I can’t believe I packed and carried a 5 kg/10 pound book and brought it with me on vacation. I who always strive for the feather light, easy to carry luggage. But I am an immutable biography and memoir reader. And not only athletes’ stories.
Immutable, I like that word. It means unchanging over time or unable to be changed.
Perhaps ironically one of the changes on my roster for this coming year, is to do better at remembering and using new (to me) words I discover and like. I am an insatiable reader, and I habitually read with the massive American Heritage Dictionary at my elbow. My thumbs are constantly in it. Being an old child of neglect and still chronically wondering what other people do, I once asked my husband, does everyone do that? (As if “everyone” does anything!) Who knows these words?” Well, he often does (but that is another story!) but didn’t know about “other people.” I consider myself fairly literate, but wow, I am sometimes amazed at how many indecipherables I have to dig for, from a seemingly popular book. It does slow things down and I often wish I were a faster reader so I could eke more out of my chronically sparse reading time. But I stubbornly refuse to stop doing it and I am generally intrigued and gratified that I did. The problem is I rarely remember them for longer than it takes to digest the phrase where I found them. In fact, I sometimes even have to look up the same word twice in one sitting. So that is a change I am hoping to make: to not only to remember them but even use them. And I promise if I use a word that is too weird, I will tell you what it means.
I finally finished the Jim Thorpe 600 page biography Path Lit by Lightning, by David Maraniss. Although it is not my usual taste in biography as it does not really delve deeply into Jim’s psyche and heart, it was for me an education, not only in the ignominious (there’s one! Hideously shameful and embarrassing.) history of the First Nation people in the US, but the exploitation of athletes, Native and otherwise. I recommend it.
Triumphantly putting that one away, I saw what was next in the cue: a very tiny, sensible traveler: a biography of Alice Miller, that clearly would not even last the flight. And the mammoth memoir My Name is Barbra by Barbra Streisand, which I could not fight the urge to pack. I have always liked Barbra Streisand. She was the first decidedly Jewish movie star that I was ever aware of, and she stubbornly refused to get a nose job, so has continued to even “look Jewish” all these years. She is now 81 (and still appears to have those amazing dancer’s legs.)
I had been waiting for this book since I read it was coming, some time ago.
I have a beloved sister named Barbara, spelled in the familiar way. We have long shared a particular affection for Barbra, crooning together “people who need people…” And a favorite lavender rose variety which we both love, has her name, Barbra Streisand, so that too has become a part of our lore. So for all these reasons, I packed and carried Barbra along on this trip. Somehow, and perhaps not surprisingly Barbra’s story is a neglect classic. In fact, one quote I could have scripted for her myself: It was at one of her first, and wildly successful public appearances that her mother uncharacteristically attended, young Barbra eagerly asked,
“Mom, what did you think?” She frowned and said, “Your arms are too skinny.” That was it. She had nothing to say about the performance. She didn’t congratulate me or comment on my acting. It was as if she hadn’t even seen me perform. What did I have to do to get her attention and approval? No wonder I wanted to become an actress. It was a way to escape myself and live in someone else’s world.
Neglect, “Lite”
So far, the book is for the most part an entertaining read, which is a rather mixed review coming from me. The first 50 or so pages read like a compendium of little, perhaps “cute” anecdotes wryly illustrating her pretty miserable, self-reliant childhood. Her father died when she was 15 months old, so she had no conscious memory of him, only the early impressionistic imprint of abandonment on her little soul. Her mother some few years later married the wicked and abusive step-father who completed the template of in one way or another untrustworthy men. Her mother was a cold, self concerned and unaffectionate woman who certainly must have had her own story but was decidedly distantly oblivious and downright mean to her little daughter. There was not enough money and often not enough food, and Barbra was hungry and on her own all kinds of ways from way too young. But there are so so many little vignettes, and such detail! I had to wonder, for a child of neglect, how on earth does she remember so much? My childhood screen is for the most part a vast blank one. I have a sudden flashbulb image of the grainy staticky test pattern on our black and white TV after hours, when there was no program, like a place holder for upcoming shows. My childhood memory is rather like that, static, grainy, spotty and vague, black and white. Hers play like TV shorts, and inconsummate story teller that I am, I almost have to wonder, are these all true? It all comes out being a bit “lite” for my taste, but hey I am going a little lite this week too, in honor of the holiday!
Besides powerfully portraying some of the neglect qualities I most identify with, Barbra continues to be a powerful woman trailblazer, and symbol of graceful aging, and conveys a feel good “adversity story.” And there is much about her that I identify with, and is also timely for me.
Roses
Barbra was always ambivalent about her looks. She was by some considered homely, others exotic, even beautiful, likened to a range of animals from rodents to insects to fantasy figures. I can relate to being sometimes called ugly, (even not too long ago by a client,) other times “interesting looking,” and who knows what as I age. The failure of mirroring, and the sense of self-worth, value and confidence that come with secure attachment, have been lifelong challenges for me as for her. And for her even with all the adulation of money and fame. I think she is gorgeous even as an octogenarian, although I do know of the magic of airbrushing, etc. But somehow that insecurity has not stopped either one of us from loving clothes and jewelry and all sorts of adornments, and endlessly loving beauty. My very literate grandmother used to quote the poet (Keats) saying “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” Whole-heartedly agreed!
For me, the best gift of this book, was Barbra’s painstaking description of the transition to visibility. The emergence of a largely private introverted self-reliant endlessly hardworking misfit, to being able and willing to share her inspiration with the world, to in effect come out of hiding. I am trying to do that in my own small way, as I attempt to come out and show up for the mainstream public, to write a “trade,” lay-people’s book about neglect. I am passionate about making neglect visible, so I have to be willing to fight to change my prior “nature,” my prior circuitry and let something different happen. I’m on it.
As the endlessly gracious, late night BBC news people say, “Thanks for your company.” Thanks for joining me this year in directing our attention to neglect, and making way for this book, now in its early stages, but promised.. Meanwhile I am glad I schlepped Barbra’s hefty book! (I promise mine won’t be like that!) I am grateful I am strong enough to carry it, and admittedly I did not bring much else. And hey, it prevents me from buying too much pretty stuff on vacation!
Thanks Barbra! And Happy New Year to all! 2024 promises to be better!

Barbra Streisand Rose
Today’s Song:
(Not my usual taste, but it seems fitting.)
Happy New Year!