Demi Moore - Inside Out

I reached over and touched my mother’s hand and said, “Everything will be okay, Mommy.”

She was just a kid, too. She was only twenty-three years old.

My mother, Virginia King, was a teenager who weighed a hundred pounds when she got pregnant with me just out of high school in Roswell, New Mexico. Really, she was a little girl. She labored in pain for nine hours, only to be knocked unconscious at the last minute, right before I came into this world. Not the ideal first attachment experience for either of us.

There was a part of her that did not really ground in reality, which meant that she was able to think outside the box. She came from poverty, but she didn’t have a poverty mind-set—she didn’t think poor. She wanted us to have the best: she would never have allowed a generic brand anything in our house—not cereal, not peanut butter, not laundry detergent. She was generous, expansive, welcoming. There was always room for one more person at the table. And she was confident in an easygoing kind of way—not a stickler for rules.

Growing up, I was aware that Ginny was different—she didn’t seem like other moms. I can picture her in the car driving us to school, smoking a cigarette with one hand and putting her makeup on—perfectly—with the other, without even looking in the mirror. She had a great figure; she was athletic and had worked as a lifeguard at Bottomless Lakes State Park near Roswell. She was also strikingly attractive, with bright blue eyes, pale skin, and dark hair. She was meticulous about her appearance no matter what the circumstances: on our yearly trip to my grandmother’s, she would make my dad stop three quarters of the way there so she could put in her curlers and have her hair just right by the time we got into town. (My mom went to beauty school, though she never turned it into a career.) She wasn’t a fashion queen, but she knew how to put a look together with natural flair. She was always reaching for whatever was glamorous—she got my name from a beauty product.

She and my father made a magnetic pair, and they knew how to have fun; other couples flocked to them. My dad, Danny Guynes, who was less than a year older than my mom, always had a mischievous twinkle in his eye that made it seem like he had a secret you wanted in on. He had a beautiful mouth with bright white teeth offset by olive skin: he looked like a Latin Tiger Woods. He was a charming gambler with a great sense of humor. Not boring. The kind of guy who is always riding the edge—always getting away with something. He was very macho, locked in competition with his twin brother, who was bigger and stronger and had joined the Marines, whereas my dad was rejected because he had a lazy eye, as I did. To me it was our special thing: I felt like it meant that we looked at the world the same way.

He and his twin were the oldest of nine children. His mother, who was from Puerto Rico, took care of me for a while when I was a baby. She died when I was two. His dad was Irish and Welsh, a cook for the Air Force, and a terrible alcoholic. He stayed with us when I was a toddler, and I have memories of my mother not wanting to leave me alone in the bathroom with him. Later, there was talk of sexual abuse. Like me, my dad was raised in a home full of secrets.

Danny graduated from Roswell High a year before Ginny, and when he left to go to college in Pennsylvania, she felt insecure—even more so when she found out he had a female “roommate.” So she did what she would continue to do throughout their relationship whenever she felt a threat: she started seeing another guy to make him jealous. She took up with Charlie Harmon, a strapping young fireman whose family had moved to New Mexico from Texas. She even married him, though the union was short-lived, because the romance had the desired effect: Dad came running back. She divorced Charlie, and my parents got married in February 1962. I was born nine months later. Or so I thought.

WHEN PEOPLE HEAR “Roswell,” they think of little green men, but nobody talked about UFOs at my house. The Roswell of my early childhood was a military town. We had the biggest landing strip in the United States (it served as a backup strip for the space shuttle) at Walker Air Force Base, which closed in the late sixties. Besides that, there were pecan orchards, alfalfa fields, a fireworks store, a meatpacking plant, and a Levi’s factory. We were enmeshed in Roswell, very much a part of the fabric of the community. And our families were intertwined, so much so that my cousin DeAnna is also my aunt. (She is my mom’s niece and married my dad’s youngest brother.)

Mom had a much younger sister, Charlene—we called her Choc—who was a cheerleader at the high school. Ginny took on the role of chaperone, and I became the team’s miniature mascot. She would do things like sneak the whole squad into the drive-in by letting them lie in a giggly pile in the trunk of her car. I felt like I was one of the big girls—in on their shenanigans. They would dress me up in a matching uniform, and Ginny would do my hair. At school assemblies, I was the big reveal: running out in my little powder-blue outfit to finish the cheer, complete with the signature move they taught me, the ceremonial flipping of the bird. It was my first taste of being a performer, and I reveled in every second of it. And I loved seeing how happy it made my mother.

In those days, my dad was working in advertising for the Roswell Daily Record . In the morning he would leave my mom a pack of cigarettes and a dollar bill, which she spent on a great big Pepsi that she bought from the corner store and nursed all day long. My dad was driven to succeed: he worked hard, and he played hard—sometimes too hard. He would go out carousing with one of my uncles, and they were the kind of drinkers who got into fights. (Keep in mind: they were barely twenty.) It was not uncommon for my dad to come home pretty banged up after one of these benders. He loved fighting, and he loved watching people fight. When I was little—way too little—my dad would take me to watch local boxing matches with him. I remember being about three and standing on top of a chair peering into the ring. I asked my dad, “What color trunks do I root for?” Watching two men pummeling each other: that was our bonding time.

Both my parents had what you might call a relaxed relationship with the truth, but I think Dad actually got joy out of feeling he could get one over on someone. He would go to pay a check, for example, and say to the guy at the cash register, “I’ll flip you: double or nothing.” It was the gambler in him, always looking to get away with whatever he could. I didn’t have the words for it then, but his recklessness made me anxious. I was always on guard, on the alert for whether somebody was going to get angry. I have a vague memory of a man showing up at our house and pounding on the door when I was four, and of how terrified I was not knowing what was happening or why, but feeling the fear in my house. It was probably someone my dad had scammed. Or maybe he’d slept with the guy’s wife.

I was almost five when my brother, Morgan, was born, and I felt protective of him right away. I was always tougher than him. He’s a big guy now—six feet three inches and strong—but he was tiny as a kid, and so pretty people always assumed he was a girl. He was a fussy baby, and my mother indulged him: “Just give the baby what he wants!” was her singsong refrain. I remember on one very long drive to go visit my aunt in Toledo when Morgan was around two, my parents passed me a bottle of beer from the front seat, which I slowly administered to him all the way to our destination, the way you’d give a baby a bottle of milk. Needless to say, by the time we got out of the car, he wasn’t screaming anymore.