The Three Amigos (Ghosts of Christmas Past)

 

Way back in August 2012, I posted a link here to a Tumblr that no longer exists for the book Dancing at the Shame Prom. Here is the post. It’s about one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. (There were others. TK.)

December 25, 1986

I was 17 years old and had my first real boyfriend. He was handsome and funny, and I was crazy about him. My boyfriend’s dad was the city manager of our small Wisconsin city. My dad was a psychotic Chinese man who embarrassed me to no end, as much for his erratic behavior and raggedy-man appearance as for his Chinese-ness. In a town full of blue-eyed blondes and elfin-faced Germanic folk, it’s hard at 17 to feel anything other than self-conscious and somehow not right for being anything outside the norm.

There was no way that our dads would ever meet, since my parents were divorced and I lived with my Swedish-American mother. Except that my dad had a bad habit of dropping in on me at terrible moments (is there ever a good moment for psychotic man to drop in on you?). On Christmas Day I was planning to see my boyfriend. But when my father showed up, I along with my little broth, ended up having breakfast with him. What to do with the rest of the day was always tough; once my father hijacked the day with a surprise visit, the afternoon hours yawned ahead of us until he caught the Greyhound Bus home to Chicago. As usual, we decided to go to the movies.

My boyfriend had mentioned that, since his family was Jewish and movie theaters were among the few businesses that were open, they always saw a movie. But I didn’t think of that as I stood next to my father while he bought three tickets to “The Three Amigos” the movie with Steve Martin, Chevy Chase, and Martin Short. Slapstick comedies were a sure win for my father — no drama or thorny political ideas or sex scenes for him to get upset about.

As we contemplated buying candy with our popcorn, someone behind me called my name. It was my boyfriend — with his little sister and his father, the city manager. The three of them, so attractive and middle-class, contrasted to the three of us — my surly brother with his pseudo-Afro Mohawk and army surplus jacket, my crazy dad with his hodgepodge ensemble of mismatched patterns and plastic bags, and me, trying so hard to look like this was all perfectly normal and didn’t bother me at all. My boyfriend and his family were kind people, but I’ll never forget the look of pity I saw in their faces.

Nothing was the same after that.