It was 1968, and my had just been accepted to New York University as an art major. She is an only child of a pharmacist and a model. At first glance, her parents are the most unlikely duo one could think of, but they were the stereotypical story of "opposites attracting". They met one weekend in 1955 while Nana was doing a photo shoot on South Street.
"I was walking along, minding my own business, when I saw the most beautiful woman in the world", he would always say to me, his eyes twinkling. He had invited her to coffee after her shoot was over. They talked for so long that the staff at the cafe had to kick them out at closing time. They moved into the townhouse in Center City, have been together ever since.
They had tried to have another child, but Nana said that her body had decided that she was only supposed to have Mom. She was never sad about it, and made sure to pay no mind to nosey neighbors who paraded their bigger families as though there were some great secret urban contest where whomever had the biggest, busiest, and best nuclear family won. It seemed to be a competition born out of the late 1940's and early 1950's.
Anglo-Saxton W.A.S.P. families with one mother and one father, living with their 2.5 children in one of the carbon copy ice cream colored houses that line the block of any random development in America. Thankfully, my grandparents never bought into "keeping up with the Joneses". They stood their ground and lived their lives how they saw fit, no matter what gossip was spread about them by nosy housewives.
Her plans were to move into NYC with her best friend Mary Anne as soon as she could after they both graduated Delaware Valley High School. She had been reading newspaper articles about Andy Warhol and The Factory, and had even trekked through subway into the city, hoping to catch even a glimpse of the man who, in her eyes at least, seemed to have carved her destiny. She had slipped out of her house late one night with Mary Anne and rode the train up to Penn Station. They then took a cab ride to 33 Union Square West.
They had both heard stories of what went on in The Factory, and they traded the scintillating rumors and gossip they had read in the newspapers amongst themselves as a way to pass the time on the train. They both knew that the sexual escapades and heavy drug use were absolute facts, and both were slightly shaking at the thought of exactly what visuals were in store for them, though neither one wanted to admit to being nervous.
The cab driver overheard the girl's conversation, and told them that they seemed like really nice girls, and to be careful when getting involved with that "crazy artsy stuff", as he liked to call it.
"There are a lot of people who like their drugs in that place, especially that Edie chick, so be careful, you two."
"We will" they sang in unison as he pulled up to the latest rendition of The Factory.
They tentatively made their way into the building. Lined up against the back of the building was a group of people silk screening what appeared to be a photograph of Marilyn Monroe.
The group was huddled together; discussing what colors should be used to create the print. The colors they chose made Marilyn look like something out of a cheesy comic book, but everyone was exclaiming how genius the revamped picture was.
"There wasn't really much to understand when it came to Andy and his 'Pop Art'", my mother assured me while she stroked my hair.
"A lot of people want to twist his work to fit their own agendas, political or otherwise, but the truth of it was he just loved to be weird. He was fascinated by it. That night I had the pleasure of witnessing the climax of his genius with that Marilyn silkscreen, and I managed to meet your father, all in one night".
"Now we're getting to the good stuff", I thought.
My father was one of the groups helping Andy with his silkscreen of Marilyn, and he noticed my mother right away. Mom said that later on my father had told her he thought the 60's version of Rita Hayworth had walked into the room. He barely noticed Mary Anne, who was strikingly beautiful in her own right. It seemed as though my father was quite myopic that night, and he started talking to Mom the minute she was in ear shot.
"I had kept attempting to bring up what I thought about the Marilyn piece they were working on, but all he only seemed interested in getting to know me". Her voice was soft and distant; lost in remembering what it was like to gaze into my father's stinging hazel eyes. She always described them as stinging because every time she would look into them that night she felt a prick of heat deep down in a part of her body that she had not realized was even there. It was a feeling I was going to feel myself when I was older, she assured me, and continued.
"I forgot all about trying to meet Andy, and we wound up in a corner of The Factory, talking about everything and anything until the sun started slicing through the windows and onto the hardwood floors. I looked over to Mary Anne and saw that she had been chatting with Edie Sedgwick and Andy that whole time. I didn't mind in the least. I just knew I had fallen in love for the first time in my life. His name was Robert Jones".
I crooked my head so I could look up at her. She always closed her eyes and smiled at this part.
It was the only sweet memory she had left of the bitter history she had with my father. She had done her best to shield me from the more tumultuous aspects of their relationship as I grew up.
They had been completely inseparable, falling fast and hard for each other. They shared a love of The Old Testament, along with the even deeper pagan rituals and religions that existed before Christ. They would absorb every book they could find about the many Greek and Roman myths and legends. Mom would take a train up to New York City to meet my father, and they would spend hours walking the streets, discussing which God or Goddess they would name their children after. After much research and playful arguing, they had decided upon Cassia for a girl and Ares for a boy.
Desi had always been fascinated with the story of Keziah (a rendition of the cassia plant) from the book of Job. She was the middle daughter of Job, and was named after an exotic cousin of the spice cinnamon. When the wise men came to give gifts to the baby Jesus, cassia was one of the spices given. His daughters had received inheritances every bit as prosperous as their brothers, which never happened according to those times and traditions. Therefore,
Keziah became a symbol for equality among women. She and her sisters were the prosperous rewards of the trials and tribulations Job had gone through, made flesh.
"That is what I want our daughter's name to be", she whispered to Dad one night. "Cassia Hope Jones. It has a lovely ring to it, don't you think?"
"Unfortunately, I was given the same affliction that my mother had. I am unable to have another child, but at least I have my Cassia".
She bent down, planted a kiss on my head, and grinned, because I had fallen asleep. It was a position that we had been in countless times before; curled up on the porch of my grandparent's townhouse in the middle of Philadelphia. Just two specs on the planet, really, but as far as the two of us were concerned; the world consisted only of us, for the time being, at least.
I had always thought that the name bestowed to me was a lot to live up to when my mother had told me what my name meant that night.
"You are going to be the light when it seems as though all hope for women has gone dark, just by being you, my darling." I had heard her whisper to me while I was huddled there that night on her lap, lost in the limbo of reality and unconsciousness. Luckily my head has been attached solidly to my shoulders starting at a very early age, so her ultimate message of "be yourself" was not lost on me.
My mother and I had been through so many trials and tribulations that it was a wonder you couldn't see the scar tissue of countless battles etched upon our skin. I believe the traveling freak show would be reinstated if they somehow became visible.
Struggle was more than a simple, random noun for us; it was a way of life. It is natural for me to hold my mother in higher regard than my father, for despite the fact that I know he loves me, sometimes there are people in this life who just cannot be a part of your own, for whatever reason. In this case, the reasoning was my father's wanderlust. What had been so intoxicating to my mother when she first met him was a huge liability not long after they had found out I was coming along.
I was conceived during the opening bars of a Brian Adams song, that is to say, in the summer of 1969. They were not married, and they were not at all prepared for me. My mother said she became a mother the minute the doctor told her she was expecting. My father took the news as an affront to his own personal freedom, and sneeked out the door in the middle of the night without telling my mother.
After that, there was no sweetness to their relationship; all that remained was the bitter taste of abandonment on the back of my mother's tongue. She never saw or heard from him again.