Adoption Series: Persona absorbed
It’s Thursday, I’m sixteen.
Schools out, and I’m pounding down the hall at speed –– hoping I don’t get nailed for running as I hit the crash bar, slamming the door back harder than intended, hoping I can outrun any repercussions as I exit.
Running hard across the asphalt playground –– with its weeds growing through the cracks.
Now, down the concrete ramp and left onto the sidewalk, my speed increasing with the slope –– trusty Ked’s griping the concrete. Cool May air streams by. Feeling the pure exhilaration of breaking free from tedious classrooms, droning teachers, and all the demands and drama of high school in my wake.
Pushing myself all the way, I make it home in fifteen minutes flat –– grabbing up the latest issue of LIFE from the pile of mail as I pass through the living room on my way to the kitchen.
LIFE magazine arrived on Thursdays, presenting a world I’m desperate to slip into. I drop it on the table and help myself to a bowl of Special K and milk, my favorite after-school snack.
Thursday was also a paper route day. I did it, but I hated the drudgery of delivering papers. With the combination of my magazine high and paper route drudge, Thursdays packed pleasure and pain into the hours between school and Dad getting home from work.
Happily, Mom always made sure we had Special K on hand. With the bowl next to the magazine, I consumed the cereal and LIFE simultaneously and as fast as possible. Mom never bugged me about my slurping, guaranteed as it was, to leave a few drops of milk on LIFE’s pristine pages as I absorbed cereal and images.
LIFE gave me the world beyond our frugal household and Dad’s Sears paycheck. On LIFE’s pages were ads for the cars, clothes, cigarettes, whisky, and stuff my friends’ families had, like TV sets, stereos, and furniture that was in sync with the times. The stuff of consumption, desire, and planned obsolescence –– along with the powerful men and beautiful women I longed to be close to.
Entering Mr. Fujii’s class that morning, the scent of silk screen ink reminded me that his class was also a glimpse into the life I wanted. Fujii, in his black sweater and beret over fat cord olive green pants, carefully worked his screen to the sounds of Brubeck’s Take Five. He was the man I wanted to be.
I was in my junior year, my third in Mr. Fujii’s commercial art class. Fujii had filled many of the holes in my imagined future. He played Brubeck, Thelonious Monk, and the other jazz greats in class while designing his latest poster for some local cause. He was the first real artist to enter my life.
In his class, we created illustrations, lettering, and ads. Often imitating ads from LIFE.
As I absorbed the latest copy, along with the insights gained from Mr. Fujii, I imagined my future — a future where I was a respected member of the world of men.
Nights, I had begun having a recurring dream. In it, wearing a tailored suit, with a London Fog raincoat draped over my arm, I entered Seattle’s tallest building. Passing through the lobby, I took the lift to a top floor where a woman took my raincoat and guided me into a large conference room with a view of the bay where a group of executives were waiting for me. I awoke as they greeted me.
Dad wrapped packages at Sears and wore bib overalls to work. Where I was slender with shoulders wider than my hips, Dad was just the opposite. While I was captivated by images, Dad had no visual sense. Where Dad kept careful notebooks with columns of numbers, I had to focus intently to do anything that required numbers. He, of course, was my adopted father.
Dad got ten percent off anything from Sears. So, my bike’s label said Sears, not Schwinn. And my electric train was Marx, not a mighty Lionel. And my high-waisted jeans were a strange Sears brand that the guys at school made fun of. Not the low-slung Levi’s that the cool guys wore.
My sneakers were ridiculed as “cheaper Jeepers.” Once I had money, I bought my own Ked’s and Levis.
Mom put an ad in the paper to get me work. The same weekly I delivered on Thursdays.
Work generated by that ad included cleaning houses and offices, washing and painting walls, lots of sweeping and mopping of commercial floors and of course yard work. I spent most of what I made on clothes. I loved taking the bus downtown with cash in my wallet to shop at the Bon Marche, which, as far as I could tell, was the source of cool clothes.
I hated our penny saved is a penny earned household. I saw my parents as having no sense of style and no power in the world because of their lack of cool. They wore the wrong clothes, drove the wrong car, had the wrong furnishings, and didn’t look like me or the people in LIFE.
While I saw them as hopelessly weak and out of touch, they did care for me.
It was May in my junior year of high school that I overheard Mom when she said to Dad, “Ted, Mr. Fujii called.”
(My Dad’s name was Ted.)
“Teddy needs to be encouraged with his commercial art.”
When I heard Fujii’s name, I froze. I was standing in my socks on the lowest step of the stairs, where I could listen to but not be seen. I knew she emphasized commercial to get Dad thinking I could make a living in art. Something he often expressed doubts about.
Dad flicked open his Zippo and lit a cigarette. I catch a whiff of smoke as he replies, “He’s never applied himself at anything…”
“You know that’s not true, Ted.”
Now it’s dawning on me. This could be good. I silently lower myself to sit perched on the steps. Now I’m James Bond seeking top-secret intelligence. Barely breathing, I focus my ears.
Mom explained that Mr. Fujii suggested I take the Famous Artist correspondence course. As advertised in LIFE at three hundred bucks, it seemed hopelessly out of reach.
But, Mom went on with, “Mr. Fujii thought that the course would help Teddy improve his drawing skills. You know he loves to draw.”
She paused momentarily before delivering her prime concern, “He’s going to work on the farm this summer, and I think taking the correspondence course will keep him focused and out of trouble while he’s away.”
Dad said something like, “those courses are expensive,” but I could tell Mom had sold it by his tone. And I silently slink back upstairs to my room. I lay in my bed momentarily, thinking about what it would be like to be a commercial artist.
Feeling a rush of confidence that I was exceptional and could do it, I leap up and began looking through old LIFE’s for the ad I remembered seeing.
Mom had us sit around the dining room table the next night when Dad got home from work. She explained her plan using a Famous Artists brochure. Dad spelled out his reluctance, given my history. Mom reminded him I got As in art and always finished my assignments. Dad made me a deal. He’d front the money if he could track my performance.
Mom, sealed the deal. And just like I had a future.
I spent every Sunday that summer doing my Famous Artist lessons. With each assignment, I felt closer to the world of LIFE and who I wanted to be.
