When John Lennon was My Dad
My earliest memory is lying in my canopy bed at three-years-old, cuddled under a soft yellow blanket, and drifting off to the sound of The Beatles’ music. Music is my native tongue, and I cherish it. Growing up, when we listened to the radio, my hippie mother would ask, “Who’s this?” each time a new song played. I replied with the artist’s name, and if I were right (and I usually was), Mom would say, “All right! Gimme five!” Glowing with pride, I’d reach over and slap my hand against hers.
Mom enjoyed sharing her favorite bands with my sister and me. We’d dance to the Moody Blues in the kitchen before stirring the pot on the stove and cleaned house while jamming to Journey. I attended my first concert with Mom when I was three – Heart, which aside from The Beatles was my favorite band. When my blonde-haired sister was born, I knew we’d be the next Ann and Nancy Wilson.
As a child, we’d take trips to see my dad in prison every weekend, and Mom would play cassettes in the car – Pink Floyd, Kansas, Heart, The Beatles – music I still love. When she played Chicago, we’d pantomime trumpets and trombones, laughing and eager to share our joy with Dad.
But sometimes, on the drive home from prison, I’d press my face against the window, look at the sky, and wonder what it would be like if John Lennon were my real dad. Intellectually, I knew John Lennon died in 1980. In fact, I remember my mom crying when she heard the news. However, that reality never interfered with my dreams.
John Lennon would never force me to submit to pat-downs by disinterested correctional guards, or walk through metal detectors for him when I worried my insides would melt from the rays my nine-year-old imagination knew were secretly there. The sound of the buzzing intercom, where a disembodied voice cracked with static, telling us to “go ahead” through a heavy door that locked behind us with a clang, and sins I never committed or understood weighed as heavy as the scorn from classmates whose dads had real jobs and ties and could tuck them in at bedtime.
I’d never sit in a room full of strangers to see John Lennon, trying to find comfort on vinyl-covered furniture with ripped seats while guards stationed around the room watched our every move. My sister and I would take a week’s worth of pocket change, heavy and hot in our hands, and buy Cokes and chips and chocolate bars from dimly-lit vending machines. Occasionally, we’d pose for family pictures in front of a guard with a Polaroid camera. In my mind, every eye in the room focused on us, making my skin crawl.
Professional photographers took John Lennon’s pictures along with Paul, George, and Ringo. I’d pour over their photo book taken from my mother’s bookshelf, seeing the boys in matching suits and haircuts, instruments ready, and smile at their pictures while reading about their early lives. I kissed each face, careful not to mark the glossy paper, knowing if I did, I wouldn’t be allowed to read the book again. At night, I’d crawl into the bed I shared with my sister and fall asleep to Abbey Road.
Ever since, The Beatles have been part of my everyday life. My eldest son, Dominic, knew The Beatles’ names at an early age, which annoyed my late mother-in-law to no end, as she believed Dominic should have memorized the twelve Apostles’ names instead. My response that there were three times the number of Apostles as there were Beatles, which to my logic made the learning the Apostles’ names three times more difficult, did not appease her. And all three of my boys watched Yellow Submarine multiple times a week as wee ones. Like my own mom, I’d play The Beatles’ music in the car when I’d take them places and made sure they knew, “George is singing lead on this song. He got Eric Clapton to play the guitar solo. How cool is that?” As usual, they humored their fangirl mom.
In 2013, my mom took my sister and me to see Paul McCartney when he stopped in Indy on his Out There tour. Listening to Paul – Paul McCartney. One of The Beatles! – with Mom and Steph ranks as one of my top life events. I didn’t think anything Beatles’ related could be better than that. However, I discovered I was mistaken.
In 2017, my sister and I opened our joint Christmas gift from Mom – a trip to London, a day trip to Paris, and two days in Liverpool. I became so overwhelmed, I cried. The sheer magnitude of the trip – visiting all the places The Beatles sang about, visiting their homes, going to Abbey Road Studios. Basically, experiencing part of The Beatles’ world with two of my closest loved ones who also shared my passion for The Beatles and their music? No wonder I cried.
I can’t describe how wonderful of a time we had. London is beautiful, rainy, and joyful, and I enjoyed my stay there. Likewise, Paris is beautiful, vibrant, and joyful, and I’m glad I remembered enough of what I learned in my high school French class to get us to the Eiffel Tower. But Liverpool?
When we walked across Abbey Road, I cried. When we toured the city with Owen, tour guide extraordinaire, and stopped at Strawberry Field, I cried. When we saw each Beatles’ home – the ones I’d seen in pictures in Mom’s book – and the roundabout on Penny Lane, when we toured Matthew Street and watched a young man sing Beatles’ songs in the rebuilt Cavern basement, which had original photos of The Beatles and their time singing there hanging on the walls. Honestly, I can’t articulate how meaningful it felt. Sharing Liverpool with Mom and Steph made a huge impact on me, and I don’t imagine I’ll ever forget our trip.
Today would have been John Lennon’s 80th birthday. Well, hypothetically. I suppose if he hadn’t died in 1980, he could have died sometime in these past forty years. I can’t help but grieve the loss. Who knows what impact Lennon’s music, art, and life could have had on the world if he hadn’t died so young?
I’ve been listening to Lennon’s solo music today and contemplating current events. Would John Lennon have written another “Imagine” or “Give Peace a Chance” if he were alive today? What about “Happy Xmas (War is Over)”? I’m leery overall of celebrities telling we plebes how to live, what to wear, what’s important, and how to vote, but I’m curious what Lennon would have made of today’s world.
A greater writer than I would conclude this post in a way that would encourage you to “Imagine” without sounding clunky. I am not that writer, nor am I asking you to contemplate “What would John Lennon do?” and then act on it. Make no mistake, I know Lennon was a flawed, complicated person just like the rest of us. But maybe we can ask ourselves what legacy we want to leave in this world. What will we stand for? How can we use our gifts – small and large – to impact others?