Chapter One.
If I'd been a girl my name would have been "Lettuce".
The woman who adopted me (hereinafter: the a.m.) spent endless hours deciding upon that name for the new baby girl she was trying to find to adopt.
As it turned out, I was named after my adoptive grandmother: Justine.
Fortunately the "e" went with the foreskin.
I dropped the "ustin" after the a.m.'s death when I was 20, although I'd already been writing under “J David Moeller” for about a year.
In the sixth grade I decided to change my name, at least during school, to Matt, after a character in “Wells Fargo”, my favorite TV cowboy show of 1957. The new appellation lasted for a few days before I tired of it and changed it back.
Only I neglected to tell Mrs. Bond, my 6th grade math teacher; and, for one hour a day, for the rest of that school year I was "Matt".
I think my real last name would have been Blakeney, after SMU Instructor Elizabeth Blakeney, my Godmother, who was in and out of my life until her suicide sometime before my teens.
There was a custom common in those days that unwed mothers who wanted to stay close to their children could be named the godmother; the era’s equivalent of today’s open adoption.
I don't know if Elizabeth really was my biological mother; but over the years I've come to believe the possibility, thanks to memory, some 20/20 hindsight and a creative imagination.
If, in fact, she's not there's no harm done. I mean it as a tribute to her and as a way of saying I understand.
I have many memories of my childhood dating as far back as the womb: its taste/smell, texture and colors.
It was cramped, I can tell you that much, too. And often reddish orangey.
One summer evening when I was about 5 I was visiting Elizabeth for a few days and she, her mother and I went to see the film “Stranger in Paradise” the first night.
I was very curious about what paradise was and what it looked like. In my mind, paradise was all colors...and a feeling of serenity. The film didn't reinforce my opinion...nor did it answer the question.
Afterwards, on the way back, I took one of those newly marketed ball point pens and began scribbling circles and lines on a sheet of paper in the back seat of their car. I thought I was drawing Paradise, was proud of my work and couldn't understand the lack of excitement over my masterpiece.
When I showed it to her, Elizabeth's mother made a point to convince me I had scribbled "absolutely nothing at all" on the paper...just lines and circles that didn't mean anything.
Lesson: The suppression of artistic expression begins early.
I didn't like Elizabeth's mother. She was mean spirited and cold hearted, not to mention crabby looking.
The Wicked Witch of the West studied with this woman.
She always had to be in charge and, in retrospect, I got the feeling Elizabeth was just being dragged along through her life like a weight she couldn't get rid of.
During my stay I slept on a chaise longue on the screened-in porch.
When the a.m. first told me I was going to visit them for "a few days" I had this strange image in my mind and I asked if there was a tunnel-like place I would be sleeping in when I got there. I could “see” myself in an elongated, ribbed-like passageway.
The a.m. didn't understand what I was talking about and told me there was a window between the bedroom and the porch. I asked if I could sleep in that.
She laughed at me.
I held the image in my mind, not knowing what it was but fully aware it was somehow directly related to Elizabeth: the birth canal?
I was very disappointed to find a normal window sill which I obviously couldn't sleep in.
I have another vivid memory of Elizabeth from earlier, when I was about three.
The a.m. was having a Christmas party. We lived in a two story house in University Park, Texas and from my room I could hear the party going on downstairs. Somehow I'd managed to wriggle out of my nightshirt... and I was horny.
I remember having good "feelings" between my legs...and I liked to squeeze a pillow between them. I was naked and I wanted attention from the a.m.
I began whispering, "Mother. Motherrrrrr" over and over with increasing volume and intensity until, finally, Elizabeth appeared.
I remember being very disappointed it wasn't the a.m. because she didn't know what the a.m. did for me; and, as a result, nothing was done about the "feeling" I had between my legs.
She helped me back into my nightshirt and went back to the party, even though she spoke kindly and sweetly to me. I felt very frustrated.
Lesson: Sexual tension starts early.
The last time I remember being around her was when she and her mother took me to the Texas State Fair. I was around 8 at the time and there was another little boy along with us; named Steven, maybe. My brother? Half brother? A cousin? I'm not sure and I was never told what relationship he had to our group, nor why he was with us.
Before we went to the fair we stopped for lunch at a hamburger stand across the street from Fair Park in Dallas.
I remember sucking up a straw-full of milkshake and blowing it into the little boy's face. I thought it was a hilarious stunt. No one else did.
Lesson: Slapstick is not everyone’s cup of tea.
Elizabeth had to stop for rests quite a few times throughout the day and she seemed moody and distant from we children. It was hard for her I remember thinking, not having any idea what it was that was hard for her.
Life, I now suppose.
After the fair the other kid and I took a nap on the living room floor at her apartment while she went into the other room to rest.
When I woke up the kid was gone. It was the only time I saw him. No word was ever mentioned of him again.
My adoption papers state "both the mother and grandmother" relinquished all claim to me. There's no mention of a father or grandfather. I was told by the a.m. my real mother had died in childbirth and my father died in the war (World War II was coming to an end).
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