Paris: The Memoir(15)
I wanted to be a spider, not a fly, and as it played out, I was the one who was disgraced and sent away, so I must be the one at fault, right? As surely as plastic bags make the wind blow, the shame was on me for ruining this poor man’s life.
And the shame is still on me.
Even now, knowing in my grown-up mind that no child is ever to blame for inappropriate adult behavior, my face is literally burning as I sit here telling you this terrible secret. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to fully shake it off. But it’s a key part of my story, the catalyst for much of what followed.
I cried when I read Marilyn Monroe’s memoir My Story, and I was inspired by the fact that she found the courage to talk about being molested by her aunt’s neighbor when she was in grade school. The man groomed her with charming banter and lured her into his room with smooth kindness. He locked the door and felt her up, telling her she was so beautiful he couldn’t help himself. Then he unlocked the door and told her to never tell anyone. He tried to give her a nickel for ice cream, but little Norma Jeane threw the nickel in his face and ran to tell her aunt, who scolded her for lying about this neighbor, who was an upstanding gentleman. A few days later, her aunt took her to a religious revival meeting, where the man who’d molested Marilyn loudly prayed for her sins to be forgiven.
“I cried in bed that night and wanted to die,” Marilyn says in My Story. “I thought, ‘If there’s nobody ever on my side that I can talk to, I’ll start screaming.’ But I didn’t scream.”
It’s infuriating to me now to think about how readily Marilyn and I both accepted that narrative about our physical appearance being the excuse for someone else’s criminal behavior. But how could we not?
We were given a choice:
“You are a stupid child who was deceived, used, and thrown away like garbage.”
“You are an irresistible siren whose beauty and allure have the power to change someone’s mind, sway their soul, and alter their behavior.”
Given the choice between victim and influencer, Marilyn and I embraced our siren selves.
4
The microclimate of Palm Springs makes for prime resort real estate. The surrounding area is a blazing hot frying pan full of scorpions and cactus plants, but Palm Springs is positioned to benefit from shadows cast by the San Jacinto Mountains. The weather stays nice most of the time. High-society people started going there in the early 1900s because the warm desert air was good for dainty Victorian women’s problems like consumption and hysteria, which was their catch-all term for PMS, menopause, or whatever condition gave a woman the crazy idea she was allowed to express an opinion.
According to legend, Marilyn Monroe was “discovered” by a William Morris talent scout (in the sense that Columbus “discovered” America) as she lounged by the pool at Charles Farrell’s Racquet Club in Palm Springs in 1949. Conrad Hilton came along in the early 1960s and built a luxury hotel there with a ninety-nine-year lease.
By the time I arrived in Palm Springs in summer 1995, the Racquet Club was between owners and overgrown with weeds. Half the stores in the Palm Springs Mall, including the anchor stores, I. Magnin and Saks, were closed. Downtown Palm Springs was still a playground for the Hollywood elite, but the neighborhood where I lived with my mom’s mom was mostly full of little old ladies with blue hair.
My grandmother was not one of them.
My grandmother’s hair was coppery red, the color of a brand-new penny, and she didn’t step outside without applying fire-engine-red lipstick. She was glamorous. Always decked out in diamonds. She enjoyed her jewelry—the more the better—and she made it all look beautiful. Gram Cracker was a force of nature who shifted the energy of every room she walked into. She was a character. Loved being social. Loved being gorgeous. Instead of trying to fit the typical mold, she relished being herself.
In a word, Gram Cracker was sliving.
Sliving is a word I invented a few years ago at a Halloween party. I started to say “slaying” but took a sharp left toward “living your best life,” and “sliving” came out. We all died laughing, but I was thinking, That’s a great word. Ima trademark that shit like yesterday. I may have been slightly tipsy. But it is a great word! It’s a movement and a lifestyle. And my grandmother was sliving personified.
Looking back, I’m so glad I had that time with her. She showed me what style is, what strength is, and how the two fit together. It seemed to me like she ruled that town. Everyone loved her style and spirit. Even as a kid, I recognized that. She didn’t have the resources I saw on the Hilton side of my family; she made things happen with audacity and strength of will.
“Work hard and be independent,” she told me. “Don’t let a man tell you your life. You’re a star—the most gorgeous thing on the planet. Men will bow down to you, but you have to know what you want and go for it.”
One day I came home upset because a boy was being mean to me in class. Gram Cracker knew his parents, so she called him on the phone and straight up cursed him out, like, “Listen, you ugly little pimple face, don’t fuck with my granddaughter. If you so much as speak to her again, I’ll come over there and destroy you.”
Language aside, she set a powerful example: Stick up for the ones you love—and love yourself enough to stick up for you.
I loved my summer with Grandma, but when summer ended, Mom came and enrolled me in ninth grade at Palm Valley School, a private college prep school in Rancho Mirage, an easy half hour commute from Grandma’s house. I didn’t see this as punishment for what happened with my teacher. Lots of kids go away to prep school. It’s not a big deal. Also, I guess, since they had to be away a lot, they felt I was safer with Grandma than I was with a nanny. I was smarter than most of the nannies. I was not smarter than Gram Cracker. Nobody ever was or will be.