12
Pornographer’s Daughter

I stood in front of my bathroom mirror and stared at the awful Catholic school uniform I was wearing: an unflattering green-plaid polyester skirt and a white oxford button-down shirt. The outfit made me look too skinny and my brown-framed glasses made me look like a geek.

It was August 1984, and I was now fourteen years old, getting ready for my first day at St. Thomas Aquinas High School in Fort Lauderdale. So I did everything I could think of to improve my looks. I attacked my hair with a curling iron. I blasted myself with hairspray to make my bangs stand up high on my head. I tried to select the right dangling earrings. Then I put on gray eye shadow, pink lip gloss, and powdered my face with corn silk.

I shouldn’t have been nervous. Kelley Wyatt, my best friend from middle school, and Linda Arnone would both be attending St. Thomas, and it was comforting to know I would have a few friends. But still I worried about fitting in.

Will people think I’m a dork?

Will the popular girls be mean?

What will people think if they knew my father was in the pornography business?

Thankfully, this last question was not always at the forefront of my mind, but it did pose an interesting dilemma. The dilemma was this: Students at St. Thomas Aquinas were either from wealthy families—lawyers, doctors, or local business owners—or from middle-class Catholic families. And as my family had experienced firsthand, people from both groups thought what my father did for a living was wrong, sinful, and disgusting. My father was still involved in the adult industry. He owned interests in five theaters that had recently been converted to video rental stores. VCRs had changed the business and my father and his partners were keeping up with the times.

But here’s the thing: even back then, I never believed that my father’s profession was wrong. I’d never watched pornography, but I understood that consenting adults had the right to decide if they wanted to view these types of movies. Still, I knew that I’d never be able to change people’s minds about pornography. So I’d decided that if anyone asked me about my father’s job, I would forgo the possible stigma and give them a generic answer—I would tell them that he invested in real estate (which was true), or that he was in the movie theater business (also true). I didn’t want people to judge me or my family, and I hoped, naively perhaps, that they would simply assume I could get into the movies for free, and then leave me alone.

*

As it turned out, I loved my new school, and I did fit in, at least with my own small group of friends. I joined clubs, studied with my friends, and on the weekends, I went to school dances, football games, or the movies. All my worrying had been for nothing. I wasn’t the most popular girl in school, but I wasn’t a social pariah either.

Because Friday night football was the social highlight of each week at St. Thomas, Kelley and I fell into a routine of attending every game. At the games, students would congregate in an open area that faced one end zone and the home team side line. The field glowed from the bright stadium lights and you could hear the cheerleaders chanting constantly in the background. I loved it. While I was a student there, St. Thomas won most of their football games, one of the reasons was because they recruited the best players from public schools across the county. With a winning team, school spirit was infectious.

Despite the fun I was having, St. Thomas Aquinas did have its hard edges and a strict adherence to the traditional Catholic doctrine that my father was vehemently opposed to. One day, my freshmen class was herded into the library to watch an educational film about abortion. We were shown graphic pictures of aborted fetuses and footage of the actual surgical procedure, which sent some students into the hallway to vomit into garbage cans. The film also featured tearful testimonials by women who had had abortions saying that they had made a terrible mistake. That afternoon, we were sent home with glossy literature with pictures of bloody aborted fetus and with “Choose Life” messages on every page. We were told to discuss the issue with our parents.

“I guess it’s a private school, so they can teach what they want,” my mother said, shaking her head in disbelief as I showed her the brochures.

I was very confused. The pictures looked so bad and I thought abortion must be horrible. It would take me years to realize that the issue was much, much more complicated, and that this reading material, as well as the program that day, had been propaganda of the highest (or lowest) form.

“I can’t believe they show this stuff to kids!” my father said when he saw the brochures. His face was redder than I’d ever seen it. He was fuming, but he calmly asked me what I thought about abortion.

“I guess it seems wrong,” I said hesitantly. “They say life starts at conception. And the women they showed in the film who had abortions seemed so sad.”

My father nodded. Then he said, “There are a lot of conflicting views on abortion, Kristin. St. Thomas really didn’t tell you the whole story. Many believe women have the right to choose what happens to their own bodies. Did they even mention Roe versus Wade?”

“What’s that?”

He shook his head. “It’s a very famous Supreme Court case. I’ll explain it to you, I promise.”

“But what about them saying it’s a baby from the beginning?”

“There are different schools of thought about that, too,” he said reasonably. “People aren’t really sure when life begins. It’s debatable.”

“Really?”

“Kristin, when forming an opinion about something serious, it’s very important to weigh all the available information. St. Thomas didn’t do that for you. They just shared one side of this debate. Always try to remember that.”

After this incident, my parents considered removing me from St. Thomas, but in the end they decided that I would stay and they didn’t push the discussion with me any further. But the next day, I listened more carefully in theology class as my teachers discussed the film. There was no mention of the Supreme Court, nor of the heated debates in the 1960s, nor of the terrible consequences of underground abortions. All I heard was Bible verses that supported why abortion is wrong. I was too shy to speak up in class, but I began to feel that blind faith in any doctrine didn’t really address the complexities and realities of abortion or, for that matter, any complex issue. The credit goes to my parents for urging me to always think about every side of an issue.

*

During my freshman year at St. Thomas, I was coming to realize that my parents’ marriage was finally falling apart. In fact, many of my friends’ parents were going through the same thing. Divorce seemed to be in the air, so at least I was in good company. My friends and I would talk about how each divorce was unfolding. Our conversations would revolve around a mother’s new boyfriend, or a new wicked stepmother, or how to effectively divide our time between our moms and dads while still maintaining a social life, or how to extract the most money and freedom from our guilt-ridden parents.

My friend Kelley had it particularly rough, and during freshman year I was witness to the unfolding chapters of her parents’ bitter divorce. My mother dropped me off every day at Kelley’s house so that Jim, Kelley’s father, could drive us to school, and there were several weeks when her mother Nancy—who was an angry alcoholic—was in the midst of moving out. Every day, more boxes were piled in the living room, and it was clear that Nancy was trying to take everything. On top of this, Kelley had rightfully chosen to live with her father, so there was added tension between her and her mother.

Jim was a charming, jovial man who always made us laugh during our rides to school. He often poked fun at my tall, skinny frame by saying, “Hey Bones, you ready to go to school?” Despite his outgoing personality, he had struggled to hold down a job as a salesman at various companies, or even to drop of us off at school on time. Routinely, Kelley and I would barely arrive before the last bell.

“I’m sorry we’re always late,” Kelley said to me one day, as we rushed from her father’s car toward the school. “Why don’t you get another ride?”

“No way. My only option is the bus, and I hate the bus. Besides, at least we’re together.”

“I’ll do my best to get Jim off on time.”

“Don’t worry about it. Are you coming over after school today?”

“Sure, I’ll meet you by the buses.”

“Bye, ho,” I said playfully.

“Bye, slut.”

We laughed at each other, ever the best of friends, then went our separate ways.

That afternoon at my house, while we stood in the kitchen over a pan of rice crispy treats, we talked endlessly about our part-time jobs at Carvel Ice Cream and how to accessorize our uniforms with earrings, shoes, and different kinds of EG socks. My mother was at work and my father out of town so, as usual, we were alone.

“Have I ever told what my dad does?” I asked.

Kelley shrugged. “He has movie theaters or something like that, right?”

“Yeah, he has stores now, which used to be theaters. And the stores . . . they sell and rent porn tapes.”

Kelley set down the rice crispy treat she was about to put in her mouth and she stared at me like my head was on fire. “What?” she finally managed.

“It’s true.”

“Does he make the movies, too?”

“No, nothing like that,” I said laughing.

“But your dad looks so businesslike.”

“I know.”

“I never would have thought.”

“I know.”

“Does he have any videos or stuff here? In your house?”

“Umm . . . I don’t think so. But I’m not sure.”

We snooped around my father’s office, in closets, and under beds in search of porn. In the end, it turned out to be a boring, futile mission, because there didn’t seem to be much to find. All we uncovered (in the back of a closet) was a stack of Forum magazines that had a few nude pictures but mostly they were just a bunch of articles. The only other thing we found was a Ping-Pong ball in my father’s top desk drawer with a small drawing of a penis on it, and GREAT BALLS TONY written in black ink.

“What the heck is this?” Kelley asked, smirking.

“I have no idea.”

Many years later, I learned this was a souvenir from Honeysuckle Divine.

After this discovery, I turned to Kelley and said, “I’m tired of this. You want to do something else?”

“Yeah. Let’s go watch Guiding Light.”

Thus our search for the pornographic material ended and we happily went into the living room to watch our favorite afternoon soap opera. My father, apparently, was as boring as everyone else’s.

*

One morning, my mother was making breakfast in the kitchen. When I walked in, my parents abruptly stopped talking. They had guilty expressions plastered on their faces.

“Breakfast is ready,” my mother said in a hoarse voice. “Can you take your plate out to the patio?”

“Sure, Mom.”

I picked up my scrambled eggs and bacon and carried it to the patio table near the pool. My parents joined me, and as we began to eat, I had an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Kristin, we wanted to tell you . . .” my father began weakly. “Your mother and I have decided to separate for a little while.”

“Separate?”

“Yes.”

I choked up immediately. Tears burned my eyes. “Does that mean you’re getting a divorce?” I asked.

“No, it doesn’t,” my mother said quickly. “We just need some time apart.”

“We don’t want to get a divorce,” my father said, who was also near tears. “We really don’t.”

But I barely heard what they were saying; I just cried at the table. Though I’d been expecting the news—because everyone’s parents were getting divorced—I still felt blindsided. “Okay,” I said a few minutes later, and I took my napkin and began wiping tears.

I glanced at my mother. She seemed stoic—she hadn’t cried or expressed even a hint of sadness. We ate the rest of our breakfast in silence. I couldn’t wait to escape to my room.

Later, I stared out my bedroom window into the frontyard and remembered the many times my parents had argued and the awful knot I would always feel in my stomach whenever they did. As a child, I’d felt helpless listening to the screaming and the sound of doors slamming. During their arguments, I would hide in my room and act out elaborate stories with my Barbie dolls.

But I was a teenager now—and Barbie wasn’t going to be of any help.

In the few years since my father’s probation had ended, my parents’ relationship had only gotten worse. They fought constantly. My mother seemed to hate my father. She would become angry if he left his shoes in the living room, a mess in the kitchen, or bought something at the grocery store she didn’t like. She was always nitpicking at him and the smallest thing would set her off. In response, my father would become angry and start cursing and yelling. Being around them was intolerable.

She also seemed to hate her life, and at times, that seemed to include me. In recent years, she had begun berating me about the silliest things, from leaving the bathroom untidy, to my requests for rides to the mall, to hanging out too much with friends. And she accused me of weird things, like stealing her clothing and jewelry, which never happened, and of being selfish and inconsiderate. Once she just screamed at me to get out of the house for no reason at all. I didn’t understand her anger and I’d basically decided to avoid her as much as possible.

“My parents are finally splitting up,” I said to Kelley on the phone that night.

“Oh, my God,” she said. “But it’s not a big surprise, right?”

“No. But it still sucks. A lot.”

“Yeah. So how are you?” Kelley asked.

“I cried at first. But I think I’m doing good.”

“Of course, you’ll be fine.”

“They say it’s only a separation, but I think it’s permanent.”

“Most likely.”

“My parents are so stupid,” I said.

“Mine, too,” Kelley said. “Why is it parents today can’t get their shit together?”

“It’s like an epidemic.”

“A divorce plague.”

I forced a laugh. “So, what’s the latest at your house?”

“My mother is fighting with my father over money. It looks like I might not be able to go back to St. Thomas next year.”

“What!”

“I know. Sucks. My mother refuses to help pay my tuition since I chose to live with my father.”

Weirdly, at that moment, I felt more upset about Kelley and I not attending the same school than about my parents’ separation. Kelley and I had become each other’s support system . . . fellow soldiers against the forces of domestic strife. It just seemed like our parents were being so damn selfish.

*

After that breakfast on the patio, I never cried again about my parents’ impending divorce. Instead, I threw myself into working at my parttime job at Carvel on the weekends, filled my days with after-school activities until late into the evening, and I spent as little time as possible at home.

Things between my parents just got weirder and weirder. My father finally moved out in 1985. He rented an apartment on the east side of Fort Lauderdale and I only saw him maybe once every two weeks. He seemed to be very depressed. My mother began going out like crazy on the weekends, sometimes not coming home until 2 or 3 a.m. She performed all the basic parenting tasks, like cooking meals, grocery shopping, and cleaning, and she was always home on weekday nights, but after my father moved out, their separation moved quickly to divorce with no chance of reconciliation. My father filed the divorce papers in 1985, when I was a sophomore in high school, but my mother was the one who most wanted out of the marriage. The divorce was eventually final by the end of my junior year in 1987.

My parents sold our home with the pool and my large room and I was so sad to move from the place where I had spent most of my childhood. My mother and I moved to a small townhouse only a short distance away. She quickly created her own new world with a large circle of friends. And her late-night weekends essentially left me without a curfew. (All my friends had curfews, so I rarely put my freedom to mischievous use.) Altogether, her behavior started to take its toll on our relationship and I began to lash out against her.

“Kristin, get off the phone,” my mother said one night, leaning into my room and glaring at me with frustration.

I just kept talking, not even acknowledging that she had spoken to me. She had given me my own line since she was tired of fighting me to use the phone, so I didn’t understand why this was suddenly a big deal.

“Kristin, get off the phone!” she said again.

“Let me call you back,” I muttered into the phone receiver.

I rolled my eyes and hung up. Finally I looked in her direction. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, and stared at me.

“When I tell you to get off the phone, that means get off, now.”

“Why should I?” I responded.

“Don’t talk back to me! It’s late! And you have school tomorrow!”

“You talk on the phone constantly,” I said, raising my voice to meet hers. “I don’t need you telling me when I can talk on the phone or set my schedule.”

“Look . . . I think you’re very angry with me . . .”

“What, is that some psychobabble from your therapist?” I shot her daggers with my eyes again. “Did you tell your therapist how you’re never here? That you practically ignore me? How you’re always on the phone with your friends or whatever guy you’re dating?”

My mother’s voice rose to a scream. “Do you want me to sit around and bake cookies all day?!”

“It would be nice if you were around,” I said, and then I slammed my bedroom door in her face.

My father’s company wasn’t any better. He’d moped around for a while and slowly recovered from the divorce. I spent a weekend evening with him once every few weeks but these visits were always taxing for me.

“I wish things could have been different between me and your mother,” my father once said.

“Well, at least you’re not fighting anymore,” I replied, pushing spaghetti around my bowl, not hungry at all.

“So . . . how’s school?”

“Fine.”

“How do you think your grades will be this quarter?”

“Okay.”

In many ways, I was just acting the role of the typical teenager, but still, these forced conversations were torture for me, as was the fact that I just couldn’t help my father with his own personal problems with my mother. Everything had fallen apart. And there was nothing anyone could do, least of all me.

One evening, my father came to visit me at my part-time job. In between making ice cream cones for customers, he took me aside and shared his new plan with me.

“Now that your mother and I are getting divorced, I think I need a new start. I want to move back to Philadelphia, but I wanted to see what you thought about that.”

“Just go,” I said, pretending to be distracted by scraping the sides of the ice cream buckets.

“I was also thinking about getting my stockbroker’s license again.”

I shrugged. “Sounds like a good idea.”

“Are you angry?” he asked.

“Why should I be angry?”

“I don’t know. I just wondered.”

“I guess if you need to do this, then go to Philadelphia.”

“Thanks for understanding,” he said.

Customers were starting to pile into the store. “I see you’re getting busy,” he said. “I guess I’ll talk to you later.”

As I scooped more ice cream and made sundaes, I thought about my father moving back to Philadelphia. I couldn’t tell him not to go, especially since he seemed so unhappy. But it would have been nice to have him around if he was happy and in a better place.

Later that year, he did get his stockbroker’s license reinstated and he moved back to Philadelphia. But that lasted only for a short period of time—a few months later he returned to Florida. He told me that he just hadn’t liked the cold weather. I nodded in agreement, unsure how to respond, and resolving, at that moment, that I didn’t want any part of my parents’ drama.