Memoirs of Norma Jean

November 9, 2011
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My first memory,
the night my mother was carried off as she giggled and thrashed about
on that stretcher with the blood running from her arm.

“Norma….Noooorrrmmmaaaa….NORMA! Your mother needs you. I need you Norma! Help me, Norma!”
She would call down the hall from her bedroom as I was tucked in my bed.

“Help me, Norma! NORMA! NORMA!” she shrieked as they strapped her down and carried her away.

Me, California Warden of the State, placed in foster care.
Mrs. Gladys and Mr. Doc were mighty nice
until the day Ms. Gladys went to fetch the groceries.

I sat at my boudoir, comb running through my hair.
A knock. An enter.

How’s my girl? Doc asked.
Fine, thanks.

He came over to me and ran his rough, tradesmen’s hands through my hair.
I wanted to scream, but suppressed it. I was the warden of the state. California property,
and I couldn’t be sent to the home. That damn foster home because of my mother and
her crimson arms.

You look beautiful. Just like Jean Harlow.

I averted my eyes and couldn’t look into the mirror,
for I would see his eyes and their greed. Their want for me.
It pulsed through his hands, like men do.

I thought about the moment I saw Mama carried away, strapped and dripping and calling me.
Wanting me. Everyone wanted me.

Smell of talcum, the zipper.

Thanks, Norm. Let’s keep this our little secret or your ass will be back in fosta’ care quick as snap. Kapishe?
Yes sir.

This was my last recollection before I swallowed them. I swallowed them like I swallowed Doc, and later Uncle Red, and how I swallowed the visions of my mother being carried off calling my old name. I was Marilyn Monroe,

the goddess, the seductress, the hooker, the blonde, the dream.

I was none of these things. From California Royalty to California Coroner’s in the blink of an eye.





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