I was six years old when I started telling classmates that Cher
was my mother. This was not the Cher of the 2002 "Farewell" tour,
not the Cher of tush tattoos, beaded headdresses, or plastic surgery. This Cher
was the first woman to show her navel on national television, and I thought
maybe that was what my mother meant by feminism.
It was early in the fall of 1974, and I was the new girl at my elementary school
in rural Pennsylvania. Nixon had resigned that August, an event my father insisted
I watch on our snowy black-and-white TV. Earlier that same summer, the Sonny
& Cher Comedy Hour aired its final episode. By the time I set foot in my
new homeroom, my parents had joined Sonny and Cher in the decision to break
up, and the president was waving goodbye over and over from the door of a helicopter.
All of these givens were flickering and fading out like the reception on that
lousy old television.
I had already begun to suspect things were pretty much up for
grabs. The year before, when my parents and Sonny and Cher were still together,
we left our rented farmhouse and moved to New York City. I was busy taking my
idyllic, free-range childhood for granted, hosting tea parties for my imaginary
friends under the overgrown forsythia, and carefully side-stepping the cow patties
that dotted the acreage like mines. But when Dad got his sabbatical at Columbia,
we sublet the farmhouse and headed for the tiny apartment in Spanish Harlem
where we would live for a year. On the way, the moving truck broke down at a
tollbooth and we sat on sticky seats for hours awaiting repairs.
¤ ¤ ¤
In New York, we took an elevator to get to our apartment. People were everywhere,
all the time, but wandering around by myself was not allowed. I attended first
grade at P.S. 152, where I was the only child in my class who spoke English
as a first language. My mother walked me there each day, pushing my little sister
in her stroller, which rolled over sidewalks decorated with pastel chalks. School
rules mandated that Mom not leave the asphalt playground until a teacher arrived
and took my hand; the reverse pass-off was required at the end of the day. My
teacher yelled "Silencio!" every half-hour or so, but we always
had piñatas on birthdays. I was doing my best to fit in, chattering in
Spanglish with my new friend Lorena, who wore her thick black hair in two ribboned
pigtails. I attended her birthday party at an apartment even smaller than ours.
It was packed with her extended family, all olive-skinned and smiling. Trumpeting
music and the smell of cumin filled the cramped rooms. The grown-ups smoothed
my hair and practiced their English on me. When my mother arrived to take me
home she had to drag me away.
¤ ¤ ¤
Just when I was getting the hang of city life we moved back to the farmhouse.
I joined a class of white, farm-raised children and commenced second grade with
the assertion that Cher was my mother. I was bored. I wanted attention. I missed
the piñatas, the elevators, and the stout chalk that left colored powder
on your palms. I was no longer the only student who spoke fluent English. It
felt like my only distinguishing characteristic was the fact of my parents'
split, and it was partly this belief that had me betting my peers wouldn't
question that Cher was my mom. Everyone knew Sonny and Cher were divorcing,
and I certainly thought everyone knew my parents were divorcing. We had moved
there from New York City, where celebrities were known to live. Why wouldn't
they think the two unhappy couples were one in the same?
The idea that Cher was my mother didn't seem that far-fetched. The two
women already had a lot in common. They were both brunette and pretty, both
funny and liked to sing. Cher dressed more glamorously, of course, but I'd
seen Mom wearing fancy clothes too. I suspected, however, that Cher did not
grow her own food or make Chastity's clothes. Also, Cher was sassier than
my mom--she poked fun at Sonny all the time and he didn't even mind that
much. He never flew off the handle or hurled things to the floor. In fact Sonny
and Cher never seemed to get mad at each other. I couldn't imagine them
shouting over the breakfast table.
In addition, it was around this time I learned of a gesture that made lying
okay. Crossing your fingers behind your back excused an untruth, or rather,
made it as if it had never been uttered. In the kid universe, it was undisputable
("You said I could have your chocolate milk." "Yeah, but I
had my fingers crossed"). One could expand the logic to other body parts
in emergency situations ("My ankles were crossed"). So even if technically
my fingers weren't crossed when I claimed Cher as my mother, I figured
something probably was--my eyelashes, maybe, or my veins.
The fingers-crossed sign could be one of hope, too. ("I'm crossing
my fingers for a piñata on my next birthday!") In this case, you
signaled out in the open, rather than with stealth. Accumulation was in your
best interest--the more crosses (fingers, arms, legs, toes), the more likely
your wish would come true. It seemed somehow natural to indicate lying and wishing
in the same way.
¤ ¤ ¤
The first instance of the Cher lie wasn't premeditated. I just blurted
it out--the mangled spawn of my inner fantasy world and my desire to make friends.
I didn't have many. There was a set of twins. Both were overweight and
rough with shock-white hair--hers in a high ponytail, his in a buzz cut--and
cheeks that turned bright pink at recess. There was Lois, the principal's
daughter, who had an attitude to go with the status. I knew it might be wise
to stay on her good side, but I didn't think she was much fun. She was
pale and wispy and didn't like to get dirty or climb on the jungle gym.
I spent the night at her house once. It was red and tall and stood alone on
a hill, and had two things I wasn't used to: shag carpeting and Lucky
Charms. It was so quiet in Lois's kitchen our spoons hitting the bowls
sounded like slowly shattering windows. I called my mother and asked her to
pick me up early.
¤ ¤ ¤
In the beginning, my fellow students believed Cher was my mom. At least they
seemed to--they paid me more attention and acted as if I was different in a
special way. But then a few of them started asking questions. The twins were
the first to turn on me, on the blacktop by the steel bars where I loved to
skin-the-cat. "If Cher's your mom, then who's Chastity's
mom?" the boy twin prodded. I tried to sound casual and confident and
told him Chastity was my little sister. When the girl twin asked, "How
come we never see her?" I quickly responded that Chastity was too young
to be in school. Then the boy twin said, "If Cher's your mom, who's
that lady who drops you off and picks you up every day?" This surprised
me, as I hadn't counted on these kids noticing details. I thought they
were dumb because they didn't speak Spanish. But I didn't hesitate,
explaining that Cher was too famous to show up at school, so my nanny did the
driving and took care of Chastity during the day.
This sated them for a while, but I realized the lie had morphed into something
larger than myself. I could no longer control its movements, in the same way
my little sister was paying less and less heed to my commands. Every time we
pulled into the circular driveway in front of the school I was filled with a
panicky urge to spill it all-- to leap out of the Volkswagen and shout,
"Yes, this is my real mom, okay? A hippie lady who cries a lot."
I knew my mother would forgive me, but the prospect of my classmates'
shunning kept me silent. Instead I'd grab my lunch sack and leap out as
fast as I could, praying the twins didn't get a good look inside the car.
What if they saw my sister in the way-back? Her age was about right, but with
her dark hair it would take a lot of talking to convince people she was Chastity.
¤ ¤ ¤
Everything seemed tinted in a bleak hue. Cher had her own show but it wasn't
that funny. Sonny had his own show too, but it must've been on a channel
we couldn't get--he had vanished even more completely than my father,
who seemed to exist only sporadically at this point, gone all day and most nights
too. I was consumed with worry about my deceit, as I assumed I'd be spending
the rest of my school days with the same kids. I wasn't sure which was
worse, trying to keep up the ruse year after year or admitting it was a stupid
lie and being ostracized. And what about when my sister started school-- how
could I persuade her to pretend her name was Chastity? I wished for some way
to make the lie disappear.
My anxieties reached a peak one spring day in homeroom. We were seated in our
rows and the teacher was at the board and nature was calling at a volume louder
than the recess bell. There was a bathroom in the classroom we were allowed
to use if we raised our hands and asked permission. But Lois had gone in several
minutes before and was still there (her dad was the principal, after all, she
could spend her days as she liked). Having stayed over at her house I knew she
was taking her time, making funny faces in the mirror and filling the sink with
bubbles. This knowledge, along with the fact that I'd have to ask permission
in front of everyone, made my physical situation all the more dire. I felt certain
this sort of thing had never happened to Cher or Chastity, or Lorena, or anyone
who lived in New York City. I glanced between the teacher, to whom I was supposed
to be paying attention, and the bathroom door, decorated with colorful construction
paper cut-outs. Back, forth, back, forth, the door was still closed, the teacher
was still talking, and finally my bladder couldn't wait any longer.
I felt the hot, wet warmth start to seep through my tights and puddle in the
wooden seat of my chair. It was too late, but I leapt up and ran to the bathroom.
The teacher noticed me and scolded, "You must ask permission!" but
I was already throwing open the door. Lois was inside, playing with the faucet,
shocked that I would interrupt her reverie. My tights were soaked and I was
crying. "Lois!" I yelled, drawing even more attention, "Look
what you've done! Look what you've done!" Her blue eyes opened
big as dodge balls and she edged out of the bathroom as if navigating the ledge
of a skyscraper.
These things happened: I was escorted out of the bathroom by an adult; I was
outfitted in spare panties and tights the school nurse kept on hand for just
such occasions; I was led back to the classroom and left to sit, immense and
glowing, amid my staring classmates.
Soon after resuming her lesson the teacher stopped to acknowledge someone at
the back entrance to the room. She called my name and said, "Looks like
your mother is here to take you home." I turned around to see her, as
did everyone in homeroom. She was not flipping her hair behind her shoulder
or pressing her tongue against the corner of her mouth. She was not wearing
a revealing Bob Mackie creation. She was not Cher. She was just my mom, reaching
out to take my hand.
¤ ¤ ¤
Soon after, my wish came true: we moved. Finally certain my dad wasn't
coming back, and sure she couldn't afford the farmhouse on her salary
alone, my mother packed us up and moved us into a duplex a few towns away. I
switched schools and never again had to face the twins or anyone else who had
witnessed my undoing. I was saved. I had crossed so many fingers wanting to
escape the lie about Cher, it made sense that my desire had eventually come
to pass. But I also knew my salvation came at a price. We didn't move
until there was absolutely no hope of my father's return. I had struck
a terrible, irreversible bargain.
My mom and dad never got back together, but Sonny and Cher did.
After mutually unsuccessful attempts at solo careers, they re-partnered to create
The Sonny & Cher Show, with the same basic variety-show premise as the original.
They weren't really reunited--they even made fun of each other's separate lives
onstage--but the banter seemed just as funny and warm as before. As it turned
out, the television revival only lasted a year, but I could tell they still
liked each other--loved each other, even--and though they were just pretending
to be back together it was also their secret wish. This much was obvious from
the show's new logo: a cartoon hand with two fingers crossed.
Brangien Davis is, among other things, editrix-in-chief
of Swivel magazine, a journal
so steeped in legitimacy that it's actually printed on actual paper. She lives
in Seattle, WA.
