Sally Draper: Rage and the World Gone Sideways
It’s the 1960′s. Not much happens to you, if you’re a kid: it’s not your world.
But in the space of a single day, you lose the person who saw you “ saw right through to who you were: what you did wrong and what you could do well. The one who listened to you, took your side, gave you a role, and occasionally treated you as a partner in crime died today, and it is as if that place he made for you in the world was never there.
You are angry. You don’t understand that you feel this way because no one is coming to help you get ready for bed. You miss your grandfather, whose presence used to be part of your bedtime ritual. To you, he was never an obstacle; he actually made things better for you. So now, what you feel is not your own pain “ but outrage.
You have something to say to your parents, aunt and uncle. It takes all your courage to stand there and say it.
Why are you laughing?
I heard you, I heard you laughing.
How could you be sitting there
like nothing’s happening?
Like he’s not
GONE?
He was here, now
He’s not here
He’s gone forever, and nobody
even knows that. He’s dead
And he’s never coming back.
He’s DEAD, and nobody cares
That he’s really,
really
really GONE.
You don’t care what they say to you. “Sweetheart, we weren’t laughing,” (they were), “you’re being hysterical” (and you’re eating my peach). You don’t even care if you get punished, but one look at them tells you they can’t even do that. Are they afraid of you? Have they forgotten who you are?
You have forgotten nothing. You see them clearly. They can’t take care of you. They won’t even so much as try.
From where you have been told to go, that spot on the carpet in front of the TV, you finally see things as they are. A man somewhere else in the world set himself on fire today. You are not even ten years old yet, but something tells you what that man must have felt. Things are going wrong. The people who should be taking care of things, can’t … or won’t.
Do you remember? If you do, when did you first feel this?
Basket of Kisses: The unofficial blog of AMC's Mad Men. Where all the cool kids meet & greet to talk about Don Draper, Janie Bryant, Christina Hendricks, Jon Hamm, Matthew Weiner, & subtexty things.
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September 7th, 2009 at 4:30 pm
Ladies and Gentlemen, Basketwriter Anne B. Please give her a round of applause as way of thanks for adding her unique voice to the Basket.
September 7th, 2009 at 4:41 pm
Wow… this brings me back to when I was like 4 years old. I used to go to bed around 9 and my parents didn't sleep until midnight or so.
One night I couldn't fall sleep (or went to bathroom late). I was alone in the room as my parents came in after they had finished watching TV. remember making a HUGE issue out of this. I cried and threw a hissy fit, complaining that "It's not fair. I always had to sleep early but you guys never do. I hate you. Why are you doing this? What is so important?"
This is probably one of the few rare things that I remembered from that age without seeing photographs. I just remembered how it happened vividly. I was extremely upset then and it probably has some sort of far-reaching effect on me LOL.
Of course, Sally couldn't quite understand why people can laugh whenher ally died but she doesn't realize how it's a way of "grown-ups" cope with things they don't want to.
As a kid you always think that growing up would make things better. And once we're old, we want the good old days to . Truth is, a mole hill of a problem to a mature adult looked like a mountain back then. It was similarly tramautic, excruciating and challenging.
September 7th, 2009 at 4:41 pm
Yay! Finally an actual post from the brilliant mind that is Anne B. Is this going to be a regular gig? Yes, yes, yes, I hope.
Great insight, as always AB. Did we all have those seminal moments in childhood when we realized that the grownups couldn't or wouldn't take care of things? When they couldn't make it better? I know I did…
September 7th, 2009 at 6:09 pm
Heh. Yeah, I've got a story about the first time I realized my parents didn't hold all the reins. I was five, and my brother was 15, and he was threatening to kill himself with a rifle. Long back story there, but the short of it is that I didn't understand what was going on and simply wanted something–a drink or a bath or something like that. After repeatedly telling me to leave the room (my parents were negotiating with him–he was holding the gun), my mother finally screamed, "Do you want your brother to die?" And then it hit me–what he was doing, the fact that my parents were scared–and my world was very different from then on. I don't even know if my family knows how well I remember that night; my family's very open, but it's not something I like to bring up. (No, he didn't do it, and he's a well-adjusted and accomplished 40-something today.)
Sally's outburst was directed at her parents, and my sordid little situation is pretty different. But I think it's the same sort of horrifying, my-God-the-world-is-exploding realization: the adults only act like they're in charge! They don't know how to fix things any better than I do!
And, of course, I remember lots of less weighty situations in which I was miffed at my parents for making jokes that went over my head. As an adult I'd have laughed too, but as a kid I was fond of screaming "IT'S. NOT. FUNNY!"
Wow. I've shared too much. I did not realize this show could be therapy.
September 7th, 2009 at 6:10 pm
I'm a child of the '60s who was mostly raised by my grandparents. My father died in 1962, just before my 3rd birthday. I was 8 1/2 yrs old when my mother died on January 1, 1968.
I vividly remember NOT being sad, but being angry, like Sally, when my mother died. I was also very aware that when someone died, they were never, ever, ever coming back.
I completely believe the Sally and Grandpa Gene relationship, even why Grandpa would point out a roof with no flashing that was going to leak. (My grandparents always assumed I could keep up with their conversations.)
September 7th, 2009 at 6:12 pm
Oh hell, yes. Something quite similar sent me into a downward spiral of depression for a year when I was Sally's age. The worst part was feeling I was desperately reaching for help and not getting it, because no one really knew how to respond. Kids don't really feel adult-style depression…at least, that's what they thought in the mid-seventies.
September 7th, 2009 at 6:26 pm
I think the grandparent was important to this story. He's Sally's only grandparent, and (as she repeatedly said) now he's gone. I have to think that this was at least part of what Gene's abrupt discussion with Betty was about.
When my relative lost her closest sibling in the early 1970's — I was a child myself at the time — my grandma, at that time my own only grandparent, flew out there and stayed. It was midsummer when the incident happened and she stayed into deep winter.
She stayed because, while the adults clung and spun and grieved, together and apart, no one really seemed to notice the kids. There was a small girl and a baby in that house. They needed someone. My grandmother decided to be that someone.
My Grandma died in 1996, but in her 89 years she saw many people through dark times, myself included. She was a lovely person, and I miss her.
Teka and Big S … I know these wishes arrive late, but I am very sorry for your respective losses. I hope the years have brought you peace.
September 7th, 2009 at 6:43 pm
Anne B, your grandmother sounds like a fantastic person. I'm glad you had her in your life.
Thanks. My life has steadily gotten better after that year, and today I'm very happy.
September 7th, 2009 at 8:09 pm
I understand all that, Roberta – especially that it's a combination of things making Sally upset. What I didn't understand was the assertion that we can somehow see that the root cause of Sally's trauma is not having someone put her to bed even though Sally thinks it's something else. It seems like a contradiction to me. Not that it really matters in the long run if it all makes sense to one particular reader; it still resonates.
I don't really have any clear memories of feeling like adults could or would make everything OK. Certainly not by the time I got to be Sally's age.
September 7th, 2009 at 8:14 pm
In my experience, both as a child and a parent, it's not the feeling, just the reality.
In other words, you don't think or feel that an adult could make everything okay, but if an adult is just there for you; holds you and tucks you in and rocks you and strokes your hair, somehow, things are better.
September 7th, 2009 at 8:24 pm
True, but I took this as the crux of the oiece:
September 7th, 2009 at 8:31 pm
"The Arrangements" struck me especially hard because my paternal grandfather lived with us and he and I were especially close, like Sally and Gene. I vividly remember the day. He died in his sleep. At lunchtime, a neighbor picked me up from school and brought me home for lunch at her house. When she picked me up at the end of the day, she brought me home and I saw my aunt's car in the driveway so I thought, oh great, my cousins may be here. But they weren't. My dad was home, my mother and aunt, and the funeral director. My dad told me what happenned and told me it was okay to cry because that's what he did when he heard the news. That was my dad, a truly good man. So, I went up to my room, cried my eyes out and threw the crucifix I had hanging in my room against the wall because I could not understand why God would do this. The crucifix broke in two, the plastic Jesus lost some limbs, and I have only told this story to two people until now and have never seen a depiction of how that kind of loss impacts you at such an impressionable age. I understand exactly how poor Sally Draper feels.
September 7th, 2009 at 8:37 pm
I do remember the first time I realized – not just knew it as a set of words, but truly realized – that everyone dies. I mean, if you had asked me the day before whether everyone eventually grows old and dies I would have known to say "yes," but I wouldn't have really grasped the implication. I was four years old, and the lady next door had died a few weeks earlier. She had been like a third grandmother. And then one day it hit me. We're all dying. One day you stop growing and start dying. I'm going to die. I'm dying now, and so is everybody I know and love, and there's nothing anybody can ever do about it. I think I cried for hours.
September 7th, 2009 at 8:52 pm
I am younger than Sally–I still remember the night my mom came to pick me up early from a party–my beloved grandfather had had a massive heart attack and was not expected to live. This was 1968 or 1969–anyways he was one of the very first to be picked up by an ambulance with equipment to deal with heart attacks, and was taken to one of the first intensive care units. He survived–but we fully expected him to die, because at that time that is what happened when you had a heart attack that big.
My dad (it was his dad) was completely wrapped up in taking care of his mom and being at the hospital–it fell to my mom to care for us, and I was especially sensitive to the cruelty of all of the adults toward Sally and Bobby who did bond with their grandpa while he lived there. He was the only adult who had time for them. He listened to them and told them stories.
I tried to be sympathetic to Betty but she is just beyond awful this season–she's downright cruel to those kids.
September 7th, 2009 at 8:57 pm
I’ve posted elsewhere on BOK that I can really relate to Sally Draper and I’ve wondered if, in just a few years, we might find her demonstrating in the streets, protesting injustice and war.
That’s not so far fetched.
On my 14th birthday (June 16th 1968), I took part in an antiwar protest at the Pentagon.
While I wasn’t among the dozen or so people there, who were arrested, I was with them for the arraignment at the Federal Courthouse, later that day. Then, after they were bailed out, we all retired to a local deli for a late lunch and to plan out our next protest.
Even though I came from a fairly conservative suburban family, I always was a free-spirit. Despite being encouraged by the nuns and priests at the Catholic schools I attended during the 60s, to conform without questioning civil or religious authorities, I always was a bit of a rebel. From a very early age I had an inner sense that much of what was happening in American society and in the world, was terribly wrong.
I guess my first inking that the adults were ready, willing and able to lie about important things, was in September of 1964, when I read the paperback edition of the Warren Commission Report’s “official truth” concerning the assassination of JFK. (biggest work of fiction since “The Cat in the Hat”!)
After 11-22-63, nothing was ever the same for me. President Kennedy’s death marked a profound turning point, after which nothing was ever quite the same.
I was nine when it happened and it was the first of many horrors that unfolded throughout my formative years. Malcolm. Dr. King. Bobby. Vietnam. Watergate. And all the rest.
Watching little Sally Draper, last night, expressing her anger and pain and rage, made me want to give her a hug – and to shout, “Right on!”.
September 7th, 2009 at 9:23 pm
I don’t quite understand this. I’m not sure why this would be what was making Sally feel the way she did, rather than the loss of her grandfather.
September 7th, 2009 at 9:28 pm
Was born in 12 month of 1962. I am 46. Nothing in my lifetime has left me more hopeless feeling than the latest recession and goverment bailouts. My Father worked in a GM plant my whole life of growing up. The plant is now closed. (He died in 1994. Glad he did so he didn’t have to witness what is going on now.) I still don’t feel all that positive about the economy but to see the government come in and put there hand in so many areas is frightening to me. I for one do wish my paycheck to go to the government to determine who needs it more than I, when we work hard for what we earn.
I do recall in the late 60s and 70s the stories of the POWs. These were very moving to me. Gave me the first impression of a weird world where people could not get along.
September 7th, 2009 at 9:37 pm
I think my powerful identification with little Sally (and my willingness to poem-ize her rant) comes from a few places … not the least of which was watching the world slowly descend into chaos when I was a kid.
My parents, both liberals and news geeks, never cared if we kids watched the news. But my formative years were a particularly violent time. My earliest memories include coverage of the Manson murders, Vietnam, the Patty Hearst debacle … things no child should remember.
By the arrival of my youngest sibling in 1977, my parents no longer bothered to stay up to explain any of this to me. A year later, I was seeing footage from Jonestown. It looked to me as if adults had completely lost control.
“So, the monkeys are running the zoo?” Yes, Gene. That’s how it looked to me, too.
September 7th, 2009 at 9:43 pm
It wasn’t my parents’ fault, but I remember distinctly my first ever feeling of cold, terrible dread of evil in the world, and that there was nothing they could do to fix it. We were vacation in a lovely little summer home on a bay on the North Fork of Long Island that we rented over the course of several years.
The owners had a small library with an illustrated book about the Holocaust, which I picked up and read. I was about 10 and I will never forget my horror that such a thing was possible.
I thought the little girl who plays Sally was outstanding in that speech to the adults. I was so touched by her tear-streaked face (Betty’s red nose too). Clutching her Gibbon later that night in bed. I just wish Don had gone in to comfort her. So many opportunities to care for his family, squandered.
September 7th, 2009 at 9:45 pm
Melissa, I think there is a bit of stream of consciousness in Anne B’s piece–that of a frightened, sad little girl. All the feelings and experiences are toppling together to leave her feeling alone and uncared for. Yes, her grandfather is dead; abandonment. But also, her loss is not being acknowledged–she doesn’t matter, even though her feelings of pain are the size of the Chrysler Building; abandonment. Now from so many of the accounts we are reading about in the various threads, it seems that many a little girl experienced a similar ‘lack of acknowledgment’ under comparable circumstances. Regardless, what Anne B is saying is, Sally’s experience in this moment, accurate or otherwise, is one of being utterly on her own.
September 7th, 2009 at 9:55 pm
Remember, in the background of all this, was the threat of mutually assured destruction by nuclear weapons. (It’s still in the background, but further back.)
I was born in 1958, and through most of my young life, I had a daily, disturbing, brief waking dream of a mushroom cloud on the horizon. I don’t think I had it in 1963 (I was a little young) but definitely by 1967.
I wonder if Matt W. is going to sneak in some “duck and cover” classroom scenes for Sally?
September 7th, 2009 at 10:27 pm
Gene Hofstadt was simply another grandparent willing to indulge his grandchild, whereas her parents weren't. I'll bet ten bucks that he was never like that with Betty and Williams and that they had more fun with their grandparents. One day, when she has children, Sally will realize this.
September 7th, 2009 at 10:28 pm
Frankkly, I wanted Sally to just shut up because she was getting on my nerves.
September 7th, 2009 at 10:48 pm
#23, I'm curious. How was she getting on your nerves? (This is a genuine question, I'm not trying to be snide at all.)
September 7th, 2009 at 10:50 pm
born in 66, grew up with borderline personality mom and traveling salesman dad. this afforded me many opportunities to have "quality time" with my giant raging toddler of a mother and actual normal curious toddler of a brother. mom's behavior was consistently inconsistent, but suffice it to say she gave about five 'oh shits' to every one 'attaboy.'
perhaps as a response to her appearance abuse of insisting that my wavy golden waist-length hair get cut from my head, i decided to up the ante and refuse to wear dresses or skirts– to be more like her "good" child, my little brother. the transformation would be complete when i got to go with both my parents– a special occasion– and get real boys' sneakers (keds champions in red). this should have been a good memory for me, but the shoe salesman flirted with me in a way that really creeped me (a six or seven year old) out– at first it was the way he touched my leg– maybe it was a little closer to the knee than necessary, but it gave me a bad vibe, and i flinched. his response was to laugh, and say, "oh, don't worry, i'm married!" laughter all around– my father, my mother, my would-be molester.
as i gazed up to my legal guardians, oblivious in their joy to my total What-The-F*ck amazement, i could almost hear the buzz of neon gas lighting up the sign the cosmos was sending to me, hovering above their heads, which read, "KID, YOU'RE ON YOUR OWN."
September 7th, 2009 at 10:55 pm
#25, god, that's appalling. I'm so sorry.
September 7th, 2009 at 11:00 pm
This is lovely Anne B.
The funny thing is I almost always had faith in my parents, because they were loving and they were in control, and competant-as-can-be to make sure things remained 'comfortable' and' steady' through it all. Let's just say I was never not elaborately tucked into bed.
I don't know when I figured it out — that no one is really ever at the wheel.
I did see the look on my mother's face, the fear in her pretty green eyes as we raced to the hospital to deliver my premature brother in a foreign country. When he died two days later, and I wanted to mourn his loss, my chance at being a big sister, I was kept from her. I was five, and though there are many pictures of my first day at kindergarten a few days later, I can't ever look at those pictures without remembering I was acting happier than I was. I was worried about her, sad about him…and was expected to march off to school with a new red plastic pencil box.
I had many, many surgeries for many, many reasons throughout childhood — always thinking I was a tad unlucky, but never really grasping that my friends were not spending their summer vacations in hospitals, too. I was examined by the doctor, shown out of the office to be entertained by the secrataries, and presented with the adults' "decision" later. No one told me until the summer I turned 18 that I had a chronic condition. By then, I had a permenant disability (from 14), my mother had already died of breast cancer (she was 42, I was 15), I had lost my maternal grandmother (at 17 — she was 69)) and grandfather with whom I was extremely close — none of whom I was ever told were ill. Just told when the end was near, at the point when good-bye was barely an option, to buck up and be brave and strong, like the good girl I always was. An outburst like Sally's (mind you, I am 15 years younger than her) would have been at best cuddled and quieted, at worst taken aside, dressed down and shamed for upsetting others. The not communicating was my parents' way of protecting me, of giving me a childhood; their silencing of my reactions and emotions was their way of protecting themselves. On the bright side, I never felt sorry for myself (I'm not sure I was allowed to), but one thing I knew for sure early on, and a lesson I kept learning is no one is running the big show. Eventually I figured it out: that parents and doctors and most adults with authority were not to be entirely trusted, and especially not to understand, to be understood. I'm guessing that last bit is something that Sally already knows. — it's why she could take, and then clumsily return, the $5 with impunity. At her house, lying and acquiessence is rewarded.
September 7th, 2009 at 11:06 pm
@26 teka, thanks for the kind words– funny thing about being a kid/abuse– it becomes normalized and you assume others have it worse than you– and they often do! so you become a de facto father confessor to all your little effed up friends and don't really work a lot of this crap out until you are ready to accept the fact that you deserve help– willing to bet we are– a lot of us, by age or circumstance or both– a bunch of grown up sally drapers here.
and i also add my praise to the very praiseworthy anne b for this inspiring post.
September 7th, 2009 at 11:11 pm
#25: You must have posted yours while I was writing mine. Mine was in no way meant to one-up any one.
There are just too many parents not fit to parent. I am so glad to know you survived a shitty hand.
September 7th, 2009 at 11:23 pm
@29 marina_joan, dude (woman-dude), no way! i posted the #28 and your first post was already there, but no, absolutely not, i did not take it that way! in fact i was afraid to say i understood about not being able to say goodbye (to a dear aunt in my case) in the event that it would sound like horning-in on what was obviously a very painful collection of memories. you are very gracious and considerate.
September 7th, 2009 at 11:40 pm
@Cub:Ok, cool because reading "father confessor to all your little f*ed up friends" is the hardest I've chortled in a while. I don't need to be ticking off the writer of that gem.
September 7th, 2009 at 11:53 pm
AnnieB: Bravo! Bravo! Count me as one of your biggest fans (literally – I’m the size of a linebacker).
The people who should be taking care of things, can’t … or won’t.
Your query is like a musical note I heard for the first time almost forty years to the day. I was about to enter first grade. San Francisco was a magical place to be at that time. So much was happening that it felt like the City was the center of the universe with television as my window to the world. The war protests at Berkeley and SF State seemed like daily lead stories. The moon landing was an amazing adventure for a boy. I remember seeing reports from Woodstock, thinking that Golden Gate Park looked exactly the same any weekend during the summer. I mistakenly thought Tate-LaBianca was one person and that this person must have been really important because his/her story was everywhere. A new specter, name “the Zodiacâ€, had adults afraid, and the mere mention of his name would cause whispered conversations just out of ear shot from the kids. Much later in life, I found out that he had threatened to attack school buses and that many of my friends had their parents drive them to school, something unheard of back then. The summer of 1969 was also the time of my mother’s second nervous breakdown.
My first day back to school, I asked Mom if she could walk with me. I wasn’t afraid of going by myself or of the Zodiac. I wanted her to go because it was what she was suppose to do, or so I thought. She could barely get out of bed and make breakfast. When I finished, I asked her again but she sat down, lit up a Salem, and said, “Honey, I just don’t feel up to it today.†I didn’t cry. I didn’t get angry. I didn’t protest. I knew she was telling me the truth – the meds she was taking left her like a zombie. I grabbed my lunch, kissed her goodbye and left.
Dad was working two jobs because Mom had wrecked the car and the accident hurt some other people. We still owed money for the car and we couldn’t afford a new one. Dad was working so much that I didn’t expect him to take us to school. We knew he was doing the best he could given our dire situation.
While I was walking, I picked up a rock from someone’s small front yard because it was white with this crystalline structure that was just cool to look at. It was a piece of white dolomite (I dated a geologist in college and she had a sample) and it was usually paired with red lava rock for “drought resistant†yards (a.k.a. ugly). I stared at this rock the rest of the way to school and came to the conclusion that I had to look out for me and my brother. Dad’s working and Mom’s zonked.
I never blamed my Mom for not walking with me that day. I knew her demons were real and she wasn’t going to be like the other Moms. My Dad worked so hard that it shortened his life by at least ten years.
Fast forward forty years. I’ve been looking to buy a new home and I happened to see one that was built in 1958. The original owners have retired and have put the property up for sale. The husband is a retired Lockheed engineer (you can always tell by the excellent mechanical condition of the appliances) and the drought resistant landscaping has white dolomite. I took one of the rocks and I have been contemplating this story ever since. Then, as if on some cosmic cue, AnnieB you post this question. The chord that was struck forty years ago still resonates today. Maybe it’s the reason I like the opening lines Don Henley’s “The End of Innocence†so much:
Remember when the days were long
And rolled beneath a deep blue sky
Didn’t have a care in the world
With mommy and daddy standing by
When happily ever after fails
And we’ve been poisoned by these fairy tales
I don’t want to give you the impression that I am stuck trying to regain that innocence. I am thankful every day that I am alive. 90% of life is a struggle. It makes me appreciate the other 10% all the more. Thanks for letting me share.
September 8th, 2009 at 2:31 am
Frankkly, I wanted Sally to just shut up because she was getting on my nerves.
Why, Rosie, because she kept repeating herself and no one seemed to be listening? Yes, that can get on a person's nerves. And yes, you've already said this about her getting on your nerves.
I hope this wasn't too subtle for you.
September 8th, 2009 at 6:39 am
First time poster here. Love your site, ladies! I'm sure a lot of these personal stories feel like they happened yesterday.
My story is not my own but my daughter's. When she was about seven, a film about the 1965 Selma, Ala. marches and protests was on the Disney channel – an excellent film called Selma, Lord Selma, told through the eyes of a little girl.
My daughter asked what "lynching" was, and I explained a little bit about lynching and the Ku Klux Klan. She began to cry hysterically at the idea of this horror and would not be comforted the rest of the night. "How could people do that?" and more importantly, "How could God let this happen??" were questions she couldn't come to grips with. How could she, as a little girl whose classmates were of all colors of the human rainbow.
I was faced with for once being unable to comfort her – because it wasn't something I could make all better, could I – and she was faced with some of the horrors brought by man upon man. But her reaction was the right one – and if more people reacted that way, atrocities like that wouldn't take place.
It also prompted me to have a really open conversation the next day with an African-American colleague who had children the same age.
This same child hauled me up off the couch one day not much later to sign up to sponsor a child with Save the Children.
Sally Draper knows she's on her own now. Her parents were pointedly not there for her at a time she really needed their comfort, and when she'd lost the only adult who treated her like a person.
September 8th, 2009 at 7:44 am
My Sally Draper moment (we're nearly the same age) was in the spring of 1965 when I heard the news about Viola Liuzzo, the housewife who watched the civil rights demonstrations on TV and, on impulse, drove down from Detroit to Selma to help out during their momentous march to Montgomery. She was shot to death by the KKK:
http://www25.uua.org/uuhs/duub/articles/violaliuz...
Years later I discovered that my husband (a teenager by then) was on that march and had, like the other demonstrators, been chased and beaten by the police with billyclubs and bull whips. But back when I was ten, there was no one to explain to me what was going on.
September 8th, 2009 at 8:06 am
I don't remember ever having a dramatic moment of death-realization–I always understood it. First suicide attempt at ten, actually. I was always too fascinated by death to be scared of it–it was a disappearing act. Most kids disliked me at school.
But what Sally Draper reminded me of on Sunday was a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay, "Childhood is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies". http://www.scrapbook.com/poems/doc/8479/253.html
September 8th, 2009 at 8:22 am
Geo, Surly, Marina, cub (ohhh … cub), workingmom, Cantara and especially Frank, my deepest thanks to all of you.
I had two new threads in mind when I posted this yesterday, and this is the one I went with … because I was going for stories. Yours, not mine. The best aspect of the Basket is the safe space it creates for stories like yours. My God, what some of you have been through. I am honored that you choose to share your memories here.
Frank, you're a terrific writer. I'm a fan of yours too.
September 8th, 2009 at 9:23 am
I suspect that Gene’s relationship with Betty was similar to Don’s relationship with Sally . . . slightly indulgent, but distant. I suspect that the only person who managed to closely bond with Betty was the Hofstadts’ maid, Viola. And I would not be surprised if Sally’s children end up bonding with someone other than herself. I think this is a family trait that goes back for generations.
September 8th, 2009 at 9:52 am
"They can't take care of you."
They can't take care of themselves.
Anne B: I hope you don't mind that I used the more familiar "AnnieB". When I proofed my work, I thought about correcting it but I liked the way it sounds.
I've read your post three times. My favorite line – "Do you remember?" How could I forget? All I can say is "Homerun, Ballerina". I can't wait for your next topic.
September 8th, 2009 at 10:13 am
I don't mind at all, Frank. My entire family calls me Annie.
Those outside the family who call me by that name are a self-selecting group. They find their way to it by themselves — much as you did.
I love this show, this site, this forum … it promotes insight, feedback, support, more and better writing from others (like you). This is truly what I think the Web is for.
September 8th, 2009 at 10:30 am
I had moments like that, when my grandfather died, and when my parents couldn't remember something that for me was crystal clear. I remember thinking, why aren't they sad like me, why don't they notice me, and how can they forget X?
And even years later when my dad died, I remember getting angry as my relatives quickly seemed to think I should be "over" my grief, while they continued for a long while asking my mom consolingly "how she was holding up". I think adults just don't realize how deeply kids feel, or if they do, can't remember it when faced with their own emotional storms. (Most I mean, of course some adults do directly comfort their kids).
September 8th, 2009 at 11:25 am
When I was about 5 or 6 (1968 or 1969) my only grandparent, my dad's mom died, 1 week before her younger son, my uncle, got married. The wedding was not postponed and there was much 'adult drama' abounding, nothing that I heard specifically, but could feel the tension around me. My grandma (who did not allow me to call her grandma – she was 80 – I called her 'Daddy's Mama') had been ill for some time. There were people in town who came early for the funeral, so there were lots of strange relatives around to meet, will drama and to top it off, my dad was Best Man and I was a flower girl in the wedding. I didn't know whether to be happy or sad. One day at nursery school, the teachers (those sweet ladies) held an impromptu party for me to cheer me up (with a cake with coconut shavings on it – I loathed coconut shavings!), but I was even confused about that, since it wasn't my birthday, why should I have a party?
At one point during the week, my dad was tucking me in and I asked him why do people have to die?. As he quietly explained it to me, tears started to fall from his eyes – something I had never seen before and would never see again for the rest of his life. He was mourning his mother, standing up for his brother in this huge wedding and supporting his wife & daughter during this crazy time. I had a child-like glimpse into his humanity, which scared me to realize parents weren't super beings. This is one of my most cherished memories that has grown in significance as I've matured – I miss my dad dearly.
Actually, when Don went in to check in on Sally at the end, I thought for a second they would have had a similar moment, at which I would've started bawling!
September 8th, 2009 at 1:47 pm
Hello, all. Look at the array of childhood stories (some shared for the first time) that this post has prompted! I am awed that this site is such a safe place for the Mad Men faithful to share their lives and memories with each other.
#32 Frank Bullitt, that is one heck of a story. My heart goes out to you. As a fellow oldest sib, your story hits me right in my solar plexis. Am proud of your strength.
My story to share is an AnneB story. Anne is my sister – younger than me by one year – and has always been the fantastic, supportive, empathetic writer you see here today on this site. Seems like she has found a unique place for her voice here.
When Anne was 10 or so, she fell in our backyard one weekend and broke her forearm – both bones, clean through. Our youngest sibling (playing with us at the time) took one look at Anne's crooked arm and screamed. It was that scream that brought our parents running to the backyard (they were otherwise never present where we played). Dad splinted Anne's arm as best he could and rushed Anne to the hospital in our family car – he asked me to come along to hold the splint in place. We got turned away from the closest hospital (wrong insurance – denied!) and wound up at the equivalent of County General. For some reason that day there was all kinds of carnage in the ER – and this was in the early 70's, back before Hippo laws or any semblance of privacy. The doctor who tended to a head injury victim relayed the news to the family, in front of all of us, that their son had maybe a 20% chance of survival (while the family collapsed in shock in front of us). Badly burned kids arrived from a house fire. A dune-buggy accident victim on a gurney was forced to sit up by a heartless nurse and vomited all over everything – again, all happening right in front of those of us waiting.
You get the idea. Meanwhile Anne was NOT being tended to … and of course there were more life-threatening cases ahead of her in the priority list. But in my child's mind I kept shrieking: why is no one taking care of my sister?? I was livid – but pushed it deep down all that long afternoon, as we kids of the 60's were so well-trained to do. It was a stark lesson – perhaps my first – of how completely OUT of control the adults in our childhood life were. My dad was powerless in the face of all that carnage – powerless to get his daughter proper medical attention, powerless to (didn't even try to) assure me it would be all right.
I wanted to do, in the ER that day, precisely what Sally did that night in her house: stand up and shout for the sanity that was missing – be heard. It felt vindicating somehow to watch Sally do it … even if she was shushed and turned away, at least she got her voice heard. In so many of the stories I've read above, we didn't get our childhood voices heard.
September 8th, 2009 at 2:17 pm
I was out at my grandfather's cottage and it was the last day there. My mother had arrived to pick me up. A cat crawled out from underneath the house, shack, next door. I leaned down to pet him or her and the cat looked up — one of it's eyes was destroyed.
The next thing I remember, I'm in the bathroom crying and praying for the cat. I know that the adults wouldn't really help — my grandfather would find my concern sentimental, he never understood the pet thing. I knew my mother loved animals, but I believe it would be easier to walk away and that's what she would do. I was too young to help this animal. Maybe it was the first time that I realized that God or the universe allowed animals, allowed people, to fall through the cracks.
I wonder if that's why helping animals in need became so important to me — if even when not consciously thinking about that cat, it was working toward making this a fundamental part of who I would become. Or was I already that person, and that I reacted that way was proof of it.
My grandmother, and she heartily denies this, used to tell me there was a witch under my bed who would get me if I didn't go to sleep. We actually shared a bed and I think she just really wanted me to stop chattering and asking for bedtime stories. She used to actually reach under the bed and make scratching sounds.
Yeah, I had a lot of nightmares as a kid.
One night, I opened my eyes and saw a witch hovering above me, hissing in my ear to go to sleep. It is so scary to me that decades later I won't say it was just a dream based on my grandmother's words, because I really don't want to be proved wrong. My reaction at the time was to stay very still for a while, and then race out to the living room where my mother was watching TV. I figured my grandmother would be pissed off if I woke her up. I remember my mother repeating the words back to me if this tone of ultra-condescension, as if she was speaking to a younger child than I was. "There was a witch…in your bed?"
Kinda figured I was on my own.
September 8th, 2009 at 2:54 pm
Thank you AnnieB and everyone else for this post and your responses. The things that have been written about are very personal and very touching. My heart goes out to each and every one of you. Annie your kindness shines through with this post and your responses to everyone. Thank you.
I have said this before on BoK: this show has done quite a bit for me as far as healing the past. MM has humanized my very inadequate parents for me. And now MW and the writers have turned their eye on the newest generation, and oh how I can relate. Seeing Sally laying on the floor watching the news images while her heart broke brought back so much of my childhood to me.
I remember finding a WWII picture book as a kid and pouring over the images of the Holocaust–not quite being able to process what had happened yet paging through it over and over again. However, I could relate with the victims and as a result wondered if our family was really Jewish. The book is such an indelible part of my childhood that I recently brought it home and put it up on my bookshelf next to the books from my childhood (Nancy Drew, Dick and Jane, Cat in the Hat, Little House on the Prairie, etc.).
Betty Draper and my mother both have Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and I swear that I could cry every time I see Betty dismiss her kids. I was really affected by the scene from episode 3.03 where Sally came into her mom's bedroom and announced that she walked backwards all the way from the living room. Her mother ignores her and demands that Sally zip up her dress. Right after than, Sally steals her grandfather's money. She wants to be seen so much that she is willing to risk getting in trouble to be seen. Ouch.
I always knew that the adults in my house were not in charge because my mother blamed me for ruining their lives. If I had not been born, she could have lived a wonderful life. I felt so guilty about it that I tried be the good girl, so she would forgive me. I worked so hard to hide the mark of shame (my yellow star) that I knew everyone could see that I don't think I ever really developed who I was. I wish so much that I could have rebelled like Sally. I wish I had a grandpa who would have told me that my mother was wrong about me.
September 8th, 2009 at 3:27 pm
I was 9 or 10. My family always did things with another family — think Ricardo and Mertz, only with 5 children in all. When our parents hung out at one family's home at night, the other family's kids would go to sleep in the host family's beds, then get woken and driven home when the parents went home.
I (a "Ricardo") was sleeping at the Mertz's one night, when I awoke around 10 needing to pee. Hearing music at the other end of the house, I ventured down, saw no people, peeked behind a sofa…and found my father ("Ricky") balling "Ethel". Neither noticed me, and I retreated back to bed.
This betrayal was crushing. My dad was my hero in every way, many of them related to morality and trust. This was the first time I ever realized my parents were not perfect. Unlike Sally, my yelling was only on the inside.
This was over 30 years ago, and time healed the wound long ago. Trust me, my parents were/are nothing like the Drapers, but seeing their failings and the struggles in their marriage ended up making me appreciate them even more as I grew older and discovered my own flaws. I have no doubt that I am a better (yet still far from perfect) parent — and person — today because of it.
I guess that's my way of saying that Sally will come through all of this just fine. The journey will be painful at times, but the destination will be worth it.
Holy shit. I have never told anyone this — not even my wife.
September 8th, 2009 at 4:24 pm
MTSutton: Thank you for your kind words. Your sister is a very talented and kind person. You can't fake her insight.
Next time I'm in the emergency room, I'm taking you with me. I know someone will have my back.
To all those with generosity of spirit to share their stories, no matter how painful, I leave you with my favorite quote from Sartre:
Freedom is what you do with what's been done to you.
September 8th, 2009 at 5:23 pm
#48
Thank you so much for your favorite quote. That is going to stick with me for a long time. I am so honored to be able to read everyone's stories here. My story is very much like others. My sister and I used to stay at my grandmothers every summer. We used to rotate grandmothers houses and boy am I grateful that my parents at least had the sense to send us there. I struggled for a long time with why my parents did not want us. We were the children of seen and not heard, but even more so the children who were not really wanted – accidents. My grandpa had his birthday the day after mine and we always celebrated together (our birthdays were in the summer)- what wonderful memories. He died when I was 8 years old and I was not allowed to go to the funeral. I kept asking why and no one would tell me. We all just want to be Seen and Heard. To quote #48's wonderful quote from Sartre "Freedom is what you do with what's been done to you" – I hope I can be an example to my children that you can go on. Cycles can be broken.
September 8th, 2009 at 5:29 pm
Oh MAN can I relate to Sally Draper. I was raised in the 60s-70s by a mother who strongly believed in the philosophy: Children Should be Seen and Not Heard (!!). I was an adopted child (as was my brother) and my parents split up in 1966. Charles went with my beloved Daddy and I was forced to stay with Monster Mommy Dearest. So, my first ever bout with despair as a child was when I was told about the impending divorce and the fact I could only see my father on Thursday evenings. I didn’t even have the vocabulary to describe exactly what it was I felt — But as an adult I can say this feeling proved to be a visceral deep, dark, mysterious (and ever haunting) sorrow.
September 8th, 2009 at 9:07 pm
Thank you every one for sharing.
September 8th, 2009 at 9:40 pm
Can I just say: my big sister (only a year older) was an 80-some-pound badass in the ER that day. There are parts of the day I don't remember, but I do recall this little mad-as-hell blond who wanted to take on any adult who crossed me.
She is still like this today: fiercely protective of those she loves. Just get her a Large Orange Drink and she'll be cool.
Love that quote, Frank. Keep 'em coming …
September 8th, 2009 at 11:31 pm
Absolutely agree, Jill E – we have the power to keep our painful childhood events in the past. I actively seek to ensure my kids' childhood experiences are different than mine were. I ask them what they think and feel and see – I want to validate their perspective of an event, especially when it's not what I expected. I don't want them to feel invisible.
Frank Bullitt: The Sartre quote is the best quote I've heard in ages – good for a variety of occasions! Thanks for sharing your comments; thanks for your authenticity.
September 9th, 2009 at 10:31 am
A complete personal aside to MTSutton:
Big sister, little fighter, I love you.
September 10th, 2009 at 9:16 am
I sometimes still feel, being a bit younger than the Sally character would be if she were real – and around today, that my mother treats me (and many of her 8 kids upon occasion) like this. Dad died two years ago…and it was just recently, in a moment of something-or-other (weakness? clarity?) she said "I never even thought about the pain of my kids at losing their father".
No, you didn't, but thanks for finally noticing. But, we've had to find our own ways to cope with emotional episodes since..oh, forever.
So to see Sally like that, well, it spoke to me as the adult I now claim to be…very powerful and true.
September 11th, 2009 at 8:06 pm
On the AMC site in the photo galleries they have 2 pics up from ep 5 and one is an absolutely adorable pic of Don and Sally eating together with smiles on their faces. Looking at it you would never know that all is not well in Sally's world. I hope it means that Don will be spending more time with her.