Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
saying
booby dooby dooby doop, boo boo be doop!
I learned why love leads to marriage in
that moment, falling hopelessly head over heels in love with Betty Boop. I planned to marry
a cartoon character. I was only eight but it didn't matter, because she was everything. I re-
call with relish that George Coleman's little brother experienced similar pangs and announced
his
intention of marrying Betty Boop. George's little brother wasn't even seven but was smart
enough to back off when I told him, “Forget it, you little shit. She's mine.
I'm
marrying Betty
Boop.” How did I know such foul language at that tender age? Easy:
you little shit
was my sis-
ter's nickname for me; without being entirely hateful it conveyed thorough revulsion.
Betty Boop the cartoon character had an oversized head surrounded by spit curls and
a quaint body that was usually encased in a one-piece swimsuit. Betty Boop my unlikely
squeeze who was engaged to be married to an egghead Ivy-Leaguer, wore her auburn hair
long and silky smooth, flowing to her shoulders and down her back, which, like her front,
bottom and sides, was as quaint as Betty Boop's. To say I was smitten would be an understate-
ment. Events occurred too quickly for thorough assessment, but that would have been crazy
anyway. My college Betty was a profile in cameo femininity, an intellect with limited common
sense, and a generally nice person yearning to fit in with a crowd in synchronous convergence,
in high times as a defense against the real times. In our Never Never Land, reality took a holi-
day. Youth was not then wasted on the young; it was met with an old spirit of political convic-
tion—of love, trust, understanding and lust.
I helped her with the sensible part too. But nah, I did not take her up on her suggestion of
making her a better offer, or even saying the word, or offering encouragement for herself and
me as an item in any way. For starters, I had nothing to offer—no money, no prospects, no
nothing but youth and the wits, so far, to survive. These were impressive assets in the neigh-
borhood but hardly of value in an Ivy League world. Even as we spoke or engaged in any ex-
change, her soon-to-be husband was establishing friendships and contacts that would form a
network to secure his place in the financial, intellectual, social hierarchy of America. We could
only speculate on prospects for my ilk. The future shaped up like an extended Halloween, with
buccaneers, cowboys, Indians, Vikings and artists. My non-Ivy future could be evaluated by
the contents of my pockets, which in those days barely cleared the grocery store and the land-
lord.
Of course that's a simplification. The youth and wits to survive so far were no small or cas-
ual assets. We lived with a forced military draft into an undeclared jungle war halfway around
the world. Survival assets were applied more often and specifically than the college degree
would ever be brought to bear on the be-all challenge of those days: avoiding that draft. It was
a full-time job, no less consequential than looking both ways before crossing the street or not
stepping off the path that ran along the cliff edge. The student deferment was good for four
years, if you made grades.
