During the summer of ’86, a modest and unassuming new friend of mine invited me to watch the 4th of July fireworks on her family’s boat. Despite my reservations of spending an overnight with people I didn’t know, on a boat no less, my curiosity prevailed and I found myself standing alone on the dock watching my Dad drive off, casually waving his hand the way he often did - his palm parallel to the ground with his fingers motioning as if he were playing the piano.
As I stared up at what was technically a boat I suppose, but what could be more accurately described as a 70-foot yacht, I considered chasing after my Dad’s El Camino – a car I comfortably despised, and attempting a running dive into the truck’s bed.
In the past year, after merging grade schools to form one economically disparate Middle School, I had become increasingly aware that materialistically, our family didn’t measure up. Before this amalgamation, the richest people I knew were the Drummonds, where my family’s lack of luxury, was never really an issue. Beyond feeling envious of my new friends’ walk-in closets, personal phone lines and swimming pools, when visiting, I often felt like a street urchin they took pity on.
Once on board, my concerns were far from quieted when a maid – A Maid – asked if she could take my backpack for me. I looked down at the various strings hanging from my cutoffs as I handed her my bag, unsure of how one might ever properly navigate such an awkward exchange. Since the floor was carpeted in a plush beige pile, I removed my worn out L.L. bean loafers and suddenly remembered the orange tint they left behind on my skin.
My friend quickly greeted me with a welcoming nonchalance and escorted me to the formal dining table where lunch was about to be served. As the yacht's kitchen staff entered with trays of food, the boat began to drift and I realized my only way out would be a toxic swim through the Boston Harbor.
Her older brothers and sisters took their seats at the table and before long a racket of jovial commotion, which only a large family can generate so rapidly, hovered above us and provided a respite from my own adolescent neurosis. I was immediately swept up in their abrupt starts and stops of conversation, which felt like standing in the middle of a traffic jam, where I was just happy to have not been the cause of. Just after the first course, her oldest sister leapt from her seat in mid-sentence and returned even quicker with a cassette in her hand. She immediately popped it in and sat back down picking up where she had left off.
The music had now swallowed up the space previously occupied by clamoring voices, so naturally the voices found a new home residing just above the arresting accordions and disciplined drumbeats, all of which brought me further and further to the edge of my seat.
For the remainder of my stay on the boat, we listened to Paul Simon’s Graceland ceaselessly. It was simultaneously unlike anything I had ever heard,while also having the familiarity of an adoring younger sibling who I was finally ready to appreciate.
During the fireworks the Zydeco sound of That Was Your Mother could still be heard blasting from inside. Over Ice Cream Sundae’s, I Know What I Know told me that me I’d never feel out of place again. And as I lay in the bottom bunk trying to quiet my mind, Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes sang me to sleep, reassuring me that everything would be alright.
When I bought the tape for myself I worried for a second that maybe the music wouldn’t sound as good – and that it would all remain part of a distant Orphan Annie memory, but Graceland persevered. It became my best friend, mentor, comfort and reminder to this day, that the best place to be is - here.
