Gene Wilder - Kiss Me Like a Stranger - My Search for Love and Art

We never talked about sex in my family when I was growing up. The only time I came close to asking about it was when I was in second grade and I was walking home from school with two other boys. We saw a naked lady through her living room window, lying on a sofa, scratching her tush while she read a book. When she saw three little boys staring at her, she jumped up and closed the curtains. We ran away, and I heard one of the boys use the word “fuck.” When I got home, I didn’t tell my mother about the naked lady, but I did ask her what “fuck” meant.

“You want to know what ‘fuck’ means?” she asked, as she pulled me into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. She ran a bar of Ivory Soap under the water and stuck it in my mouth. “There! Now you know what fuck means.”

I started crying, and then, as was her habit until she died, she started crying and begging me to forgive her. Begging and begging, until I finally went into her arms and she hugged me and kissed my tears and kept repeating, “I’m sorry, honey. I was wrong. Can you ever forgive me?”

My mother had a distant cousin who lived in Los Angeles and whose thirteen-year-old son was going to a place called Black/Foxe Military Institute, run by retired Colonel Black and retired Colonel Foxe. My mother’s cousin said she thought it was a wonderful place, and it was in Hollywood, California. What she didn’t mention was that her son was going to Black/Foxe as a day student, so he went home each afternoon after school.

Since my mother was ill and felt that she and my father couldn’t give me the kind of training that I needed, now that I was thirteen – she thought I still didn’t know how babies were made, and I didn’t have the guts to tell her that I did – she got it into her head that Black/Foxe Military Institute might be the perfect answer. I think she was influenced by a movie called Diplomatic Courier , starring Tyrone Power. She thought that if I went to Black/Foxe, I would not only learn how to dance, play bridge and play the piano, but also how to be at ease with girls and learn everything there is to know about sex. So off I went to Hollywood. Something else my mother didn’t know was that almost every boy who lived at Black/Foxe came from a broken home – mostly they were sons of parents who wanted to get rid of their kids.

On my first night at Black/Foxe, I was assigned to a room on the second floor of the dormitory. When I walked in I was greeted by a short, tough-looking boy with acne all over his face.

“Hi, I’m Jonesy,” he said. “We’re going to be roommates for a long time so I’m taking this bed and you take that one.”

When I got into my brand-new pajamas that first night, Jonesy started smiling at me and said, “Lemme corn-hole ya.” I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. Then he told me to just lie down on my bed, facedown. He got on top of me and put his penis between my thighs and started pumping away until he had an orgasm. His “jizz” went onto my new pajamas, not into me. After he saw how upset I was, he never tried to do that again. He just jerked off in the closet.

This was 1946. When word got out that I was Jewish, some of the bigger boys started coming into my room and pounding me on the chest and on my arms. They didn’t hit me in the face, and I was glad of that, but I couldn’t understand why they wanted to beat me up. They never said why. One tall jerk named Macintosh barged into my room one day and started dancing around me – like an Indian in the movies, circling a covered wagon – and he kept singing, “We want the country! We want the country!” It scared me, but he didn’t hit me, so I was okay. I remembered seeing some movie about initiation tests when you got into a fraternity, so I figured it was some kind of tradition to beat up the newest cadets. Then I found out that I was the only Jewish boy at Black/Foxe, so I finally understood the reason. But it still didn’t make any sense.

I went to the sergeant’s room at the end of the hall. He was a real sergeant who took the job at Black/Foxe when he retired from the army. I told him about all the beatings and asked him what I should do.

“You want them to stop beating you up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The next time one of them comes into your room, pick up a chair and smash it over his head.”

“… But … I can’t do that. What if I killed him?”

“You asked me what to do. I told you.”

I never went to him for help again.

There were several Mexican boys at Black/Foxe who came from very wealthy families. In those days bubble gum was very hard to come by, but the Mexican boys always seemed to have some. Instead of charging the other boys one penny – which was the market price for one of those pink bubble gum squares – they would charge one dollar. The tallest Mexican boy kept trying to sell me bubble gum, and I kept telling him that I didn’t have that kind of extra money. Then he would say, “I give you a bubble gum if you jerk me off.” I would laugh and pretend that he was making a joke, but I knew he wasn’t joking.

On Fridays we always had a dress parade, which meant tie, jacket, hat, and well-shined shoes. We marched on the Black/Foxe drill field, which bordered on Melrose Avenue and Wilcox. People in the neighborhood would stand along the sidewalk each Friday afternoon to watch all the cute young cadets go through their routines.

As we were marching, one flamboyant, very likable young boy named Ronnie, who had a shock of bright red hair, kept telling me that he was going to be a big star one day. I would say that I was studying acting with Herman Gottlieb, who was a great teacher in Milwaukee. Ronnie would just answer, “You’ll never make it, Silberman. I’ll bet you anything you want that I’ll be famous before you are.” People who live in Hollywood are different from other people.

On Thursday afternoons I went to my piano lesson. The teacher was a nice-enough man but not a very good teacher. He assigned me just one song, called, ironically, “Nobody Knows the Troubles I’ve Seen.” I don’t remember if I ever told him about the troubles I was having with the other boys; I don’t think so. And I know he wasn’t that good a teacher to have purposely assigned that song to me as a way of using my unhappiness to help me play it better.

I wrote to my father and told him about all of this stuff, but he never showed any of those letters to my mother, I suppose for the same reason that I didn’t write to her about it.

At Thanksgiving I called my father and asked if I could come home for Christmas vacation. He said yes. When it came time to leave – for some reason I can’t explain – I needed to say good-bye to Jonesy. My bags were packed, and the bus was waiting downstairs, but I searched all over the second floor for him. When I finally found him, he shook my hand and said, “So long, pal.” Jonesy and I were never friends, and he was a jerk, but he never beat me up, and he had acne. I don’t know why I needed to say good-bye to him. I’m sure it wasn’t because he corn-holed me. I do remember that on one occasion he shared a box of candy with me that his aunt had sent him. Maybe it was because someone told him that chocolate wasn’t good for acne.

My father and Corinne picked me up at the airport in Chicago, and we drove back to Milwaukee. I had on my blue, sort of itchy dress uniform, but I wanted to be wearing it when I walked into the house and saw my mother again.

She was waiting in our living room. When I walked in, she hugged and kissed me. Then she asked me to play something for her on the piano. Oh, God. I didn’t think it would come that soon. I wanted to put it off. I made up some kind of flimsy excuse about not having practiced for several weeks, but she wanted to hear me play “just a little bit.” So I sat down at the piano and played “Nobody Knows the Troubles I’ve Seen,” and I played it terribly, with a hundred mistakes. She got up and went into her bedroom. I began to cry. My dad said maybe I should change my clothes and get ready for dinner. I took off my shirt and went into her bedroom to explain how I only had one lesson a week and how little time there was for me to practice, when she suddenly gasped. She was staring at my body. There were black-and-blue bruises on my chest and arms. My dad finally told her some of the troubles I had described in my letters. She started crying and begging me to forgive her, until I finally went into her arms and she kissed my tears and kept repeating, “I’m sorry, honey. Please forgive me. I was wrong. Can you ever forgive me?”