Home Memphis, Tennessee
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Memphis, Tennessee
Livy was right. The world was changing. Even though I was headed back to my conservative college in a few weeks, the last thing I wanted was to be ignorant about the goings-on in the country. If Ron’s life depended on it, even more reason to listen to the rest of the records.
Disobeying my father was a necessity.
I was going to hell anyway. At last count, I was breaking six of the ten commandments on a regular basis.
One, I wasn’t honoring God; I was often mad at him.
Two, I still idolized the Beatles, and now Crosby, Stills not a single word left my lips.
“I’m going to say this one more time. I hope you’ll heed my warning. As much as you love that powder-yellow Mustang in the driveway, I’d hate to see her go to someone else. I will never allow this trash in our home again.” He held up the Jimi record. “Do you understand me?”
This time I stared into space, nodding in slow motion. Here I was, twenty years old, yet he still talked to me like a child—the way he always had—like I had no say in the matter.
Moments later, I experienced what I considered a sin far more egregious than any of the sins for which Dad insisted I’d go to hell.
With murder in his eyes, he glowered at me. “What makes you think you can bring this garbage into our home? You are as trashy as this record.” With that he lifted his knee and split my Jimi Hendrix record in two.
The jagged edges in each of his hands mirrored my heart, and his tongue had assassinated my spirit.
A long guttural moan dislodged from Mama’s throat.
While his words, as sharp as a bayonet, sank down into my soul, I felt dissociated from my consciousness, like the world around me wasn’t real. My eyes glazed over. It seemed like I had left my body.
The creaking of the mattress snapped me out of it.
Dad padded over to my closet to retrieve the rest of the records and placed them on the dresser.
One by one he lifted his knee and split each in half.
He lingered when he held the Beatles, the White Album, studying the cover like he admired it, then cracked it open.
Running a finger down the track listing, he said, “You are aware of what happened last weekend in California, are you not?”
His frosty voice sent a fresh chill down my spine. I had no idea what he meant.
“That vulgar hippie freak Charles Manson, along with his savage thugs, stabbed Sharon Tate and her unborn child sixteen times. All high on LSD!”
Mama released another guttural moan.
“Her father is a lieutenant colonel with the army and happens to be a friend of mine.”
Of course, I knew about the tragedy—everyone was talking about it—but what did it have to do with the Beatles? “That’s horrible, Dad. I’m sorry it happened.”
“The words ‘Helter Skelter’—a song from this very album—were written in her blood.” He thrust the record toward me. “Shame on you for wanting anything to do with this band of hippie heathens.”
A poster included with the White Album poked out of the cover. He removed the poster and also the enclosed headshots of all four Beatles. One by one, he held up each photo for me to see, then tore it down the middle. The ripping of each picture sounded like the sharpening of a blade.
“You are a disgrace to our family, Suzannah. A heathen yourself. How do you expect to attract a man with godly character? Or any man, for that matter? Aren’t you afraid of God’s wrath?”
With a hand pressed into her stomach, Mama crumpled over and wept.
“Dad! You told me yourself my musical talent is a gift from God. Just like Mama’s gift and Ron’s gift.”
“Your mother has devoted her musical gift to the Lord. As should you.”
The pain from his name-calling had settled into my bones. Although terrified, I knew I had to talk back to him, no matter the cost. “Am I really that horrible of a person just because I love rock music?” I asked, my voice dripping with anger.
Dad dipped his chin, answering me with the same ire. “Yes.”