Ms. Jan Portugal

The Who in Who I Am Conundrum

The thing about writing personal stories is the memories are not always pleasant and often painful to recollect. As I’ve written before I was invaribly destined to follow my heart to become an artist, and like many artists our passions are so deeply and selfishly centered to where we don’t always have control over who gets hurt. Only two of my three kids have forgiven me.

Urges… well, they have their own agenda one never starts out to be selfish it happens on the road to satisfying these ubiquitous urges. My apologies to those caught in the head lights of my ambition.

Me the early years

As a child I was cast into a fairly dysfunctional family, my mothers third husband, my father was trying his best to keep all five of us kids housed and fed, Bob and I were his biological kids, the two older sisters and brother were from another father, which made for an interesting dynamic. The first time we ever lived together was in 1942 when my dad accepted a job in LA, So January 1942 the whole motley brood boarded a locomotive on the Southern Pacific railroad and moved to L.A.

It had been a month since Pearl Harbor was bombed. America was just getting into WWII.

Arkansas had little or no opportunity for raising five children. This was a bold move, but my parents both had gypsy souls I think. It seemed a clear choice for leaving a life destined to being poor white trash. We lived on the other side of the tracks in a shotgun house, that meant if you opened the front door and the back door you could shoot a bullet clean through and not hit anything, except maybe the outhouse in the back yard.

Moving to LA.

It was a big adventure. There were a lot of Oakies and Arkies--as we were dubbed--flooding into the promised land of Sunny California. Escaping the mess the depression left us in. We moved a lot those years in LA, we lived in three different houses in 9 years, and I had three different schools in which to acclimate. Each house we lived in had its own suitcase of memories.

The first house, on Trinity Ave. was a baby step up from the one we left, only bigger and the outhouse was now inside on the back porch. I shared a double bed with my sister Anna, she loved to cuddle, until an incident of Godzilla-like proportions happened. I was four and really had to pee, I slipped out of my nice warm bed onto a freezing bare wood floor, heating was a luxury forgone at night.

I crept down the unusually long hallway, anticipating the relief I was about to have, passing my brothers, and then my parents’ room, onto the back porch and the icy cold toilet, I distinctly remember climbing and scooting onto the wooden toilet seat and finally the great release, and immediate satisfaction.

Until. A blood curdling scream woke me from my sweet dream, yes I had been lucid dreaming and the screech was from my sister after getting soaked in pee. I was abolished to sleep in the living room on a horrible scratchy mole hair couch. That might have been when I started having troubled dreams.

The getting duped years

It was also my first experience at being duped. The son in a Mexican family living in front of our house asked me if I wanted a pony ride, I was four, of course I did. He conned me into letting him hold the ‘diamond’ ring my Aunt Doris had given me, while he took me into his private sanctuary, laid me down on the couch and proceeded to ‘ride’ me like a horse. He was seven so really didn’t know what he was doing but whatever it was I didn’t like it and ran screaming out the door never to see my ring again. And unfortunately not much wiser either. We moved to a different house soon after.

The second house was on Imperial Highway, although the street was just a regular street not a highway. That’s where I started kindergarten and I didn’t like it at all. My earliest memory of feeling abandoned when my oldest sister Lola took me to my first day in school, she left me there in a foreign place with no familiar faces. I figured if I stayed to myself ignoring the other kids that I wasn't really there. I think that was the start of my preference of being the loner I still am.

I was introduced to the movies at five, my brother Bob would walk us to the huge overly ornate theater, and sit me down in the first few rows and leave me there…alone, I still don’t know where he went but, again after a while, I had to pee and headed out into the lobby, looking for the bathroom, at five I didn’t know how to read and saw the name above the door was short so I thought it was the girls toilet, it was funky and had no toilet seats or doors, just bare bowls open to the world, but I had to go so climbed up on a bowl and relieved myself.

In no time at all a very large black man stood in front of the doorless stall and said in a resentful gruff voice, “What are you doing in here” I don’t remember if I even wiped I ran out so fast—completely humiliated and so mad at my brother for abandoning me. He was always doing that to me.

Once, he tricked me into the basement with the promise of some phantom lure, I’m so gullible or was it trusting? I’ve never learned the difference. As soon as I was all the way in he climbed up the ladder and locked me in the pitch black, frightening place. It still hurts, I felt and still feel even now, that I am not worthy of being cared for.

We moved again this time to South Central LA, 84th St. We were finally on the right side of the tracks which was considered anything north of Watts, 119th St., the black section of LA. There we thought of ourselves on the first rung of being upwardly mobile. We bought a house.

Though my parents worked labor intensive jobs to make it happen. Both getting up at five a.m. to travel an hour to their respective jobs, Mom was a seamstress in a factory, Dad was a highway construction worker, it just occurred to me that we moved to L.A. So my dad could accept a job as a ditch digger. Hard life, though he worked his way up to being a foreman.

Since my parents were gone during the week I was left unsupervised which meant at age seven I had to feed myself. Thirteen year old Bob would make himself a plate of scrambled eggs and never offer me any so my breakfast consisted of Wonder bread, margarine and white sugar sandwiches. I put on weight. I went from a skinny seven year old to a chubby preteen. Mom took me to a doctor to see if I had a thyroid problem, never considering it was my lack of real nutrition.

School dayze - 79th Street Elementary School

By third grade I was still very much a loner, with no clue about social or personal interacting until in the fifth grade, I discovered I had artistic abilities and found a modicum of self respect. I managed to survive and graduated the sixth grade at thirteen.

Edison Jr High

My Jr. High year's were an interesting montage of, violin, piano, tap dancing lessons, chorus and Saturday matinees. My Mom was big on giving us every opportunity to meet our creative passions. The movies as it turned out was my favorite. It was NOT piano, violin OR tap dancing but the chorus was more my style of expression. It was the height of the movie musical era and when I wasn’t playing Betty Grable or Judy Garland, reflected in store windows, I was dreaming of a life as an artist.

My sojourn in the chorus was however fairly fruitful, My school was part of a citywide competition for an opportunity to sing with other winning schools, it was 1952, we won our competition and went along with 500 other students to sing at the Hollywood Bowl under the direction of Leonard Bernstein.

The Hollywood Bowl

Wow that was a rush, the sound we made is still lingering over Hollywood somewhere. 500 sweet young voices, full orchestra singing “Nita…Juanita” and Jerome Kerns “I was up with a lark this morning” it was an exhilarating experience. This short video describes the mindset of 1950’s musicals. This was the Hollywood Dream--the place I mostly related to. Unadulterated blarney hokum. I ate it up. It was so much more appealing than reality. Even though I was very happy with my life then.

This is where my head was at when I was 14, totally in the clouds. Needless to say, I was—in my mind—the star performer and crowd entertainer at the Bowl that night.

I think that may have been when my folks took off for a weekend in Las Vegas because they didn’t attend. I was used to doing things on my own or with my girlfriend Glenda Gross and her parents. We had our routine, Glenda and me. Saturday mornings we watched Draw with Frank Webb, then Glenda had an accordion lesson and in the evening her folks took us ice skating in Paramount, Glenda was good at everything she could do a figure eight and speed skate, I on the other hand could barely let go of the hand rail, athletic agility was never my forte.

First love.

That was where I discovered my first true, undying passion for love, his name was Ronnie Mullens, I was 14 he was 19 and a sailor, I had a thing for sailors from then on. It turns out my love was in vain, for Ronnie only held my hand and said pretty things to me because he needed a ride back to LA. Oh well I’ll never forget him. My first love…it lasted three hours.

Bob my biological brother

Bob was the creative one, whatever he chose to do, he was excellent at. He went on to have an illustrious career in music. Unfortunately, he and I were like oil and water growing up. He told me much later, he resented me, because before I came along, he was the the favorite. I can’t blame him but the way he treated me turned me into a brat which took years to outgrow. He called me Butch. And punched me a lot, for which I took full advantage of and screamed like a Banshee, one time the neighbors called the cops, fearing I was being bludgeoned to death, but I may have deserved It. It was our love, hurt, hate dance. See what I’m saying? Recall has its moments.

I managed to get my revenge though. He was a popular guy in high school, he was also my mother’s favorite for which I was forever trying to get even. My revenge took many forms but one in particular happened when Bob was having his high school friends over for a party. It was exactly like the teen parties in the 50’s movies. Hot rods, cigarette packs rolled up in t-shirt sleeves, Brilliantined pompadours, white sox and penny loafers. I offered to make some sandwiches but instead of tuna fish I used cat food. Strange…I was the only one that found it funny.

I had almost completed my 9th year of Jr. High, and graduation, when my parents decided after their weekend in Vegas that we were going to move there. That was a Bummer! I was just starting to find out who I might have become.

In the interim my brother Bob, after graduating went on the road with the Bob Bramen Trio traveling all across the states, playing upright bass, which was an odd choice since our older brother Bill had accidentally cut off the first digit of his ring finger in a freak lawn mower accident when he was five. He only had the first two fingers on his right hand to play a string bass. and did so, very well.

I guess he forgot to tell us when he was coming home from his tour, because as soon as our house sold we packed up and moved to Vegas. Bob got off the train at Union Station around midnight, caught a Trolly Car and lugged his upright bass up to the front door to find an empty house having no idea we had moved. I did say dysfunctional didn’t I?

Las Vegas wow!

It wasn’t the Barbie Doll theme park of today, in 1954 it was more like a Roy Rogers movie set. One armed bandit slot machines that only took silver dollars, no sales tax, no paper dollars, country music, cowboy boots and five gallon hats, still blazed the rodeo trail.

Las Vegas High

It was culture shock 101, but still pretty intriguing, we rented one half of a duplex a block from the high school. And since they didn’t have a Jr high I went right into the tenth grade before even graduating the ninth. I was so unprepared—Las Vegas High was then the only high school—I was dropped head first into an institution peppered with wealthy Casino and Hotel owners kids. There was a popular saying. ‘Vegas high is where the students drive Cadillacs and the teachers drive Fords’.

Huge pecking order. I wasn’t the least bit style conscience and had NO idea what chemistry, Algebra or French classes were, so learning came painfully hard. All I can remember from the chemistry class was Prof, (that’s what the kids called their teachers) Prof tossed a hunk of red meat into a glass of coke and next day it was gone, the coke dissolved it. To this day I won’t drink Coke, I don’t care if it is the real thing.

There was a plus though, because underaged kids weren’t allowed in the casinos to see the lounge entertainment, the hotel owners arranged for their talent to play at assemblies a couple of times a month. We were entertained by stars like The Four Freshmen, Sammy Davis Jr, and other assorted celebrities, we had everything but the booze and glitz.

I hated school, I ditched classes so much that I was failing 11th grade. I always felt like an extra thumb, never knowing the rules. I wasn’t interested in school activities other than drama class and painting scenery and props—which my very cool teacher—Mr. T. let me use him as a pretense to get out of Algebra and work for him. Those ever present creative urges shouting in my ear who the heck needs algebra to be an artist?

I made a good friend named Punky Lovelander, she had scoliosis as a Child and was slightly disfigured not enough to be ugly but enough to make her self conscience. Her parents owned a market in town and were strict faithful Mormons. So to exert control over Punky’s soul they bribed her to attend the Mormon Temple, or whatever it was called, for religious training every morning before school. They were strict but generous.

They bought her a brand new 1956 Plymouth, Pepto Bismal pink with white sidewalls, and the most audacious fins. Well these two hot chicks had more fun tooling from one drive-in to another til we made the rounds then tooled the strip, and started all over again. She was the original Fun Fun Fun til her daddy took the t-bird away girl, except she complied with her daddy’s wishes and faithfully kept her promise.

But boy did we have fun, we took it to LA, and stayed at her Grandma’s house in Venice Beach and tooled the drive-ins there. Mel’s Drive-in was the hot spot. We went to a French movie called Diabolique, you had to be 17 to be admitted and sign a waiver to not disclose the ending, very scary picture, the French were so daring, this was five years before Psycho and considered to be more horrific than the Blob or the Thing, America’s idea of horror, this was a new genre of psychological horror.

So we dressed up and put our hair in beehives, lied about our age and signed the waiver Not to reveal the ending. To this day I don’t remember the end but I remembered being shocked so much that when it showed on TV years later I refused to watch it. The full movie from 1955 is on YouTube if you have the cahonies to watch it. I still can't. Though it may be tame by today’s standards. I don’t want to know.

The Who in this saga

Culture shock has been the foundation of my growing up years. Mostly not understanding the rules, wishing someone or thing would clue me in at least enough to fit in. Making Faux Pas’ might have been my main path for learning. I’m old now, no longer even young at heart, this missive has had its moments but I’m happy about who I am finally, and have a great appreciation for the right and good things in my life, writing for Vocal being a huge one.

I'm finally confident and able to write my own book of rules. That's who Ms. Jan Portugal is today. Not too shabby. I like her.

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If you liked my story, if my career as an artist interests you this is the continuing story here, my adult years.

Hearts are always appreciated