The typical Democratic American family

The Typical Democratic American Family

I was raised in the typical democratic American family, or so I was told; in truth we were anything but typical. We were not bad, really, just unique. On any given day you might witness my older sister Mary-Lou dancing through the living room in a homemade belly- dancing outfit complete with myriads of coins jingling from the brazier and scarf-like arrangements hanging from her head. My sister Janet could be found hanging out on the Boston Common wearing flowers painted on her face and faded bell bottom jeans that were more embroidered patches than denim. My sister Christine was the vegetarian in the family; my mother used to say that her diet consisted of nothing but hay and alfalfa. This disturbed mom greatly since Chrissy refused to eat her dinnertime creations that usually consisted of giant trays of pork chops or strange concoctions made from leftovers. A Concoction, in case you didn’t know, is any type of casserole containing the following: onions, celery, pasta, leftover meat, and a can of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup. Concoctions became extinct sometime in the late seventies and haven’t been heard from since.

Sunday night my father made dinner, which would thrill me because he made fun things like pancakes or fried bread-dough and corn fritters. These were not exactly nutritionally sound meals but we didn’t care. On occasion he would bless us with creamed chipped beef on toast, a thing he had learned to make in the Navy some time during World War Two. The only one who seemed to like this meal was my brother Eddie, but then he would eat just about anything, as long as it wasn’t a vegetable.

Eddie and my other brother, Tommy, who I swear never went to school, could usually be found with their legs sticking out from underneath a car in the driveway. My mother didn’t seem to mind this, because for some reason they always seemed to pass their classes and make it to the next grade. She later found out that that they’d been bribing their teachers with tune-ups and carburetor adjustments. If only I’d had their aptitude with cars I might have passed with more than a C average, but I managed to graduate so who’s complaining.

I am the youngest, the one they nicknamed skinny bulinx because I never seemed to gain weight. I am no longer blessed with this nickname, it’s amazing what forty-one years and two children will do to you. My top is now a size six, my middle however, is about a size ten. As a child I was the one they seemed to blame everything on. Whenever something went wrong they would simply say Patsy did it and my mother believed them. Fortunately I always seemed to escape punishment because I was young and cute.
“I guess the secret man did it,” my mother would say, but I knew from the look in her eye that she assumed that I had done it. This never sat quite right with me.

I digress. Let me get back to being democratic. My family was not particularly politically minded although I do recall a portrait if John F Kennedy that hung in our pantry next to the refrigerator. He was assassinated the year I was born. I also remember walking with my mother up to the local elementary school where they had voting booths lined up in the basement. We would step behind the blue curtain and my mother would make her choices then she would allow me to pull back the big black lever causing them to be official. She would generally vote democratic on everything.

It was because of this, I guess, that we were chosen. My father received a letter stating that we had been picked to represent the typical democratic family in America. A French magazine wanted to send a reporter to our house to interview us and take pictures. The day this took place will forever be etched in my mind, although some of the details may be dim. It was a Saturday and we were all instructed to stay home. My mother dressed me in a gray woolen dress. I was not at all thrilled with this choice; I thought she might as well have clothed me in a burlap bag. My brothers and sisters didn’t do so well either.

Before long a gentleman by the name of Jean Paul, or maybe it was Jean Luc, came to our door and spent the afternoon. My mother invited him to stay for a lunch of hot pastrami sandwiches on bulky rolls and pickle chips. Pickles cut into little round corrugated pieces were a favorite in our house. I was embarrassed because I’d expected a more elegant meal. But Jean What’s His Name didn’t seem to mind. When it was over he lined us all up on the back porch, took some pictures and said goodbye.

We eagerly awaited the coming of the French magazine and when it came I flipped it open to find the article. A picture of the eight of us standing on the back porch graced the page. As I remember it, the green paint on the porch railing was badly pealing. My sister Janet had worn a mini skirt with those red and white horizontal striped stalkings that made her look like the wicked witch of the east. My brother Toms’ hair hung way past his shoulders. This combined with a full beard, made him look like one of those Jesus paintings that all good Catholics had hanging in their homes. I’m certain we had one on the wall somewhere. I had never been to a hair salon. My mother cut my hair herself, and was under the impression that if you put scotch tape across a Childs’ forehead that when you cut along it, the result would be straight bangs. This doesn’t work if you put the tape on crooked in the first place and it was never more evident than in this picture. Needless to say, I was mortified.

I turned the page to reveal the next article. It was titled “The Typical Republican American Family”. There they were, larger than life, a beautiful couple the likes of Ward and June cleaver. The woman sat on her couch in front of a lovely brick fireplace. Her dress was darted in the front and a string of pearls hung around her neck. She wore classy high-healed pumps. The man standing beside her wore a dark suit and tie. Their two children looked angelic. The little girls hair hung in ringlets and she wore a beautiful dress with wide ribbon at the waist and ruffles on the bottom. The boy was dressed equally as nice. I remember thinking that they must have had roast beef and martinis for dinner, a far cry from pickle chips. I remember wondering why I couldn’t have been born a Republican. The only consolation that I had was that the magazine was French and that no one that I even remotely knew would ever read it.

Ironically as an adult I consider myself to be a republican. This is not because I have a lot of money or drink martinis. It is because I am a Christian, and republicans, in general, are more conservative than Democrats. I am also not embarrassed by my family the way I was when I was a child. On the whole I think we all turned out pretty well. We’ve stuck together for the most part and that’s what families are supposed to do. I realize that the experiences from your childhood are what shape you and make you what you are.

I was recently at my mothers and while thumbing through some storage containers we found a copy of the French magazine, to my surprise it was somewhat different than I remembered it. My brother was not in the Jesus phase that I so vividly remember, in fact, his hair was quite short and he was wearing a skinny black tie. My mother informed me that the long hair came later and only lasted about two years but that’s the way I always remember my brother looking when I was a kid. My sister did indeed have on those hideous wicked witch stalkings, and my memory of the little gray woolen dress was pretty accurate. I’m told the man who interviewed us was named Michelle, no wonder I forgot, what kind of a name is that for a man anyway. The republican family was also very different than I imagined, they had about four children instead of two. Nobody was sipping martinis, in fact they didn’t really look all that different from the rest of us, except of course for the pearls. It’s funny how your memory of things can be very different than the reality. It shouldn’t be surprised since I only look about four years old in the picture. I’m pretty sure of one thing though, we did eat hot pastrami sandwiches for lunch. I still enjoy them once in a while.
Pickle chips anyone?