Member-only story
Seeing Fantasia at San Francisco’s Castro Theater
Or, Turning 10 in 1978
When I was ten, my mother announced she wanted to throw me a birthday party. I protested feebly.
I said, “I’m not sure… It’s okay… You don’t have to…”
Eventually, of course, I had to assent. I had no choice.
Inside I was quaking. A voice in my head screamed, “No, God, please, no.”
I knew by then what a birthday party meant.
My mother loved theme parties and went all out. Hers had to be the best parties imaginable. They had to be better than anyone else’s —more lavish, more charming. More expensive.
When I turned seven, my mom threw me a Snoopy party. Everything, but everything, was Snoopy-themed. There were Snoopy balloons, plasticware with little Snoopy heads, Snoopy blankets, Snoopy wash cloths and dish towels, Snoopy hand soaps, a big black, blue, and white Snoopy cake, a Snoopy cake-cutter, you name it.
She made my dad wear this massive, weird Snoopy head. I remember him feeling his way tentatively down the back steps of our house to surprise the children in the garden. The steps were made of cement, and there was no hand railing. I watched him from the laundry room window, praying he wouldn’t fall.
