Elvis In My Formative Years

I remember when Elvis died. Well, not exactly when - even with the recent television movies & specials, I don't remember the date. But I do remember getting & wearing the commemorative Elvis t-shirt of death. It was yellow, with one of those 70's iron-ons with The King's image & the 'born & died dates.' I remember other things about Elvis at the time of his death. Like folks mocking him for his size, for drug use, and for what they then called cheesy songs - as if the 70s wasn't full of those...

I remember liking 'In The Ghetto,' crying to it even - but I would never tell anyone one that, because that wasn't cool. Neither Elvis, the song, or crying to songs was cool.

When I remember myself in that t-shirt, I remember fuzzy little things. I remember being an awkward pre-teen, with a body that was going through some puffy changes of it's own, stuffed into that orangy-yellow tee -- I remember thinking that sometimes, sometimes, what was outside wasn't at all what was on the inside. I wore that shirt & I remembered that Elvis wasn't always popular, that he wasn't always free of those who mocked him, but no one, no one, could dispute his title as The King. It took a long time for the power of Elvis to seep from the t-shirt, to my skin, into my bones, but it did. Long after the shirt ended up in some rag bag or worse, I now cry to 'In The Ghetto,' & I no longer worry if that makes me un-cool.

I remember having a slight crush on the 'young Elvis,' even if his youth was made of even-then-old album covers & my mother's memories. I remember my mom telling me how outrageous Elvis was. How all the other kids' moms refused to let them watch Elvis on TV, or listen, let alone dance, to his 'bad music.' But my mom's mom, my grandmother, she was different: She loved Elvis.

Grandma had been a dancer, & loved Elvis for his great music & she loved him for, not in spite of, his hot moves. My mom & grandma rarely agreed about things, or so it seems to me, but the thought of my mom not being able to rebel against the only cool mom in the neighborhood, it brings bitter sweet emotions.

I first discovered my own love for Elvis with 'Fever.' A song done by others, but no other compares. I was amazed at this rich voice singing of legendary love & passion, & I would sway & sing along softly to it. While not completely aware what it was at the time, I am rather certain now, that I had my first sexual stirrings to that song...

There were other songs, other albums as well.

I remember on the rare nights my mother did not work, or the occasional sunny Saturday afternoon when I could get her to play those albums while we cleaned the house, how we would dance. We'd shake our hips, we'd half-close our eyes, and be at once alone in the music & yet with eachother. I remember my mom telling me I was a good dancer. I remember her teaching me the dances she used to do. I remember us smiling -- she & I, close, as women, before the later-teen years & my twenties would put a wedge between us.

As a woman in my 20's, Elvis movies were the those TV movies you watched late at night -- eating a pint (quart?) of ice cream if you were sad, or it was after bar & you wanted some company as you ravenously ate cold pizza from the fridge. Sometimes you turned it on in progress, other times you passed out before it ended, but either way, you rarely saw the whole movie. And you didn't tell your friends or roomate that's how you'd spent or finished your evening... but you did. Or at least I did.

Many mock the Elvis movies. They'll call them 'formulated' at best, with Elvis being a car/boat/motorcycle racer or a singer/roustabout or some other new-in-town-bad-boy who finds the sweetest girl, and despite the lure of other babes, stays true. If that classic formula didn't work on it's own, it had the added appeal of 'reminding me' of my birth father. He was 'trouble' and 'no good' but deep down, the little girl in me knew that he was as misunderstood as Elvis. That he was that good looking. And if he hadn't have died, he would have been that loyal too.

It was the stuff of little girl fantasies. I should have long outgrown such things, but as a child who knew better than to discuss her father, for fear of the pain it might cause, it was the only connection I had. Even if I knew it was no real connection at all.

If I once danced my way to sexual stirrings with Elvis songs, the Elvis movies had their own lessons. Laying either in an ice-cream-induced-self-pity-coma, or an after-bar-buzz other images were burned into my mind...

One only has to watch Elvis with Ann-Margret, see the light in their eyes, the way her breasts heaved with heavy passionate breaths, to get some idea of sexual attraction with mutual affection. If the plots were corny & fake, this was real. This was something I did not know myself, but wanted to.

One only has to watch as Elvis spanks a 'bratty' Jenny Maxwell in one scene in Blue Hawaii, followed by scenes that make it very clear that Jenny enjoyed her just desserts, to wonder about sexual roles & relationships. Something in those scenes lay in there, dark, and unfathomable, bringing to the fatherless-daughter void a new tension, a new set of feelings. Something I did not understand myself, but wanted to.

Elvis movies were a heady combination of innocent romantic dreams of 'someday,' passionate awakenings of 'one day,' as well as sweet memories of 'days gone by.' On one level, watching the films was like an (imagined) special talk with my father in which he promised I'd one day find true love. On another, it was the sticky discovery of the joy of dancing, music & sex. On yet another level, it was probably the last time my time with my mother was simple, safe & sweet...

So even well-past my 20s I often watch 'parts of Elvis movies.'

To me, Elvis movies are like comfort food: You can take them out of the freezer & only have one spoon full, or eat the whole thing -- it doesn't matter how much, just so you get that fix, & hit that spot.