Start of High School
On our first day at East Brunswick High School, Mike and I walked together, stopping in the orchard on the school grounds for some private time. This would become a regular thing.
“Ah Leah” by Donny Iris
We had the same homeroom teacher, Ms. Muller, who also taught our biology class. I clutched a map of the building as I negotiated my way around, and Mike and I walked home at the end of the day.
Mike (along with fellow trumpet player and wingman John B), attended marching band practices after school. Naturally, I had been hanging around during summer evening practices to be with him, then we walked home.
Gordon T was also the high school marching band director. (See where this is going?)
Since I was always at practice anyway, Mr. T asked me if I would consider joining as a cymbal player in the drum section. I jumped at it, not knowing the first thing about marching bands but eager to grab an excuse to be with Mike.
(Little did I know at the time that my involvement with Mike would spark my interest in percussion, setting the path toward membership in college marching band, where I would meet my future husband … how God works!)
As sophomore year took off, I got my cymbals and uniform, went to all the rehearsals and competitions, and every Bears football game. I learned the music and drills quickly, and crashed cymbals to my heart’s content, all the while becoming interested in playing the snare drum.
I watched the three snare players and went home to imitate the motions and beats using plastic rulers, the closest thing to drumsticks in my house.
Meanwhile, Mom’s nursing career was in full swing, and this included pediatrics and Lamaze courses at the hospital, as well as freelance sessions for pregnant couples down in our family room at home.
She continued her church involvement, including serving as an altar assistant, and we sang in the adult choir together. Cancer maintenance continued as well.
She was also elected Branch President of the insurance company Aid Association for Lutherans.
She became a devoted Band Parent, and we proudly wore our twin East Brunswick Marching Band tee shirts. Mom made sure she was at as many marching band and orchestra events as possible. Mom had lost her hair after a particularly tough round of chemo, but wore her wig and cervical collar and boldly faced the world.
I have no idea how Mom managed all of this, as a typical upset stomach can derail my day entirely. She drove me to private lessons, which had by now been transferred to Gordon T, as my skills advanced. In four years, nearly every musical experience had now somehow been complemented by Mr. T’s presence.
In December, the East Brunswick Marching Band prepared to perform in Orlando, Florida at the NCAA Tangerine Bowl and at Walt Disney World, in the Main Street Parade!
Having launched a fund-raising campaign the previous spring, the efforts had us all on four late-model Domenico Tours chartered buses just before Christmas. My favorite song at the time was Hall & Oates’ I Can’t Go For That.
I remember the 24-hour rides down and back, blissfully spent in Mike’s arms. Unfortunately, what also emerged on that trip was a controlling side of Mike I didn’t like.
Danger! Danger!
An odd possessive streak in Mike first manifested in a vocal dislike for certain things I’d written in my journal, which I’d naively shared with him on the Florida trip. First mistake. He made me scribble some things out. Second mistake.
Third, after having initially being supportive, he suddenly took exception to my advancing interest in percussion. He didn’t feel that women should be drummers, which probably indicated some irrational, convoluted fear of emasculation deep below those piercing green eyes. Weren’t cymbals percussion, after all?
“More Love” by Kim Carnes
Our relationship had taken a downturn, but I was just 15, still inexperienced in these matters and “took it”. With today’s wisdom, I would have sent him packing a lot sooner; alas, I had to learn my lessons the hard way.
Popular songs from the time were That Girl by Stevie Wonder, Genius of Love by Tom-Tom Club, Heat of the Moment by Asia, Murphy’s Law by Cheri, and Abacab by Genesis.
Nana’s Party at Beppy’s
On a happy note, our family celebrated Nana’s 77th Birthday in January 1982. We fondly remember it as “Nana’s Party at Beppy’s.”
The entire family was there, in a large hall with catered food. My brother had his tape recorder with him and was asking people questions to get their voices on tape.
Of course, he and Peter ran around together. The rest of us enjoyed visiting and having a delicious buffet. Nana had a wonderful time at her special party, surrounded by everyone she loved.
It was a happy day. With the advent of spring, things with my boyfriend began to take on a strange vibe.
Late one afternoon, Mike and I were outside on the front lawn and for some now-forgotten reason, he grabbed me by the shoulders roughly. Dad had spotted this from the window, and immediately saw red.
That evening, unknown to me at the time, Dad went around the corner and rapped on Mike’s door, and Mike himself appeared. Dad demanded he get his &%$@# ass outside. There must have been something in Dad’s eyes that motivated Mike to venture forth— and as a budding man, probably thought better than to involve his own daddy.
Never mind that some middle-aged Silver Bullet swillin’ redneck out of New Mexico was simply no match for a flippin’ furious, Newark-reared Vinnie from the block hell-bent on avenging the wonton manhandling of his little girl.
My father declared that if Mike were to handle me in that way ever again, he would break his &%#@* legs. Dad challenged him but Mike remained rooted and quietly acquiesced.
I was eventually told that had Mike advanced, Dad would have more than likely snapped his neck in a rage, and no doubt would have ended up spending a good part of my adult years locked up.
Mike continued his “women will be women” attitude. As I began snare drum lessons in the spring with Mr. Whitlock, the assistant band director, Mike’s distaste for my ambitions grew more apparent.
I still loved him, but soon detected a strange coldness. It most likely resulted from his almost certain demise at the hands of my father (about which I was still unaware at the time).
To my delight, Mr. Whitlock gave me my own pair of marching sticks, Pro-Mark DC-10s, which I still have. Mom bought me a REMO pad for practicing. I was in heaven.
Sophomore year of high school, aside from the Mike drama, went pretty well. I had orchestra, conducted by Mrs. Fink.
“Our Lips Are Sealed” by The Go-Gos
The Go-Gos – Our Lips Are Sealed
I successfully auditioned for Central Jersey Senior Region II Orchestra, and Mom was there to root me on. She attended as many rehearsals as time and health would allow, sometimes driving carpool for fellow musicians. Mike accompanied my family to the concert in New Providence and seemed to be on his best behavior. Two of my favorites from that program was Farandole from L’Arlésienne by Georges Bizet and Rossini’s William Tell Overture.
Naturally, Gordon T was ahem … instrumental in my training as well as the ensemble itself.
A new passion (and it wasn’t HIM)
As the weather grew warm, Mike and I were clearly in trouble. Though he said he loved me, he was increasingly standoffish and John B seemed to encourage the discontent.
I believe he never favored our relationship from the start; I probably required too much of Mike’s time when he could be gallivanting instead. The three of us would walk home from school each day, but I soon felt like a third wheel.
My drum lessons went so well that placement on next year’s snare line in the band was almost guaranteed. Mr. Whitlock said that the only way I wouldn’t make it was if all my fingers were cut off, and we laughed.
I got experience playing on the drum with a couple of the other drummers, and I practiced Aztec Fire (our previous season’s opener) religiously while listening to the tape and reading the chart. Predictably, I aced the tryout. I was overjoyed!
Who was there to immediately take a steaming dump on my parade but my small-minded, chauvinist boyfriend. “You suck at the drums,” he would say. I didn’t know whether his motive was to push me away, or just get me to quit. Well, quitting was out of the question. It stung, but I still loved him.
At one point, he said his parents were having problems and they would be splitting up over the summer; he’d then go to New Mexico to live with his grandmother. Therefore, we should break up. Another time, he told me that if I quit the drums, I could have him—but he was always being grounded from seeing me because of his grades.
None of this added up. It began to dawn on me that this relationship’s days were numbered. I wasn’t going to be manipulated into giving up on drums.
Editor’s Note: After high school, I would go on to excel in the snare line in college, and join the percussion section of a community wind symphony based at Rutgers, play drum set in our church Praise band, march in a DCA corps in adulthood, and own a drum set.
“I Know There’s Something Going On” by Frida
Frida – I Know There’s Something Going On
In May, EBHS had its spring concert band performance. I happily played the cymbals in the percussion section, and even got to rap on the snare drum during one of the selections.
Afterward, out in front of the school, I was ridiculed. Mike said hateful things, and that sidekick of his, John B mugged a smirk. It really hurt me.
I went home with my family, devastated. For several weeks I poured out my heart to the ME Book and listened to music.
Where was I going wrong? Why was Mike acting this way? I blamed myself.
I often hung out with the cute guy Tony across the street from my house, whose father ran the lawn mower business there. Too bad he already had a girlfriend … he had no issues with chick drummers.
More trouble
After I had written Mike a note to please get John B to just leave us alone, it obviously did not go over well. My locker was broken into and stuff disappeared. I found a notebook in a nearby trash can. With no proof, there was nothing I could do besides getting copies of notes from my teachers and friends in my classes. I got more notebooks at KMart that evening and had to double-back for notes and assignments to remain in step with my studies.
I didn’t deserve John B’s ire. He was clearly out of line.
Final chapter
Regrettably, I made a last-ditch effort to reconcile with Mike by saying I would “do it” with him. We’d already made it to third base months prior, so this didn’t seem much of a stretch.
Once we got to the woods, however, I just couldn’t go through with it. All sorts of alarms were sounding in my head. That day, I kept my self-respect.
However, he ended up getting it a couple of days later from another girl, Jerri, who’d been coming on to him. He wasted no time bragging about it. In retrospect, I am enormously glad I didn’t “give it up” for such a lousy reason, and to someone who obviously didn’t respect me as a person. It just wasn’t worth it.
Yearbooks were distributed, and according to Mike, I could have mine signed by anyone BUT those of the male persuasion. That jealous, pea-brained SOB had crossed yet another line.
Mike himself was the first to sign it. His message was long and heartfelt and sensitive. It lent no hint as to the sick undercurrent of his feelings.
My mother once went to the S. house to talk to Mike’s mother about something school-related. Her impression of Mrs. S was of a reticent lady who bowed to her husband’s every wish, and seemed to be genuinely cowed by him.
If this was the typical dynamic at Mike’s house, it was no wonder he appeared to be mirroring his father. Mike had already told me that there was physical abuse and alcoholism in the home. I had no intention of standing for this scenario any longer.
“Murphy’s Law” by Cheri
Dump that bum; beat the drum
One day in June, school was almost over, and our breakup was unspoken and anticlimactic. Mike walked home with John B.
I remained behind in the band room, tearing up on the triple drums, losing track of time, thinking the equivalent of Bite me, you tool and walking home later with Annette. And the next day, I got my yearbook signed by every guy I knew.
That was about the time when Dad’s bowling teammate Eddie had a thing for me. The team picked up on this and razzed him. “What’s da matta wit’ ya, robbin’ da cradle?” anchorman Harry the Hat would jest, “Ya got da hots for Vinnie’s daughta?”
The “Angle”
One Sunday after I broke up with Mike, Eddie got me out in the Federal Lanes parking lot under the pretense of retrieving Dad’s new bowling ball, The Angle from his car.
Well … this guy had an “angle” all right. He wasted no time in moving me up against the car and placing his middle-aged lips on mine, groping me handily. I was too innocent to ward off his advances.
Naively, I actually felt flattered to the point of not telling Dad (who would have kicked his ass), and accepted his phone calls on my teen line late at night.
In adult retrospect, I should have kneed him solidly in the junk and dumped Dad’s new 16 lb. ball squarely atop his twisted, child-molesting, jailbait-copping melon.
