Part one

I was born in East L.A. I know it sounds like Cheech Marin's parody of Springsteen's "Born in the USA," but I really was. We didn't live in the area though and I have no idea why my folks were in that part of La La Land. We lived in Garden Grove, an Orange county suburb about an hour south of L.A. My parents have only ever told me two things about the day I was born. The first is that they didnt have a boy name, apparently convinced that this would make it certain that I would be a girl, so they only had the name Deborah Kay. I received my name on the 5th day of my life, just before the hospital was about to print "un-named" on the certificate. Incidentally, this would have made me named after my mom's dad, "un-named Bowman." The second was what they both said as soon as I was born, simultaneously, "what an ugly baby!" I am not kidding. This is not only a verified fact, but for some reason they felt the need to tell me regularly as I was growing up. They would tell me, my friends, my girlfriends, strangers.

I am not trying to be melodramatic, but rather trying to paint an accurate picture of what my early life was like. My earliest memories are both of being slapped across the face by my Dad. One was for interrupting him while he talked to a friend and the other...I don't remember why. My big brother Darin(by all of 22 months) was the only person who stood up for me. Both of my parents have confirmed that they liked him better, but that is okay, because he has always liked me better than them. My parents divorced a few months after my third birthday and I remember that day well. I am not sure why it is so clear in my head, I feel confident a therapist could tell me.

It was summer of 1970 and Mom, my brother and I were boarding a bus. For some reason, I was convinced we were going to Disneyland. We must have driven by it, because I remember seeing it and anticipating the joy which we would soon experience. Of course, we lived very close to Disneyland, so now I realize that I saw it all the time, but this day I was sure we were going. I remember the car my dad was driving, I remember the look on his face as he crossed the street when we were pulling away. Mom & Dad were always a bad match. They not only did not love each other, they did not like each other. It was a hook up that resulted in my brother's birth, they got married just before he was born and split up at least twice between his birth and mine. They could not be more different and it was better for all involved that they did not continue their marriage. As someone who believes strongly in marriage, I can say that, because I am certain they would have killed each other had they stayed married. We went to Pasadena to live with my Aunt Carole and her Husband Gene.

If I was three, that means my aunt was 17. I think she got married at 15, but it may have been 16. I don't remember much about that time with them. They had a dog named Charlie Brown who would chase Volkswagen's, only VW's. My uncle had recently returned from Viet Nam (years later he died of cancer brought on by "agent orange disease"). He was a gifted illustrator, I think he worked for Disney, but I am not sure. He was also a mean bastard who beat me even more than my Dad did. At the time, my grandparents owned a small market in Pasadena, but I don't remember it. My Popo (was supposed to be papa, but you know how babies mispronounce everything? it stuck) was a huge man. He was 6 feet 5 inches and had a booming voice. He had spent most of his life as a Southern Baptist travelling evangelist, mostly because he could not get pastoral work since he did not have but a 4th grade education, and most churches would like someone with a seminary degree. He was completely unqualified for just about anything, was a rumored philanderer and was in every way a con man. This I only know now, then he was larger than life and he was my Popo.

*to be continued