“Echoes, 1981”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-18)

Memories.

Recollections of past events can be persistent and uncontrollable. They may arise when triggered by unrelated stories from present day. In the balance, they may have a greater impact than current happenings in real time. To an outside observer, experiencing such a rush of emotional history may seem difficult to explain. But when received in the first person, these echoes of yonder days often lift the veil from events half-forgotten and less than fully understood.

For this writer, a powerful personal echo resounded recently, while watching confirmation hearings for Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh.

As Professor Christine Blasey Ford offered emotional testimony before the Senate Judiciary Committee, she spoke about something that remained with her long after a predatory encounter at a party with the future judge.

Laughter.

Professor Ford offered painful details of how the young boys involved felt free to share “uproarious laughter” at her expense. An action meant to trivialize what was a drunken, sexual assault. While watching the hearings on CBSN, I checked my cell phone for comments on social media. Various posts from friends and family members appeared. Most reflected the partisan divide that has long kept America split into warring tribes. Offering flashes of lightning without substance. A few depicted honest and sober thought about what had just been described. I did not add to this comment-stream, preferring a silent pause to ponder the moment. Unexpectedly, Ford’s account of the abusive night had mentally transported me to another time and place.

1981.

I was 19 years old during that summer. An artistic man-child, physically mature but still yearning for experiences. Not long out of high school and just having completed a Cornell University apprenticeship program in television production. My passion was for music of a rebellious variety. One tinged with the raucous style known as ‘Punk Rock’ but also with its progenitors like Iggy Pop, Lou Reed and my personal hero, Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones.

I became friends with a woman who was nearly 30, someone who shared my interest in music and theater. Her shimmering hair and pale skin quickly attracted my attention. She preferred to be known by the nickname of ‘Redd.’ Her knowledge and training in classical music proved to be irresistible. I marveled at her ability to play keyboards. In fact, she had a baby grand piano in the sitting room of her apartment. From my underclass perspective, she was an alluring muse. I convinced her to try playing in a group being assembled with cohorts from my TV study. But she proved to be impulsive and unreliable. Both in the band of performers and in our relationship.

Barely on the radar were unexplained remnants of her past as a prodigious college student. Her bedside table held a breathtaking variety of prescription medications. She would disappear at times, suffering from migraine headaches and depression. Then, reappear with vinyl records or sheet music in hand. Refreshed and ready to participate, again. Our attempt at romance fizzled. But she remained a friend and cultural mentor. As a teen, I could not perceive the unspoken message of her habits.

But I could listen.

Redd would give lectures from the vantage point of her bedroom, while I sat on a chair, drinking coffee. Often plucking away at my faux Les Paul guitar. She chain-smoked cigarettes and wandered through tidbits of music theory, politics, history and her own experimentation with the 60’s drug culture. I looked at her like a mystic princess. Each word helped map my journey into art and self-expression. I had a hunger to grow more wise and fill the void within myself. To tap the stream of creative energy that my friend seemed to take for granted.

During one of these sessions, after having savored a few imported beverages, she struck a note of unexpected openness. With extreme candor, she remembered being a young girl and meeting Janis Joplin, only to have her dreams explode later, at a party with classmates. A boy she knew from college took her into a side room while everyone else was dancing and drinking. He abruptly forced her to lie down and pleasured himself in a violent manner. The attack passed quickly. She was left, dizzy and confused, in the near-darkness. He returned to the party to resume gulping alcohol and pills. Her most inescapable memory was of the music. Loud, thumping, gritty music. Something that until that moment had been an elixir in her life.

She was alone with the rhythmic tones, her one-time friend turned to tormentor. And the raucous laughter of those who were unaware or unconcerned.

My face burned, having heard her tale. The stale aroma of cigarettes made me sick. But more overwhelming was my sense of shock and regret over what had happened, so long ago. I felt too stunned for questions. Redd lit another smoke, and concluded with a postscript. She became pregnant as a result of that night. Her parents quietly arranged an abortion.

I was swooning in the summer heat. Yet she had already shifted gears. Talking incessantly with the patter of an old-school disc jockey. Her next topic was Jim Morrison and his surreal composition, “The Crystal Ship.” She urged me to listen and analyze its composition. I gave thanks when she finally fell asleep. Later, my friend did not remember having shared these details from her life.

We never revisited that encounter, again.

Some 37 years later, just a couple of days ago, I slipped into a time vortex of sorts, when Professor Ford spoke about the laughter of her assailant. This testimony was compelling as part of the Senate process. But for myself, it also revived echoes of this incomplete moment. Though Redd vanished after I returned home to Ohio, in 1983, it was as if I were sitting in her apartment, once again. From a modern perspective, I wondered about the continuation of her struggle. About her quirky coping mechanisms. About her fellow travelers from the hippie era who might have endured similar bouts of silent suffering. About sessions with a professional therapist that she sometimes mentioned. And about myself, in 1981, powerless to do anything more than hear, and bow my head.

It had reshaped her existence, forever.

My prayer, after watching the confirmation hearings, was simple. That those who hold elected office might pause for a moment. And consider something beyond the harsh sting of partisan rhetoric. Beyond the clash of conflicting political interests. Beyond the 24-hour cycle of network news broadcasts and the incessant chatter of social media posts.

My prayer was for this woman, scalded by the glare of public attention. And for my friend, from so very long ago.

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