"Nobody tells me who to love, or not to love, who to be seen with and who not to be seen with" —Elizabeth Taylor (February 27, 1932 – March 23, 2011)

Liz Taylor in Levittown

You wore her perfume, kept score of her husbands,

even delighted in her weight gain

back in the 70’s—when you too had put on a few,

then were inspired to lose it all

(like she always did).

I still wonder if her Cleopatra

had anything to do with that green eye shadow

we insisted you throw away.

Yet from the kitchen table (while doing algebra),

I too watched that night

as she was ushered forward like royalty

for her Channel 4 press conference:

violet eyes blinking, curt smile glimmering,

hair teased to a threshold bordering on self-mockery

yet commanding attention—and you gave it.

“Chuck it all—I’ll never finish before your father gets home.”

The rice could burn, your family could starve

but “That damn dog had better shut his trap!”

Another bone … then Liz took the mic.

I didn’t know who to look at:

this movie star under a fire of flash

highlighting that hair, those jewels, those eyes;

or you in your terrycloth housecoat and Kmart Keds knockoffs,

lighting a Kent III Ultra Light

to heighten the drama.

I rarely saw you focus on just one thing—

always rushing, even your crosswords were done (or nearly done)

with the spin cycle finishing and your soap opera starting.

Not to mention the phone (and “That damn dog!”).

But you waited for words of wisdom now, eloquence, power

to enter your world, our world: there—on the border of Levittown

and Liz delivered more than I could

when on the verge of tears (rage),

she demanded the nation to Wake up!

See what’s happening?

to not fear the dying, her friends.

She wanted research money, voices of support.

She wanted education

and I was getting just that:

a lesson that distracted me

from X and Y

and what it all might equal

for me—in the future, in this kitchen, on this island—

every day becoming more and more

a man.

And yet she seemed to be teaching you even more,

so evident by the way you inhaled deeper, nodding, agreeing with her

on a subject you’d never discussed, probably never pondered

except during your trip to Frisco when I was 10:

“We saw the Golden Gate, Alcatraz and oh yes … the gays—very colorful,”

punctuated with a whirl of eyes that said much more,

too much.

She was too gracious to name names

—those heartthrobs (Rock) and characters (Liberace)

disappearing without proper goodbyes.

Why? Why? You almost cried with her.

I did not

but I could not

though I could have a glimmer of hope

when Liz invited us—the world, America, Moms like you—

to ask Where would we be without these people

we passively watch die?

These incredible people ... who contribute so much?

A tenser tone, more unsettling glare:

I mean, for God’s sake, where would Hollywood be?

Where would I be?

—so bitter she almost scoffed.

And as I watched the rice smoking behind you

and heard Dad’s car pulling up the drive,

I knew exactly where I was—

as if for the first time—

I was there, just outside Levittown,

and surprisingly I was not alone

in that crowded kitchen

which suddenly seemed to be opening up

and opening up

at the beck and call

of one girlish but seriously angry voice

that somehow touched my mother

who’d once again be racing

to catch up with time.

(originally published in The Cream City Review,
republished at The Debifrillator by permission of the author)

The Defibrillator

Wednesday, March 23, 2011