When I was eight I decided to run away from home and live with my grandmother where, I assumed, life would be simpler. I was undeterred by the fact that I lived in Fort Lauderdale and my grandmother lived in Cleveland. Using the logic I employ to this day, I figured the details would work themselves out.
My desire to leave my childhood home was precipitated by a violent argument I had with my parents. OK, that’s not exactly true; at the time I thought it was a violent argument, but it was really fairly tame. It went something like this:
ME: “I want to go to the movies with Joey Bartow and his mom.”
MOM: “What are they going to see?”
ME: “Bonnie and Clyde.”
MOM and DAD (as one): “No.”
I did not know until years later that my parents’ objection was due not only to my choice of film, which was considered shockingly violent at the time, but mainly to my choice of friends.
Joey Bartow had a murky reputation in our neighborhood, and not just because his mother was divorced, which was still somewhat scandalous in Fort Lauderdale in 1967. But having a divorced parent would not necessarily have been a deal-breaker for my mom, whose two older sisters had been divorced back in the 1930’s — when divorce really WAS scandalous. No, my parents’ objection was due to the neighborhood legend – true as it turned out—that Joey and his mom would bathe together in the new-fangled “Roman tub” that they had in their brand new home off of Bayview Drive.
Now, I repeated my desire to see the movie but my parents were not persuaded. “And don’t try to sneak in,” said my mother. “I know the manager.” This was patently untrue, but, at 8, it seemed plausible. Pouting, I walked away and decided that after such an ugly scene, I would go live with Grandma.
“I’m running away from home,” I told my big sister.
“Good,” she said.
“They’ll be sorry when I’m gone,” I said firmly, meaning my parents.
“They have six kids,” said my sister. “They won’t even notice.”
I found my younger brother in the bedroom we shared. “I’m running away from home,” I told him.
He started to jump up and down on the bed, which was frowned upon. “YAY!” he yelled, in time to his jumps. “I – get – my—own – room!”
My parents saw me as I was dragging a suitcase out of the hall closet; they knew immediately what I was planning.
“Well you can just put that away,” Mom said. “It’s my suitcase and you can’t have it.”
“Besides,” chimed in my father, “I bought all the clothes you wear and you can’t take them with you.” He thought for a bit and then inspiration hit. “I’ll sue,” he added improbably.
In despair, I threw myself on my bed to consider my options. About an hour later my mother came in. “Will you be joining us for dinner?” she asked politely. “I’m making barbecued spare ribs.” She paused. “With corn-on-the-cob,” she added.
This was pure, cruel parental manipulation; Mom knew that spareribs and corn-on-the-cob was my favorite meal in the whole world. I thought for a minute. “I’ll be there,” I said sulkily; even at age 8 I was not the stuff that martyrs are made of. But I needed the last word.
“When I grow up,” I told them. “I’ll do whatever I want and no one will stop me.”
“That’s right,” Mom said. “Grownups can do whatever they want.” And then, mystifyingly, my parents laughed out loud as they walked away.