

Is God Death itself?

To believe is to die.

Is Death God?

Why not?

Who is God?

How.

When is God?

Past.

Does he have a butterfly net?

?????

What color is God?

The color of essence.

What is essence?

The color of God.

What is God?

Why?

That smell? Black, dusty smell, like old rubber boots, first smell, primal scent, tangy licorice love drizzling my body, luscious rum balls, velvet lust, heated past boil, consummated lust, melting, savored again and again and again.

Is God dead?

To believe is to die.

Is God Death itself?

How.

Is Death God?

The color of God.

Who is God?

Why not?

When is God?

If not now, never.

Does he have a butterfly net?

The color of essence.

What color is God?

Define "dead."

What is essence?

Who?????

What is God?

The man.

The man.

The man.

What’s that?

A siren.

Stoney?

The room wavers–nothing has substance. Man, how can nothing have substance? Can something have nothing?

What is nothing, anyway? If it has a name, then it has to be something, because nothing would not have a name, if it were truly nothing. Are there empty spaces in something, nothing places to hide? My head spins into a loop–a lot of nothing places, black licorice dots swirling around and around.
Two sirens.
Stoney? Stoney?
No one exists but me.
I know that now.
I am truly alone.
All you people are clowns, and clowns are not real; therefore, you were not, are not, and never will be.
Stoney?
Why are you smiling?
Yellow haze flows out your mouth when you whisper, Winesap apples when you sing "White Rabbit," orange flames when you shout.
"Fuck you!" Orange and blue flames blast from your lips, tickling my thighs.
Blink. Blue butterflies flutter from your eyes, flicker all around, land on my triangle–pure geometry.
Yes, fuck me.
You ram the needle into your pulse–amber liquid whooshes through veins and arteries to your heart, back through your circulatory system, every branch, down to the smallest capillary, racing through your body, up stream to your brain, down river to your fingertips, speeding down to your toes, looping all around and around...
You light up like fireworks, a star burst covering the sky with a flash of red, gold, white, green, purple, blue, silver and then fading, whirling diamond chips, crackling and descending, descending, descending, disappearing behind the ocean waves.
Your eyes, paisley.
Your heart, a rainbow.
Your body: granite, a quake.
An Odyssey.
As you come, a single red rose bursts from your penis.
I catch petals as they drop, wine red and smooth and cold as polished stone.
Stoney.
Oh, Stoney.
Warm as barberry oil.
You’re solid, but it’s a trick…
You cannot be.
Three sirens.
The police!
No, just me in you.
Yes.
As I stand–at least I think I’m standing–Stoney fizzles, soft as a mother’s breast.
The room zigzags, my legs turn to jelly, congeal to the floor, yet I move, even as my legs melt into the dead dots. I don’t need them–the room has turned to sea.
I have grown gills.
I’m back in my mother’s uterus, only she isn’t the mother I knew–this mother is all wise–her name is Venus, and she offers to hurtle me through the galaxy because she is the galaxy.
For hours, we zip through one million galaxies–my head fills with sights, sounds, aromas, music, textures only known to a God.
She is my God–
I am her daughter.
I am the child of God.
____________________
(1) Text modified slightly from The Apollo 8 Christmas Eve Broadcast (NASA).

Caged: February 19, 1969

2006-11-13T12:59:00.000-08:00

I was driven to Cherokee.

Goaded, impelled, pushed, forced.

A hazy memory of riding in a caged police car. Two shadows in the front seat, the county sheriff and a female escort, jabbering about nothing important, ignoring me.

I was cargo, to be delivered, against my will, from the Woodbury County courthouse to the Cherokee Mental Health Institute–about an hour’s drive from Sioux City.

February 1969, the Iowa landscape bleak: cloudy and cold, condensation and frost riming the windows, piles of dirty snow dotting the countryside.

Inside the cage, hot and steamy, though I shivered, my teeth chattering.

Please turn up the heat!

But cargo has no voice.

For all the importance–then and now–of this drive, I remember little, except for one other detail: my terror.

How does one describe terror in literal terms?

The shivering, of course. No matter how high the heat might have been cranked up, I felt cold and bloodless. Unhuman.

Am I really crazy?

I had to pee; after the competency hearing, where I’d been deemed fit for commitment, I’d been escorted to a windowless room, ordered to sit on wooden chair, and locked inside, where I remained alone, for hours without food, water, or access to a toilet.

Crying and railing against my grandparents. Against Opal Casey, the police matron who took their side. Against my lawyer, who did nothing at all.

And then the sheriff and escort arrived, suddenly in a hurry. "Come along, you."

"I have to go to the bathroom."

"It can wait," the woman said.

Two terrors: the possibility of wetting myself and being thrown into a dark pit, never to see the light, ever again.

At 18, I wasn’t sure which terror was worse.

The specter of Cherokee haunts Northwest Iowa, potential clientele living in Woodbury County and 40 other Iowa counties.

In the local lexicon of my youth, "going to Cherokee" was synonymous with going crazy; at least three generations of misbehaving schoolchildren were chided by their parents for "driving them to Cherokee."

Back in the 50's and 60's, actually going to Cherokee was unthinkable–just the threat enough to whip most incorrigible kids into shape.

But, for me, those colloquial terms are literal and stark.

I did go to Cherokee.

I was driven there.

For years, I wouldn’t speak of my time there and how it informed and shaped my life.

It was my secret, driven by my own silence and the complicity of my family.

____________________

Contents and Preface

2006-11-12T13:37:00.000-08:00

Caged: February 19, 1969

Prologue

-
I
Going to Cherokee

Chapters 1-52

II
Verdict

Chapter 53

III
Driven

Chapters 54-56

IV
Cherokee

Chapters 57-81

V
Going from Cherokee

Chapters 82-83

VI
Diagnosis

-
Released: August 30, 2004

__________

Preface

Some names and/or minor characteristics of real persons have been changed to protect their privacy. Actual nicknames have been used for some real persons, most notably, Stoney.

-
Some minor locales have been changed.

-
For coherence and literary purposes, some passages have been compressed, expanded, or shifted around. Some scenes and dialogue have been recreated.

-
The time lines, late 1968 to May 9, 1969, and August 30, 2004, are accurate, and the facts of the case are correct, including the amount of time I spent in Cherokee, Iowa.

-
Events for which I have no documentation and/or memory of exact dates have been presented as flashbacks.

-
For my late grandparents’ first person narratives, I have referred to interview summaries contained in my hospital records–interviews conducted and summarized by my psychiatrist (and other hospital personnel). I have also relied on my personal knowledge about these people who raised me. The voices I have recreated are the voices I remember, and, therefore, may not reflect the memories and viewpoints of my other relatives.

-
This memoir reflects my memory and perspective–no one else’s–and any minor factual errors, albeit unintentional, are mine alone.

-
Special Thanks

To Dr. Mariano A. Favis, Jr., for being one of the good guys. Your wisdom changed the course of my life.

Apologies

Apologies to Jeff Brown, a starring player and still my friend, for his immense understanding. I can only imagine what it might be like to have one’s past life dragged out and exposed to the world by an ex-spouse. Also, thanks to Jeff for reading the drafts and commenting on them.

-
Apologies to one bit player: although my husband Jerry Siegel had no role in my life during the late 1960's, he has patiently accompanied me in my various quests for information. It must feel strange to read about that other Jennifer, not quite the Jennifer he met, courted, and married.

-
Additional apologies to three offstage players: Eric, my son by Jeff; Casey, Jeff’s present wife; and Rhia, my granddaughter–Eric’s daughter. They have absolutely no role in this drama, and yet, by association, they are a peripheral part of it.

__________________