It's My Party

Many thanks to vivacious for the great header.

It's my Party

By

Lesley Gore 1963.

The summer of sixty-three and a teenager at last. In some ways exciting; in other ways unexpectedly frightening and dark. The thrill of a first bra, the pride of confiding in friends a first period had arrived, unaware of the problems it brought with it, the mysteries and intrigue surrounding that unspoken word sex, all became important matters.

School was not exactly enjoyable, but a developing social life certainly was. Criticism from teachers, punishment for trivialities and lessons so numbingly boring given by sarcastic, old men and bitchy spinsters did nothing for my self-esteem or interest. I think it was around this time I began to realise there was something wrong with my parents too. In earlier years I'd not considered why they walked apart or went out separately, but as I met more and more of my friends loving parents, the light dawned there was very little warmth between mine.

My sister and I have also realised later in life that although they were not bad parents and in many ways fun and caring in their separate ways, neither of them were tactile or affectionate. We both remember Mum's smacks quite well, but neither of us remember being hugged or kissed by either of them. To this day, we are only allowed to give Dad a peck on the cheek and kiss Mum's forehead.

I don't blame school or my parents, but I believe those factors and rampant hormones led to the emergence of a rather dark side to my personality which I'd previously been unaware of. It was about that time I started to write quite depressing poetry which I still have, but choose not to share. Not uncommon amongst teenagers I know, but the shy, sensitive and easily-hurt girl I was found it hard to discuss such feelings with parents or friends.

But of course, there were plenty of positives and new pursuits. My interest in music was to become almost obsessive and with the launch of The Beatles in England, the 'swinging sixties' would go on to engulf my life. If there's one thing I wouldn't change about my life, it's being a teenager during those magical years. I think I was one of the first Beatle's fanatics outside of Liverpool; my friend and I saw them on stage performing in the Roy Orbison show in May of 1963, shortly after their first number one hit. I still have those ticket stubs.

Then there were the parties. Too young for pubs and clubs, yet too old for toys and games, it was only logical we'd entertain ourselves in our own homes when parents were out of the way. Oh, how wild and daring we thought we were and maybe there's some truth in that. Thirteen year-olds rarely dated in those days, but pairing off at parties was everyone's ambition, even if it was for one night only. In my case I remember Saturday nights with Alan, Kevin, Malcolm, John, Roger, Dave, Mick, Clive, Keith and George, indulging in cheap sherry and exploratory fumbles in dark corners. Nothing serious of course, although I do believe George deserves a special mention for the record number of attempts to wear me down.

I was in love with John, Paul, George or Ringo depending what day of the week it was, but a very special relationship was developing between a boy at school named Phil and myself. My first official sweetheart, who treated me with respect, affection, warmth and protection and was always there to rescue me from the errors of my ways. But I now see I was destined to make a habit of rejecting the good guys and being drawn to the bad; a pattern I've lived with most of my life. Maybe I just didn't have the self-worth to believe I deserved someone as good as Phil.

Falling on a Friday, November 22nd 1963 had been a party night somewhere of course. I was being escorted home by a copper-haired young man called Rob when out of the dark streets the aforementioned George appeared on his bike to tell us the news of J.F. Kennedy's untimely assassination. I guess everyone remembers where they were when they heard that news story; I was shocked of course, but also aware the ever-determined George had caught me out with his best friend and may not be interested in me as his party piece any longer. I need not have worried although he never succeeded in turning me into a notch on his bedpost. I've never seen or heard of him since leaving school.

Phil however, was one of the first people I linked up with through Friendsreunited and I see him regularly at school reunions. We still get on extremely well and it would be unrealistic not to admit to wondering what might have been. But I try not to.

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On the way to school camp 1963. I still tease Phil about that cap.

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Phil and I at a 2007 school reunion. Go on; tell me we haven't changed a bit.