Posted on July 2, 2009 - Filed Under The Marina Experiment | 5 Comments

I remember asking for a doll named Tiny Tiny Tears. I liked her because she cried “real tears,” the ad said. Santa told me that if I was very very good, and obeyed my father and my mother, I would get Tiny Tiny Tears next week. I never got Tiny Tiny Tears.

I remember wanting to take my presents into my room, and year after year being told I had to keep them under the tree until my father could pose me with them and take a picture. My father was a relentless cold draft.

I remember spending months constructing an elaborate village out of cardboard (under my father’s strict direction) and he set it up under the tree filled with tiny lights and my mother’s friends’ children trampled the village and then broke a fire truck on my head and I got stitches.

I remember asking for a guitar and my father said I wasn’t good enough to play.

I remember my parents had a Christmas eve open house and there were days and days of preparation and mother and I laid everything out on the fancy English china on the Portuguese tablecloth with the Italian glassware and the slide projector and screen were set up to show our European travel so my father could brag. Nobody came. It was impossibly sad and my father made jokes about it and blamed it on the weather. My mother must have been crushed, but I saw no emotion.



  1. Chandler on June 28th, 2009 7:52 pm

    I never got that cruel note, but I had stuff like that hanging over my head throughout my life. From elements like this, I relate. I do think you are a “bad girl,” as I am a “bad boy,” in a good way.
    Some Santa, huh? Coal in your stocking.

    ox Chandler

  2. marina on June 28th, 2009 8:10 pm

    according to a palm reader i saw many years ago, I am a “very, very very, very bad girl.”

  3. John on December 29th, 2009 10:15 pm

    My mother told me there was no such thing as Santa Claus when I was 6.

  4. Michael Groetzinger on August 26th, 2011 1:41 pm

    My shrink asked to see my poems I’d written to my dead mother at whose hands I’d suffered so long. I was nervous when she read the one where I dig her up out of her box and choke her skeleton shouting, “How the fuck could you do those things to me!?” She said, “keep this up,It’s helping you more than the medications.”
    Maybe I’m out of line,Marina, but the same poem comes to me when I think what you’ve endured. Michael Groetzinger

  5. admin on August 26th, 2011 1:49 pm

    fantastic. I have to agree with your therapist. Publicly hanging my father by making this film has really built my confidence, and the retribution factor is tremendous. But I need the meds too.

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