Idiot - Laura Clery Page 0,1

whose main feature was a top that came off and exposed us all to the rain, sleet, and snow.

Soon enough the fabric roof got a hole in it, and now they keep a bucket in the backseat for when it rains. (Yes, twenty years later they still have the car.) But my parents really wanted to enjoy those two weeks of nice weather per year. I love that about them.

Downers Grove is a mostly Catholic town with strong family values. Not so much religious as culturally Catholic. By far, my family had the most . . . um . . . passionate opinions about religion. One of my dad’s favorite dinnertime musings was “FUCK ORGANIZED RELIGION! It’s bullshit. And eat another hot dog, Laura, you’re too skinny!” My family were the only atheists in town. My dad was bent on making sure we knew that church was brainwashing.

No matter what ideals they grew up with, no matter who they were speaking to, my parents were incredibly open-minded. They were authentic. They never pressured me to get married, and they made it very clear that they would love me if I was gay. Even though we were constantly struggling financially, they made sure I never felt the pressure to get a stable nine-to-five job if I didn’t want one. I wouldn’t trade those two for the world. Well, maybe for the world, but nothing less!

While all the other parents in town were encouraging their kids to pursue practical careers, my mom and dad didn’t blink twice when I told them at age eleven I was going to be a famous actress. “You can do it, sweetheart. We believe in you!”

My dad would take the liberal parenting a bit further when he would also say things like “When you try acid, make sure you’re in a comfortable setting.”

“I’m not gonna try acid, Dad.”

“Oh come on, Laura, you gotta try acid.”

I never did try acid. I guess it was my way of rebelling?

* * *

In grammar school a few other kids asked me, “When did you make your Holy Communion?”

I had never heard of Holy Communion. I asked them what it was.

Then they frowned and said, “You’re going to hell.”

Nine-year-olds say the darndest things!

That day, I went home and asked my mother, “Why are we going to hell?” She was a bit alarmed. I even insisted she teach me a prayer so that I would fit in with the other kids. But even when I tried, I just didn’t fit in with them. The small rejections made it hard for me to talk in school. I lacked any confidence once I stepped inside the classroom.

Today, I really appreciate this aspect of how I was raised. In a town where everyone passively accepted religion as one of the defining factors of our community, my parents never forced a religion on me. My dad would say, “When you’re old enough to research different religions and make that decision for yourself, I want you to be able to do that.” And I did. I’ve been able to go my own way and find a spirituality that I fully believe in and speaks to me. Hail Satan!

Just kidding.

Aaaand . . . there might have been one other reason why I didn’t fit in well. I had a really morbid sense of humor. And no one wants to talk to the skinny, quiet child making creepy death jokes in the corner of the room.

So I channeled it all at home. My favorite thing to do was write and direct horror movies. I’d grab my family’s camcorder, all the kids in the neighborhood, and a butter knife (which is obviously a murderer’s top weapon of choice). Then I’d record these cheesy short horror movies. It was difficult to be both the villain and the director, but I made it work. Video camera in one hand and butter knife clenched in the other, the frame would show just my tiny, dubiously armed fist and my neighbor John running away, screaming as I chased him.

So . . . you can imagine how popular I was with the church-y kids at school. Have you ever read one of those psychology textbooks where they tell you the traits of the eldest, middle, and youngest sibling? My sisters and I fit exactly. Tracy, the eldest, follows rules, is strict, and did whatever our parents told us to do. Colleen is an introverted oddball who played songs on the guitar written in French and read