Bittersweet Sixteen
iris and me
we learned to dance in lynn’s knotty pine basement
american bandstand on black and white tv
dick clark every day after school
justine and bob always the best couple
they were older they were teenagers they were from philly
with good clothes good hair good moves
if they said you could dance to it, you could dance to it.
but that was back in junior high
now we were in high school.
now our friends were turning sixteen
iris asked her father, have a party at a restaurant?
a sweet sixteen, please?
now harry, he was kind of cheap, he was frugal,
he and his brother hymie escaped nazis in poland
when they were teens like us
he knew the value of a life
he knew the value of a dollar
he started work at four in the morning
setting linotype for the long island press.
when we got home from school
he was sipping instant coffee in his undershirt
under the schwartzwald cuckoo clock in the kitchen
he really didn’t want to know anything
about spending money on frills.
but he wanted iris happy, so saturday,
the day before her real birthday, he’d make her a party.
great! iris was excited, i was excited.
i asked my dad please take me shopping for a birthday present.
wanna get her a nice sweater.
well, kind of busy this week we only have one car,
have to wait till friday night before the party
we’ll go shopping yes,
shopping at the new walt whitman mall.
now friday starts out an ordinary school day
but ends in great pain.
i’m doing homework
i’m sitting in the honors student lounge
hear the announcement over the school PA.
PRESIDENT KENNEDY HAS BEEN SHOT IN DALLAS.
what? oh my god. who could think of such a thing?
my mind is racing, my stomach is queasy
walk to my last class of the day in a fog.
enter the language lab
parlez vous francais?
doc carter, brilliant man,
my only black teacher, only one with a doctorate
in his class we get the unthinkable.
THE PRESIDENT IS DEAD. morte. who did it, why?
we speculate. we cry.
doc carter removes his spectacles and rubs his ancient eyes.
in the hallway, friends talk in hushed tones.
little we can do to console one another.
iris and me
ghostwalk home one foot in front of the other, numb.
dad true to his word let’s get iris’s birthday present.
in silence, we drive to the new mall.
friday, but the parking lot nearly empty.
many stores already closed.
a hand-lettered sign says
“closed to honor the memory of our beloved president,”
a hastily drawn picture, a recognizable kennedy profile.
was it unpatriotic to be shopping?
but iris and me
we’re best friends, this is my only chance.
I spot something: a red mohair sweater—an open knit
all the rage. would she like it?
options were few
my heart not in further pursuit.
next day get ready for the party
my dress didn’t matter
no bold kohl eyeliner like liz taylor in cleopatra.
we all had swollen eyes red as a sweater.
we were all girls, iris’s sister, friends, cousins.
the party was nice enough.
we ate moo goo gai pan, we ate egg foo young
served by invisible cantonese waiters.
we sang happy birthday.
we tried speaking about boyfriends, movies, school,
but there wasn’t a moment when the weight of the shooting
didn’t crush down on us.
two weeks later,
i turned sixteen.
dad took me out to dinner, just the two of us
he in a suit, me in heels and a pencil skirt
my hair swept up like a gibson girl like my grandmother
we get home there in the living room
all my friends, my family, my cousins
my surprise sweet sixteen.
it felt good to have a party in our house
filled to overflowing with people i loved
can still picture iris and her boyfriend jack
swaying hips doing the twist.
can’t remember any of my presents.
don’t know if iris ever wore the red sweater.
but i do remember
that having friends
got us dancing again.
