CHANGE

I was born the year of Sputnik.

My name was going to be 'Christina' until the world's first sex-change operation made his/her preparations public.

1957 was also the infamous year of the Little Rock Nine. "West Side Story" opened on Broadway, The Everly Brothers hit #1 with "Wake Up Little Susie", and some very classic t.v. shows made their long-running debut: Perry Mason, Maverick and Leave it to Beaver. (Cindi & Danny 1959)

Growing up in the historic '60's was almost idyllic; we were too young to be afraid of the Cold War and having way too much fun with the explosion of rock

music and pop fashions to be aware of the cultural whirl-wind we were all carried away in. I was a child of the white suburbs; riding a bicycle to the Van Nuys Airport just to watch the single prop planes come in, building back yard forts, making mud pies and longing for braces for good reason. (I could fit a nickle between those front teeth-1964)

Change was happening, and it was exciting; but some things were still etched in stone. It didn't matter how fast I could run, how dead-eye my dirt clod aim - when the neighborhood boys played "Army" I was ALWAYS the nurse. They had the power. I hated the automatic relegation.

At school, we learned what we could be when we grew up. The boy's list of possibilities was always much longer than ours. We were never encouraged to be strong. A girl voicing ideas was often negatively labeled "independent", or "aggressive". Social boundaries were clearly defined 24/7. We girls had to stick-up for one another. I had a pink bedroom and a picture of a ballerina on the wall, but I was not interested in girly things. Our playground buzz about the space-race against communist Russia was thrilling to the core - but little girls could not dream of becoming an astronaut; so we quietly dreamed about being boys.

I begged to go hunting with my dad, or - just to learn how to shoot - but he said, "Nah. You're a girl." I watched exhaustive preparations for wilderness 50 mile, week long Boy Scout hikes my brother would go on with my dad. I knew they would be washing in streams and cooking trout over an open fire, pitching tents and telling stories under the stars. I wanted to go!

The now mythical bra-burning feminist movement frightened me with rapid-fire images of really angry women. I did, after all, want to be a wife and mother some day. I looked forward to it as a natural and magical part of my future self. Their message was not for me.

As a young married, I was not prepared for job interviews in the '70's where predominately LDS employers asked me how soon I was planning on getting pregnant. So-called psychological profiles popularly accompanied the application, asking literally pages of personal questions such as, "what is your relationship with your father?" and "if you came into a lot of money, would you a) pay your tithing b) go on a cruise or c) put it in savings." One office told me I would have to answer to a different name, since they already had a Cindy working there. It was insulting.

The workplace was filled with either arrogant, sexist employers or catty female co-workers who didn't want me to forget how my family of 5 mormon kids was robbing the planet of valuable resources. They, mothers of an only child or 2 at the most - frequently sought opportunity to comment on my poor "planning". It didn't matter that my kids could cook, wash their own laundry, excel at school, teach younger siblings music lessons and complete long chore lists while I was at work. Enlightened career women of the 90's explained to me how I had cheated my first two children out of an inheritance, since they would have to share it now with 3 other siblings. It had never occurred to me that anyone would have a child based on the assumed disbursement of what a projected inheritance might be.

These women were quite vocal about my "harsh" parenting methods

especially when I brought the Nintendo controllers to work with me during the Summer. I noted, however, that at the company Christmas party, only my 5 children had the social skills to properly greet adults, converse with them, and take their plates to the kitchen.

The world was still predominantly sexist, but now my opponents were more often other women than they were men.

I have been accused of being "aggressive" by some women. Case in point: I worked part-time once as a teacher's aide at the local elementary school. I was disgusted to hear over the classroom intercom one day that the annual school carnival would be canceled because "...your parents have not volunteered to help us with the cake walk...", among other crimes. Fed-up with an aloof administration that was more concerned about federal funding than real children, I got on the phone.

The school carnival was poorly attended because they required 2 hour time slots for parents to man booths too expensive for families to visit. Nothing was ever FREE at school. Maybe they didn't need a cake walk. Maybe they needed a boost in planning more creatively. In a few minutes, I found a grocery store manager who offered to fill a shopping cart to the brim with whatever the school wanted to choose from their toy isle - for free. He just wanted a receipt on the school letterhead for tax credit. When I called the president of the PTA and let her know she could send someone to go pick up their lucky cart-load of goodies with the receipt the school secretary had waiting for her, she hit the roof.

"Who are you?! I don't recall seeing you at any of our meetings!" she screamed. Next she called the Principal and railed against my butting-in on their fine-tuned organization. I had to call her back and apologize (for -?), but I also asked her if this meant she wasn't interested in the square dance caller I had found who would come and call dances for free with his own sound equipment? I couldn't bring myself to tell her about the folklorico dance troupe that was willing to come, too. They never did go get that cart load of free stuff. In a very small pond was this little fish who felt so self-important that unconventional assets could only be perceived as a personal threat. I had just bumped into one of many "strong" women in various positions of "power" who happen to also be stupid.

Suddenly, unbelievably, at long last ~ is a smart woman who is also really pretty! AND she has long hair. Not the Cindy McHeiress-do long hair, but real woman long hair.

I wanted her to wear it in a pony-tail for her debut speech, as the ultimate "one of us" signatures a busy woman with long hair does first thing. Half my wish came true.

I know it shouldn't matter, but I love her feminine skirts and suits! Finally, a woman who will wear a DRESS just as easily as most women wear pants. (Michelle Obama's dresses at the DNC were absolutely stunning, btw!)

She has a hottie sports champion, working-man husband who is part Eskimo; a big plus with me any day.

Her sense of humor is welcomely wry. She has a recognizable speech pattern of one who is simply speaking instead of carefully pontificating. She is outrageously cheerful. She is gracious to reporters dogging her heels while she shops with her family. She has affectionate exchanges with an original husband she seems to like a lot.

Finally, a woman in power who doesn't move as if that power must be constantly acknowledged. Unconventionality obviously doesn't make her feel threatened.

Her dad took her hiking AND hunting.

She has FIVE kids.

Her little Piper giving baby brother a hair-lick-slicking was pure magic.

Change sneaked up on us, after all! While we recognize this wonderfully historic time in American election history for successes on both sides of the isle, this is the first time I feel like my time has come. And, similar to some of my experiences in the world, Sarah Palin has more critics that are sexist women than anyone else. And ~

. . . she wears super cute shoes without apology.

So there.

Polite Society

Once properly enlightened

on unsightly nuclear fall-out

or personal hygiene appeal,

the film strip passively concluded

with the end piece tickitty-clicking

around the projector reel

and all of us

appreciatively applauding.

* Companion to 'Duck and Cover' drills were the highly efficient propaganda film strips all aware young American students were required to view. Regularly. Again, contradicting present-day commentary on Cold War Era follies, none of us were frightened in the least by the pretty, ballooning (though black & white) mushroom cloud expanding on the projection screen pulled down in front of the world map with the giant "U.S.S.R." over the black chalk board. Social Studies and Arithmetic to the wayside ~ it was movie time! Any break in routine was O.K. and we welcomed it.

The hot, stale classroom air thick with prepubescent afternoon recess sweat in the wooden bungalows at Lorne Street School seemed more intolerable than any atom bomb could be. The only thing that disturbed us was the repeated warning never to look at the bright, white flash. Akin to going blind if you looked directly at an eclipse of the sun, these were warnings we took seriously. There was a rumor we had all heard about a kid who looked at the eclipse for just a second - and well, you know.... Besides, we had already seen the film strip about washing your hair and brushing off your clothes from pesky nuclear fall-out dust. We could handle that. Piece of cake.

As for applauding after each educational film, no matter the content, no matter if it was an hour long or 13 minutes - it was just what was done. Even in public movie theaters after the latest James Bond, Henry Fonda or John Wayne epic - everyone stayed in their seats for part of the credits and clapped their hands. Our mothers also made sure we picked up our popcorn boxes, and mine was sure to comment indignantly on the starlet's immodest attire as we dismissed in an orderly fashion.

* Excerpt from 'Station Wagon Wars' ~ growing up in the 60's by cTanner

ICON

We bashed it, we crashed it,

we loaded it with our snotty little brothers.
We pulled it, we pushed it,
we went shopping for our mothers.

We crepe-papered it for parades,
and towed it with our wares to sell:
“Fresh Lemonaide”
for thirsty clientèle.

We turned it over upside-down
for protection from the deadly rain
of war-path arrows
upon the wagon train.

We kicked it, we rolled it,
we tied it behind our bikes for a ride.
We scratched it, we thrashed it,
we couldn’t kill it if we tried!

It was kid-perfect for draggin’
whatsoever you coulda wanna . . .
we couldn’t know our little red wagon,
would symbolize “Americana”.

*Oh, the endless possibilities presented with one little red wagon and a couple of kids! This single item was a legitimate and incredibly versatile vehicle for all kid pursuits, solo or en masse. The cargo-bearing capacity was unbelievable (my 200+ lb. dad rode in it once)! Summer garden harvests loaded it high with corn and squash, and we must have bagged hundreds of sticky sweet apricots to sell for a dollar a bag on the corner. Many a war game casualty was ceremoniously carted off the battle field, and even a chicken or two experienced a brief, forced joy ride.

Speed was an element not over-looked in the red wagon owner’s manual. Given the obliging gravity of the slightest downward slope – dangerous speeds were routinely and gloriously attained to our shrieking delight.

A solo ride by no means stunted good times; the kneeling driver simply pushed off with one leg and steered with the handle pulled back into a nearly gut-impaling position. Bone-jarring rocks, uneven sidewalks, cement curbs, deep puddles, homemade dirt and scrap wood ramps, mud, rutted and patchy asphalt or multiple dogs chasing our wheels were of little consequence to our fast-paced Radio Flyer sorties. Sand, on the other hand, killed us in our tracks with an insulting abruptness.

The inexperienced often found themselves dumped out in a spectacular side flip-over, which by the way was well worth the visual for spectators. Navigating turns was tricky, and not one of the wagon’s strong points. We understood this, and we forgave this one failing by adapting our routes to straight-a-ways as much as possible.

One year our little red wagon was cleaned up and kept indoors for an entirely serious purpose; my little brother had scarlet fever. The doctor ordered complete bed rest, but for a little guy about 4 years old that was an impossible order. Danny and I pulled Davey around the house as comfy as you please reclining on pillows in our wagon like a royal chariot. We didn’t understand his illness, nor the heart-murmur that had been discovered – but we imagined it was deadly – so we dedicated ourselves to saving his life.

This really was the universal American toy for generations. I can’t remember any house with children that didn’t have one. The wagon’s all steel body and rubber-rimmed wheel manufacture was down-right super-natural. There were miserably dented and warped ones, rusted and sorry paint-peeling ones – but I never saw a disabled one.

Pity the hopelessly unaware children today who are reared amid a steady milieu of hollow, cheesy colored sissy-safety-belted and wholly disappointing plastic. It’s just not the same. Not even close.

~ The Radio Flyer Red Wagon was developed by Italian immigrant Antonio Pasin. His first models in 1917 were crafted from wood. In 1923, inspired by the budding auto industry, he utilized a metal stamping technology to mass produce wagons for his new enterprise, The Liberty Coaster Company, in honor of the Statue of Liberty. By 1930 the company became Radio Steel and Manufacturing, dubbing its popular model #18 “The Radio Flyer”. Antonio chose the word ‘Radio’ for the new wireless invention, and ‘Flyer’ for the wonder of flight.

~ From 'Station Wagon Wars' ~ Growing up in the 60's by cTanner

2 Views on a Theme

Firsts
One of the “smart” kids, Stephanie Kim

seemed to always be first at everything.

Long-division, spelling or basketball;

she was also first to get a pimply-face,

and was the very first girl in the entire 5th grade

to wear a real, live bra.

One day, when Billy was being especially dumb,

(pulling his eyes like this with both his thumbs) -

he chanted, “My mother is Chinese,

my father is Japanese,

and look what happened to me!”

Stephanie, hardly giving him the time of day,

said without emotion, “Hey, stupid,

I’m Korean, O.K.?”

We considered it pretty amusing

how she shut him down that way.

But then, when the boys began to tease

and slither around

making comments from the sides of their mouths,

so totally fascinated with her chest -

every last one of us seemed powerless

to help poor Stephanie out.

At long last, maybe three weeks or so,

she just broke-down

and cried and cried and cried ~ alone.

* Though not readily broached in public conversation as adults, ask anyone directly - man or woman, and they will all have something to say about the growing-up ‘changes’ undeniably evident beginning about 5th and 6th grade. As natural biology was happening to little girls, little boys (though mostly uninvited) were automatically a vital part of that incredibly important and often traumatic brief moment in time when the whole world seemed to focus on the introduction of new underwear.

How we survived it all is truly a golden question.

Mr. Aycock

frightened us with the dark brown scar

exactly below his right eye

(a bullet wound from the war).

His classroom discipline not far

from military ethics it seemed,

as we kept score

of his many offenses against us:

the quick temper,

the moral speeches ~

as we listened, unblinking,

willing breezes to drift mercifully

over the window sash

and save us

from the heat of his passion.

Until one day, he did something good.

He just canceled arithmetic

and spoke to us point-blank

(this bachelor fifth-grade teacher),

in simple words we all understood

he explained the beauty of nature

creating great changes within

making us so different

from girls to women,

and boys to men ~

eloquently conquering at last

the relentless enemy sniping

of young boys who saw

that Aviva Lee

wore a bra.

* Only six years after the introduction of the birth control pill and two years after The Beatles' shocking debut on the Ed Sullivan Show, 1966 supposedly found us in the early convulsions of the American sexual revolution. About three years later one of my cousins would join a hippie commune and my brother would be longing to experience the music at Woodstock. Social mores were changing radically; old taboos were tossed aside as quickly as television sets suddenly became affordable to the average family and media became associated unavoidably with the prefix “mass”. American women, having tasted financial independence during World War II factory and civil works jobs, were expanding their sights and flexing for the yet to come emergence of the Feminist Movement. Who knew?

Oblivious to the technical details of aggressive cultural change, we kids were up to our necks in the daily dance of growing-up. Reserved and dutiful conformists within the classroom (subversive “pencil-drops” were still a few years away); we struggled to both assert and protect ourselves outside on the playground. The battle of the sexes was an old and sacred theme; boys vs. girls contests from spelling bees to foot races to playing cigarette tag were a relished and necessary practice in the constant attempt to keep everyone in their place.

Puberty interrupted all of that. It was especially confusing when the “early-bloomers” among our feminine ranks began to exhibit – however unwillingly – the most disturbing social change of all. We girls who were not as yet so affected were as uncomfortable with the prospect as the boys were, except their focus was decidedly of a much baser nature. We loathed them for it, but at the same time we seemed incapable of defending one of our own. It was a shameful reality in the ultimate disruption to a childhood on the brink of extinction. We were afraid.

About 30 years later, I encountered the Aycock name again on a patient chart at the Phoenix dental practice where I was working. It was his great-nephew. I finally had the opportunity to thank him vicariously for that time-stopping afternoon at Lorne Street School in the asphalt shingled bungalow nearest the bike racks, when the unspoken pain of growing up was presented to us as an ageless and ennobling distinction of our future selves.

**class pictures are representative only
* from 'Station Wagon Wars' ~ growing up in the 60's by cTanner

Convenient

The milk bottles were all cold

and sweaty

nested in their wire basket

outside the front door.

Funny, how it seemed perfectly

normal

that milk appeared without asking

whenever I wanted more.

*Danny and I used to try and get treats like chocolate milk and fruit-at-the-bottom yogurt added to the weekly milk delivery by leaving our milkman notes in our mom’s forged handwriting. I had no thought in my head that we were paying for his services. It just seemed awfully nice of him to get up so early in the morning before anyone else was awake and make his rounds in his refrigerated white milk truck and crisp white uniform.

When mama got the bill - that was the end of ‘specialty’ orders.

~ from 'Station Wagon Wars' ~ growing up in the 60's by cTanner

TORTURE

The toxic vapors sear my nose

and blacken my tongue,

and having my lungs squeeze closed

is so very fun.

Not to mention my other sad,

defenseless things,

that are twisting and churning

and bursting their seams!

It’s just a matter of time,

of course,

before I’m turned into

a liquefied corpse.

I can feel my liver wither

inside my quivering skin,

my spleen is now rotting

as it begins

to drip down my neck

and happily right into my ear -

(is it done, yet?)

I can still hear her sigh,

“Sit still, don’t squirm!”

while the sadist patiently applies

my Toni home perm.

* Creating a long-lasting curl has been a universal quest for women possibly since the Garden of Eden. Once hair treatment chemicals were formulated to be safe enough for home use in the 50’s, Toni dominated the home permanent market. Regardless of how beautiful and smooth the luscious locks of beauties smiling confidently from the Toni box, actual results were often tragically less.

It became a classic ordeal of growing up a little girl in America to endure the agonies of the home permanent, traditionally perpetrated by mothers everywhere about a week before school pictures.

Nancy Zamora

Nancy Zamora was a tough girl.

She was one of the first to get fish-nets,

and wear white kid go-go boots

with a mandarin collar dress,

and was really rough at socco.

She wore a big silver crucifix

and already had pierced ears

before they were popular

with her peers.

One day,

on the big kid’s playground

I got knocked-out

in dodge ball.

All I remember

after hearing myself hit the ground

in the dark,

was Nancy’s voice far away

as she yelled, “Cindy, wake up!

Wake up!” and she shook me,

while everyone else

stood around with nothing to say

and their mouths open.

She was the only one

to do something.

* Public school is a dynamic social stew for awkward experimentation in status, ethnic and gender boundaries – though most of these important “rules” kept changing or (thankfully) were abandoned entirely once the doors flung open for recess.

Nancy was not my friend. I think I was a little afraid of her. She didn’t really have a group she hung out with, and didn’t seem bothered about it either. Admirably independent, her keen fashion sense was a little riskier than even the ‘popular’ girls, and her fierce playground skills were a competitive asset when it came down to picking teams. She played hard like a boy; I never saw her run to the nurse no matter how badly she’d skinned a knee or elbow. Nearly invisible during class time, Nancy was aggressive and sure of herself outside.

She was pretty, with long dark, straight hair parted in the middle so classic to 1968, and expertly applied coal black eyeliner. Her pierced ears were a bold statement in a time when most white, middle class parents strongly disapproved. “Putting holes in your ears is only for Catholic girls,” my dad always said with a growl. Other girls defied this cultural divide by getting together for homemade ear-piercing slumber parties. They used ice cubes to numb the spot, and a brave girlfriend wielded the needle and thread. I thought it was nothing less than barbaric, especially the bloody-thread after math on display the next day at school. But secretly, and while carefully guarding my pinch-on earring collection that always seemed to be missing more and more matched sets – I longed for pierced ears and self-confidence, like Nancy.

*from 'Station Wagon Wars' ~ growing up in the 60's by cTanner

SPEED

There’s nothing quite like

the adrenaline rush

of going all-out, bare-foot

behind the ice cream truck.

* Sadly, the beloved ice cream truck seems to be strictly relegated now days only to depressed neighborhoods. That’s too bad. How do they rate, anyway? The only thing going up and down my street is the FedEx truck and the pampered house dog for his twice daily walk. What do those neighborhoods have that we don’t?

Dry, barren yards, driveways hosting old cars up on blocks and enough old furniture piled up in the sagging, paint-peeling carport to furnish an entire room, trash piled up against drooping chain link - and lots of little children. Happy little children who gleefully rush the Lará Brother’s helados van with the same passion we did so long ago on Jellico Ave.

The music blaring from the van is no longer the universal “Little Red Wing” in bell tones from a loftily perched megaphone speaker, but is – well, anything! I’ve heard country, rap, pop, heavy metal rock, musak, campesino and sometimes even just the AM radio on really loud. Inventory has definitely changed. They sell baseball cards, candy, carnival toys, stick-on tattoos and bubble gum just for starters.

The prices are a lot different, too. A nickel used to get me a delicious banana double stick Popsicle or a delectably creamy 50/50 bar. A king’s ransom of a dime was needed for the prized favorite: the multi-flavored Bullet Popsicle. When my oldest daughter was little in the early ’80’s, Bullets were a quarter. Now, almost everything is a dollar.

That’s just wrong.

Public Pool

Surf’s up, sprinklers rule ~

‘cause hardly anyone we know

owns a pool.

Hey . . .

We oughta go to Reseda Park!

Fly over the footbridge

pay our ten cents

stuff our zorries into green net bags

and our hair into bathing caps

then swim like maniacs

in a glorious, blue expanse.

* Summer in San Fernando Valley found most families still positioning ice trays in front of a fan placed in a deep window sill to keep cool at night. I knew less than one hand full of people who had central air - and you could only sit panting in front of the living room window air-conditioner for so long before your nose began to run. We had to utilize other ways to cool off.

A sprinkler on the front lawn was fine most of the time, and when 'Water Wiggle' came out after the 'Slip 'n Slide' (Wham-O Toys 1961-2), that was even better! Until mom complained about the mud bog we left in the yard. Banished from native turf, we would collect our gear and a dime each (the cost of admission) and head out for some real summer fun: the public pool.

We launched from Jellico Ave. on our bikes – picking up friends along the way; sort of a 2-wheeler convoy – full speed over to Reseda Park. An arching foot bridge was the last leg of the journey and we virtually sailed over with a holler of joy! The dumb boys were always ready so fast for that first victory leap into the water; they didn’t have to endure the getting ready ritual girls faced. Absolutely no female was allowed to swim without first volunteering to tear her own hair out by the roots in a bloody struggle to get the dreaded bathing cap on. We were told it was to protect the filter from our nasty long hair, but I'm so sure! Why didn't we form a swimmer's advocacy group or something? But - we were an orderly society; the rule was obeyed without so much as a hairy hint of revolt.

I think calling rubber flip-flop sandals ‘zorries’ must have been a uniquely Southern California thing. Considering a back yard pool a novelty in the Valley was definitely a 60’s thing. Thank goodness rubbery, pinching, mandatory swim caps is one painful, sexist tradition that has gone the way of anything costing only ten cents for the privilege.

~ excerpt from 'Station Wagon Wars', growing up in the 60's by CTanner

James Bond

Oh! Can you dig it?
We just went to see “Goldfinger”
the new 007 movie,
y’know?

Danny and I got extra-butter popcorn.
Eyes adjusted to the dark
swinging our legs in our seats,
when suddenly,
barely after the start ~

there’s this naked lady on the screen!
I mean, she was turned to solid gold
like Midas, everywhere -!
(Groovy scene!)
It made us STARE,

until Papa told us loudly, “OK, let’s go!”
and we all got up
and filed out, slow -
missing the movie of the century!

But
getting over it
eventually.

* What was papa thinking ~ taking all of us little kids to see this movie? Naturally, we had to lie like dogs to our friends the next day at school about how “boss” the movie was so they wouldn’t know that we really didn’t get to see the whole show. It was humiliating. Our salvation clearly was the fact that we had gotten an eye-full of the naked gold lady prior to our being excused to higher moral ground.

A glorious accompaniment of the Cold War, secret agent themes provided a new definition of ‘action’ film. Notably different from traditional John Wayne war movies was the fact that secret agents had to lead a double-life; they were naturally more comfortable in glamorous society with beautiful girls draped over each arm. No jungle booby-trap or slimey fox-hole could begin to compete with those fabulous spy accessories - ! It was a celebration of gadgetry straight out of the comic books.

Goldfinger was the third James Bond film, starring Sean Connery. The movie opened in the U.S. Dec. 22, 1964. Spy-mania was “ in “! Every cool kid had to have a collection of swell secret agent specialties, just like Secret Agent 007.

*from "Station Wagon Wars" ~ growing up in the 60's by CTanner, excerpt