Mimi Gentry

granny pink

By

I tend to be hard on my hands, so Mama gave me a pair of gardening gloves. And although I always try to be thankful when anybody gives me anything, I have to confess, I wasn’t quite sure about those gloves. They were well made from sturdy cotton, to be sure, but they had flowers on them. Pink ones.

 

If you don’t know me well, you might not be aware that I’m a recovering tomboy. And although I have made some compromises to femininity  (painted toenails being one), and although I know pink represents the movement to stamp out breast cancer (for which I have great respect), I have still maintained an aversion to the color.

 

Now, I’ve used gloves before, although I’m more likely to go barehanded into battle against our shaggy flowerbeds and hard-packed dirt. I’ve been known to dig holes and prune green briars with my bare fingers, so maybe protecting my hands wasn’t such a bad idea.

 

But they were “older ladies” gloves. The kind you start wearing when you become…an older lady. And although I’ve successfully dodged the preliminary AARP notices I’ve been getting in the mail, slightly stiffer joints and an undeniable increase in my need for my reading glasses has got me thinking about my own mortality. So, wearing older lady gloves seemed like another nail in the coffin.

 

But the other day, when I came home with a plant from my brother’s house that I needed to get into the ground, I swallowed back my last vestures of tomboy-ism and put those pink older lady gloves on.

 

The first thing I noticed was the fit. Like, dare I say, “a glove.” Not at all like the universal-sized rubber-palmed gloves that I tended to use. And in that better fit, I found more dexterity.

 

I didn’t have long to ponder the finer points of a work glove, though. I was running out of morning. The air was already hot and dry. It smelled like cinnamon and the cicadas were already shrilling. Those were bad signs that it was going to be hot in pretty short order, so I didn’t want to tarry. I flexed my pink-gloved hands and grabbed the shovel.

 

I picked a good place for the plant. Partial shade. I dug. The first spadeful of soil revealed the ground was only moist about two inches down. Everything below that was like chalk. As I planted the root ball and filled in the crumbly earth around it, I wished out loud for some rain.

 

After I got the plant squared away, I drug up the water hose to give it a good drink. During the dragging of the hose, I got my hands soaked with water. The pink gloves responded beautifully – the cotton fabric breathed well and dried quickly.

 

After that, I tried to do some weeding. The unyielding soil didn’t want to let go of the big hunks of grass, but I kept at it a little while longer, making slow progress. I weeded around a rock wall where a black widow spider had made its lair. I got as close as I dared to the dark crevices between the rocks, and I felt much safer with my fingers encased in pink flower petals. Then I found a mossy log in the woods that needed moving to our shade garden. I picked it up to find that I enjoyed the process much more not having to worry about the smear of slugs on the bottom of the wood.

 

There might be a reason that all these generations of smart gardening ladies have always worn these gloves.

 

Just then, I heard some clop clopping coming from down the road. It was the brothers Richard and Ricky. We all call them “the cowboys” around here. They ride by our house on occasion. When their horses see me out working in the yard, they always pull in because they know I’ll give them something to eat.

 

The horses pulled in the driveway. I brought them some windfall apples to munch on. While they ate, the brothers and I chewed the fat for a minute or two, like neighbors tend to do. They asked about our family. I asked about theirs. But the funny thing was, they noticed my accessories. Richard commented to Ricky, “Look there, Mimi’s wearing some new gloves.”

 

I showed them proudly, no longer ashamed of the granny pink. “My mama gave them to me.”

 

Richard laughed and said, “That’s cause your mama knows you’re hard on your hands.”

 

You said a mouthful there, mister.

 

 

 

This was printed in the Times-Georgian, where you  can catch read Mimi every Thursday.

A beautiful place for Hattie Lou Bandy

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It’s been over sixteen years since my grandmother Hattie Bandy died on Mother’s Day. To mark that time, I wanted to run this column again. I loved her so, and still miss her every single day. This one’s for you Hattie Lou.

“Me and Miss Hattie went riding last week. She likes to call it “going to worlds unknown.” My grandmother had been feeling a little poorly of late, so we didn’t travel very far. We rode long enough to get a little sunshine on our faces, and to take in Carroll County’s spring show. The azaleas are almost done. The irises are long gone. But the roses are blooming now, you know. Truelove red and sweet-angel pink.

I stopped and picked her a roadside beauty, a little wild rose from a big, thorny bush. Miss Hattie held it up, gently brushing it against her nose. Then she quoted one of her favorites from her elementary school primer, “This old world we’re living in is mighty hard to beat, we get a thorn with every rose, but isn’t that rose sweet?”

We rode round and round, watching town pass by, eating a deluxe large order of fries. We drove as long as I dared, fearing she was too tired. But she wasn’t finished. As we pulled into her driveway, she put her hand lightly on my arm and said, “Let’s go to the cemetery.”

“What cemetery?” I asked. “Sumach.” She said with a mischievous grin.

If you look at a Carroll County map, you won’t find Sumach Cemetery. That’s because it’s in Murray County. Many years ago, before our family migrated to this area, before Mama went to college at West Georgia, they all lived in North Georgia. Hattie grew up there, the only girl out of eight boys. She lost her daddy there, when she was 8 years old, as well as two baby brothers. Eventually, as her people passed on, her older brothers and finally her mother all went to rest in Sumach Cemetery.

It sits high on a hill, high above the rest of the land. Standing at the top, you can peer out across the emerald fields and see all the way to Tennessee. The land below is rich. The earth is dark, washed every spring by the restless river running along its side. In the morning, as the sun is blooming over the far away trees, you can almost imagine “Judgment Day” when all the faithful buried there will rise to heaven and feast at the Master’s table. It’s the most beautiful place in Murray County, Georgia.

Miss Hattie was forever wanting to go and visit Sumach. It had been a pilgrimage spot of ours for many years. When we were kids, mama would load the family up into the junebug green station wagon and head for the mountains, picnic in tow. We’d spend the afternoon there studying the slick marble head stones of people who had passed before us. We wondered what they were like. Wondered if we looked like them. And tried to do the hard arithmetic of figuring out their ages. Lastly, we’d look for Hattie’s favorite spot.

John William and Cora Malinda Holcomb. They were her parents. The headstones were large and always easy to find. But the one next to John’s always puzzled us. It was small. Simple and elegant in gray-veined marble. It said, “Harriet Louise Bandy” and quoted her date of birth.

But it didn’t make sense. There she was, right beside us, putting flowers on her parents’ grave. She explained to us that she “put it there herself.” Said that she would rest there some day, by her daddy and mama and the rest of her large family.

We took Miss Hattie there this morning. Took her to Sumach, drove her to the most beautiful place in Murray County. We stood together and watched the sun rising slowly, burning the cool morning haze off the backs of the greenest of fields.

The roses were blooming there too, bursting in wild profusion from the fences along the road, and the honeysuckle filled the air with thick, rich fragrance. We stopped the car in the shade of a big-branched oak and carried Miss Hattie gently to her favorite spot. Several of us brought flowers. You know how she loves flowers. And we stood together and spoke in quiet voices of her strength and beauty; each of us touched by her in some deep-hearted way. Lastly, we sang one of her favorite songs- the one her mother sang to her long ago on the front porch of their simple house.

“I’m going there, to meet my mother,
She said she’d meet me when I come.
I’m just a-going over Jordan,
I’m just a-going over home.”

Miss Hattie had decided to stay at Sumach this time. She wanted to see her people again. Wanted to stay and rest beside her handsome daddy. Wanted to cast her burden down. But the rest of us had to go back to Carroll County. We couldn’t stay on that brilliant hillside, washed in the clean light of morning.

We wept as we walked together, down that gentle, sloping hill. We wept tears of love and loss. And I’m weeping still. But it‘s just because I’ll miss her. I know she’s off to “worlds unknown,” and someday, I will meet her there.

Anarchy never tasted so sweet.

By

Bob and Becky live on a farm in Vermont. They make ice cream there. The brand is “The Sisters of Anarchy.” The reason for the name? Their wild, smart, talented daughters – Lily, Sunshine and Maggie. I worked with the girls last February on a jingle for their company – a rap about ice cream. Don’t judge me till you hear it, that’s all I’m asking.

http://www.sistersofanarchyicecream.com/media/

Anyway, a decade ago, Bob and his bride Becky took off for the Left Coast, far away from their families that lived in New York. Or Vermont. Or some northeastern clime. One day I got a call from Bob. He and Becky been called home immediately for a family emergency. This was their quandary. Did they take their babies with them, or leave them back in California? Since it was a high stress circumstance, they asked me if asked me if I would consider babysitting for the endurance of their trip. Lilly was 2 3/4 years old. Sunshine was 9 months. I agreed happily.

As I flew to Pasadena, I relaxed into what I thought would be a vacation of sorts. How hard could babysitting be? I’d just dazzle them with card tricks and they’d be so overwhelmed by my charm, they’d be as meek as lambs. Right?

Becky picked me up at the airport. Both the girls were asleep in the back, taking car seat naps. They looked like wingless angels with their corn silk hair and cheeks flushed pink. I admired them for a minute while Becky thanked and thanked me for coming to help. I told her, “no thanks necessary… it’s my pleasure!”

The rest of the day I watched while Becky and Bob tended to the kids. Their movement around the house was like a choreographed dance. Feedings, naps, baths, reading books at bedtime. This was going to be a snap! Plus, Becky had typed me out a 4 page user’s manual, covering menu, schedule, emergency numbers, diaper bag contents, etc. I skimmed over it quickly and thought, “I probably won’t need this, but if it makes her feel better about leaving the tykes, I’ll glance over it while I’m soaking up some of that California sunshine out on the patio.”

That was the last cognizant thought that I had for the next four days. That’s when I discovered that the favorite word in a two-year old kid’s vocabulary is “No.” Breakfast, lunch and dinner were always punctuated with that word. “Lily, don’t you want some more scrambled eggs? Drink a little juice. Use a fork, youngin.”

“No.”

Lily really let it fly at bedtime when I found out that “No” is the standard answer to all questions regarding personal hygiene. “Lily, do you want to brush your teeth? Lily, can I comb your hair? Lily, do you have to go to the potty? “No. No. No.” Welcome to the terrible 2’s.

I’m not going to lie; the first day was pretty brutal. We were all stressed out of our minds. Finally I got them to bed (with Lily shouting “No” at the top of her lungs). Finally, it was quiet and I fell into bed to sleep like the dead.

Until four hours later, when Sunshine began to cry. I got up three times, feeding her, changing her, trying to comfort her. I felt like a zombie, stumbling through the dark, stubbing my toe on the unaccustomed furniture. I read in Becky’s 4-page pamphlet that Sunshine might have a stomachache. Leaning over her crib, I patted her back until she belched and she fell asleep again, this time sleeping till morning.

Despite all Becky’s notes, I didn’t have a clue. So, I fell back on something I did know about…dogs. I looked at the girls and thought, “If my dogs were this stressed out, what would I do? I’d try and find a dark hole for them to crawl in until they settled down and felt more comfortable.”

So, that’s what I did. I drug all the couch cushions and blankets underneath the dining room table and made a big nest. Then I told the girls that it was a tree house and that we were monkeys. There we read books and Sunshine the baby crawled all over us to her heart’s delight. All the girls (including me) were relaxed and having a wonderful time. At one point, Lily crawled over beside me, put her little arms around my neck, and whispered, “I love you, Mimi.” I kissed the top of her gossamer hair and said, “I love you too, Lily.”

After that, things got better. I learned the girls and they learned me, making our living together much more easy. By the time Bob and Becky got home, Lily was letting me comb her hair and Sunshine was sleeping through the night. But Lilly was still a little contrary…she was 2 3/4 years old, after all. When I was leaving for the airport, Becky wanted Lilly tell me thank you.” Lily didn’t want to and hid behind her daddy’s legs.

I whispered to Becky, “It’s ok. She already did.”

UGLY TO THE BONE

By

I love rejection. Before you think I’ve got a masochistic twist, let me clarify. I love rejection because it means I’m pushing the envelope – proceeding into uncomfortable new territory – and that means growth.

My first encounters were during my forays into the fashion business. It was common for me (and other girls) to go on two or three “go sees” a day – maybe a hundred girls showing up to be considered for a single job. When I first started, I fretted about each meeting, wondering if the phone would ring bearing good news about an upcoming photo shoot. But as the “no thanks” stacked up I eventually stopped worrying about it. And on the rare occasion when the phone did ring and I booked the job, it was occasion for great celebration.

Since then, it’s been years since I’ve ventured out of my comfort zone. I’ve enjoyed my safely predictable life, writing about this or that, stringing words together that sell things or change people’s minds. I’ve been comfortable sitting at my little desk, looking out my little window, passing through my little days.

But something happened. I wrote a novel. Now, I know every writer is working on their “great American work.” We wouldn’t be writers if we didn’t take a grab at that brass ring. I worked on it for several (honestly, ten) years, losing myself in a time and place that was not my own. I fell in love with characters that seemed to move through my storyline on their own accord. It was a fun diversion and I always welcomed spending time in “Westabooga, Alabama.” Honestly, it became another place of comfort where I could spend predictable hours stringing together favorite words.

But then I finished it. And I had to figure out what my next step would be. I have a good friend that teaches novel writing and she suggested that I try to find a literary agent to represent it. After Googling “how to find a literary agent” I discovered that most of them are happy to consider new works, but because they have hundreds of queries coming in every week, they don’t have any time to waste. So, they recommended that a prospective author send them a “query letter” to describe the work.

After laboring for a couple of weeks, I finally came up with what I thought was a good one. “UGLY TO THE BONE Set in 1953, it’s a coming-of-age girl power story that delves into the dark Southern theme of race and the corruption of celebrity and tells a multi-generational tale of a mother and daughter’s rivalry and reconciliation.

Set in the racially charged pre-civil rights South, UGLY TO THE BONE is an uplifting and often humorous coming-of-age drama about a girl who chases her dreams, even though the world tells her she’s crazy, and of a bad woman who finds redemption in the freckled face of a child.
SUMMARY: Victoria Blaine is a star–glamorous, desirable, and prone to alcohol-induced-viciousness. When her catfight with Elizabeth Taylor is televised nationwide in the first live broadcast of the Oscar ceremony, Victoria is cast out of the Hollywood Garden of Eden and finds herself dropped into the backwater town of Westabooga, Alabama, where nobody knows a Dior from a Ding Dong.
Twelve-year-old Martha Jean Dooley also lives in Westabooga. Like her father before her, she wants to be a professional baseball pitcher. She hates all things girlie but when she meets Victoria Blaine, Martha Jean develops a film-star fascination with the mysterious woman. This obsession helps the girl escape the hard reality of her own life–a terminally ill father, a grim mother, and a dirt-poor existence on a run-down chicken farm. But all too late, Martha Jean discovers that Victoria Blaine’s beauty is really ‘ugly to the bone’ and it changes the girl’s life forever”.
After I got the letter squared away, I started to send it to agents all across this great land. In total, I’ve sent 38 queries out and braced myself as the rejections started appearing in my email box. “Thanks so much for your query but at this time, your project is not a good fit for us.” It smarted a little at first, but as they kept rolling in, I became able to separate myself personally from the rejection. I’d get one and automatically send out a query to a new agency, keeping the ball in the air.
I remained untouched, until I got back three requests, almost on the same day, for a partial manuscript. My friend, the fiction teacher told me that was a pretty big deal so I sent them the first fifty pages and started watching my email again. After a couple weeks, the first agent wrote me back and said, “No thanks.” After six weeks had passed, the second agent contacted me and said “Not a good fit.” But at least there was still one I hadn’t heard from yet. So as the weeks passed, I kept fingers crossed and held my breath, waiting for good news, afraid of bad news.
Yesterday it came. “No thanks.” And I felt the sting of rejection again. But without a pause, I put on my big girl britches and sent off two more query letters, continuing my search for my perfect match. Because without risking rejection, I’ll never catch that brass ring.

This was originally published in the Times Georgian. Mimi can be found there every Thursday.

Beauty and the Beast

By

In the 1980’s, Claude Haddad was one of the top four most powerful modeling agents– up there with John Casablancas and Jean Luc Brunel. Back in the day, they called them “playboys” and Haddad was the king of excess in an age defined by excess. He was also, as 60 Minutes later proved, a king of sleaze.

I didn’t know any of this when I first met him on a late afternoon in the fall of 1983.
**
The day had been a long one, with a cattle-car flight across the Atlantic. I had been warned against thieves, so on the train to Brussels I was being extra careful about my luggage. Luggage might be overstating it. It was a single duffel bag, in 80’s neon green. It weighed, I’m guessing, 100 pounds and was stuffed with all the things I couldn’t possibly live without for the next three months: a backup pair of long johns, bluegrass tapes and my favorite pillow.

I fell in love with Paris at first sight. It was like walking into an art history book, only with fresh baguettes. There were sidewalk flower markets and old men in Berets. The modelling agency – the people I had come to see – was housed in a block of historic buildings with only the street number posted on the castle-like door.

Uncertain how to proceed, I knocked but got no answer. I waited, sitting on my giant bag, hoping some other tall girl would walk by and go in. But minutes passed, and nothing happened. I sat there, literally fresh off the farm and more than a little overwhelmed by the busy, beautiful international city that swirled around me.

Eventually, I got more bored and less afraid, so I pushed the tall door open and ventured in. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw on one side what seemed to be a never-ending flight of chipped marble stairs. On the other hung a brass plate adorned with rows and rows of doorbell buttons. An intercom. I hadn’t used one before. After careful inspection, I located a business card with the agency’s name on it. Prestige (the name that had been on the contract that I’d signed.) And “quatrième étage” which I would later come to find meant, “Fifth Floor,” not the fourth.

I pressed the button beside the card and waited. A woman spoke merrily in French, which I didn’t understand. Then she hung up. So, I buzzed again, hoping for an English voice. More laughing. More French.

I sat at the bottom of the stairs for a long time, hoping for a leggy girl to come swinging through the big doors and offer to help with my bag. But that didn’t happen. I hid my bag behind the trash cans (wary hillbilly) and dashed up the steps, two at a time, until I finally found the Prestige sign. Breathless, I burst into the office where table full of agents turned to me in surprise. I blurted, “Can somebody help me with my bag?”

I was answered with a barrage of French and German. “My god you didn’t leave it down there?” Two of the guys ran down the stairs, with me in hot pursuit. We discovered my bag had disappeared.

It turned out that the concierge of the building called in a gang of thieves whenever a model showed up and left a human-sized bag at the bottom of the stairs. I still wonder which gang had scored mine, and what they thought as they rifled through my Bill Monroe cassette tapes and five-year-old Walkman. At least they didn’t get Liberty overalls; I was wearing them.

We all returned to the agency office. I was stunned and empty-handed. That’s when I met Claude Haddad. I honestly don’t remember how he looked, other than having the impression that he was old. But I do remember exactly what he said: “You stupid Americans.”

His tirade lasted a few long minutes, focused on how “only a stupid (expletive) would leave her bag for somebody to steal.” He next looked at me suspiciously and asked, “How old are you?” I answered, “21.” Then he started yelling again, this time about me being a liar. It turned out that the agency where I’d been scouted in Georgia had told Prestige I was 19. Haddad made me show him my passport, then raged some more about me being too old.

Just at that moment, my Southern grandmother Hattie Lou manifested inside of me, and I spoke with a calmness that I wasn’t feeling, “If I’m too old, send me home. I’m happy to go.”

But they didn’t send me home. I became Girl #43 at Prestige Modeling Agency.

When I first got to Paris, I was assigned a crazy roommate. Her name was Leza and she had mood swings like pendulums, from bluebird sunshine (and bringing home kittens) to furious storm (as when she put her hand through the pane of our kitchen window). She also entertained at night and my door didn’t have a lock. After I woke one evening to find one of her guests was standing in the dark watching me, I decided it was time to get find some new digs.

That was the second time I spoke with Claude Haddad. He was sitting behind a large desk in a surprisingly small office. The walls were lined with cover photos of models, each more beautiful than the first. I tried to convince him that Leza and I weren’t compatible and asked him if I could get another roommate. I don’t remember much about him; just gray hair, coarse and long. But I do remember exactly his response. He laughed. “You think I’m a (expletive) travel agent? If you don’t like it, go sleep in the gutter.”

By now I had started to suspect Haddad enjoyed making girls cry. I’d seen him at it, day after day. Dissolving a teenager into tears really seemed to snap his suspenders. So, early on, I swore, by gum, he wasn’t going to make me cry. Sure, I’d shed some tears – but only later, on the Metro or at home, behind my lockless door.

That night I asked God: “It doesn’t seem like anybody wants me here. If you want me to stay, I’m going to need a sign.”

Next day, I was in a “go see.” That’s where girls as tall and taller than me wore solid black, smoked lots of cigarettes and sat waiting to meet a photographer. They had Bible-sized portfolios on their laps, filled with all manner of astonishing photographs. I sat there in my Liberties with a few Polaroids.

A man moved down the line and looked at girls’ portfolios. He was the photographer’s assistant, or gatekeeper. He stopped by me and smiled. “Hi, my name is Diderot. How do you like Paris?” I answered, “I hate it.” He laughed, surprised and asked me why? I told him my tale of woe. “Lost luggage, no clothes. Crazy roommate.” He asked: “What size do you wear?”

It turned out his ex-girlfriend had returned to the states, leaving a bunch of clothes at his house. They were all my size. Including her shoes. Fancy ones, like models wore. He gave them to me. That’s not where the miracle stopped, though. Then he revealed, “My aunt has a small apartment and she’s looking for a renter. One hundred fifty bucks a month – cash in an envelope under the door on the first day of the month.” “Deal.” I said.

But I had to charm the aunt first. She invited me for tea. With tiny sugared cakes. And beautiful china. We sat in her living room, which looked exactly as you might imagine, stuffed with tasseled plushness. I sat, well postured, on the edge of my chair. Of course, she didn’t speak English, so I used my horrifying French to converse. She, thankfully, thought it was charming and let me live there, on a hallway with six people and one toilet. I can still see it, to this day, sun streaming through lace curtains and a big window looking over the Seine.

I moved in quickly (since my duffel had been stolen, it didn’t long to pack) and this brings me to the third time that I met Claude Haddad. When I was safely tucked into to my new apartment (with my locking door), I walked in and threw the model apartment key on his desk. I smiled and said, “If you need me, I’ll be in the gutter.”

Surprisingly, that insubordination didn’t get me fired. But it did get his attention. He started homing in on me with his bullying. But I never cried, not a tear. Even when he took me into his office where three suited men sat, and, without introduction, spun me around, pulled up my skirt and said, “Now this is a great (expletive).” Then he shoved me, mute with anger, out the door and into the lobby of the agency.

All the while, I saw things. Mothers bringing their daughters to model – young girls, like 14 and15. I heard whisperings from the older girls about parties at Claude’s house. Nights filled with bacchanal celebration; parties where girls couldn’t remember everything that happened.

One day, at the agency, I saw a young girl sitting in the lobby, waiting as her mother talked to Claude in his office. The mother had been in there for a while, and he was really pouring on the charm. I realized later that this is what he did: flatter the mothers, dazzle them with the promise of celebrity and riches, and convince them to leave their children with him. “They don’t need to understand the money or speak French. They can stay at my house. It’s like a big slumber party.”

The girl sat alone outside, waiting. On impulse, I wrote my name and number on a card and whispered to her that she didn’t have to do anything against her will to make it in the fashion business. And I told her that if she were scared or needed to get home, to call me and I would come and get her, no matter how late it was. I never got a call from her. Which makes me hope she got through it safely.

I like to think that I evaded Claude’s ultimate snare because of my hillbilly wariness, passed on to me by my grandmother. Or because I had my mama’s second sense about people and their intentions. But honestly, I think it was because I was too old. After all, 21 is long in the tooth for a model and he was probably repelled by my advanced age.

For years, I never told anybody about my time there. I felt badly that I stayed, putting up with abuse and humiliation. I’d like to say that I threw my portfolio in his face and said, “I quit” in righteous indignation, but honestly, I ate myself out of a job. With baguettes and pastries and creamy sauces, I gained 20 pounds in three months and had almost outgrown my Liberties by the time I left Paris.

The other day, I Googled the old agency and Claude Haddad’s name and was horrified to find article after article, reporting what had really been going on behind the glamorous curtain. It chilled me to think of how close I’d been to that sexual predator. 60 Minutes reported that he not just harassed, but molested hundreds of young women, some of them 14 and 15 years old. “The ugly business of beautiful girls.”

I felt weird and weightless, like I was looking at a 30-year-old picture of myself swimming in the warm ocean and only now noticing the shadow of the great white shark that swam beneath my feet. I thought about how young and silly and susceptible to flattery I had been, and how I could have easily been a victim.

I think about the rest of the girls. The ones that were drugged and molested and shamed. And I carry a little of that shame with me. If I had been braver and stood up to Claude, could I have saved any of them? They’re mothers now. And grandmothers.

My hope for them is that they can move out of the darkness of their past and teach their children to value themselves, to beware of charming strangers and not trade innocence for celebrity and fame.