Skin

San Francisco, California, 1960

The summer I was nine I climbed to the top of our hill, grabbing handfuls of dry sweet grass to pull me over jagged rocks. I stood looking out at San Francisco unfurled before me, a mix of winding streets that trailed into the sky, or tipped into the soft, blue bay. Sunlight strained to warm me through the fog, and people drifted like watercolors on a page, hues of dark and light, diverse as the world. We lived on Majestic Avenue, a cul-de-sac whose name fit perfectly with our family surname, King. Feeling crystalline and ever so shaky in the gusting wind, I stood at the top of our street and waved my arms to the city, queen of it all.

My sister, Kitsaun, almost two years older than me, thought she was queen. She climbed ahead of me to the top of the bluff, holding stalks of anise toward the sky, the scent of licorice sifting down to me. Sitting on a ledge, I could see our little house with red stairs that led to the front door, a mean cactus century plant with two-inch thorns growing near the driveway. Once, Kitsaun had fallen off the porch onto the spiny arms and I thought she was dead. She had long scratches and cuts that bled, and Mom laid her on the couch so I could touch her face and bring her food. "She's a fainter," Mom said. "She'll be fine." The next day she was back on the hill, waving her royal stems.

Kitsaun and I shared a bedroom at the front of the house. Every night I slept with my head under the covers, clutching my stuffed dog, Brownie. I tried to fall asleep right after prayers because I did not want to be awake by myself in the dark. Kitsaun's bed was next to mine. She slept soundly under her flowered comforter--unafraid of the night. Morning light rose over the mountains of the East Bay and through the branches of a tall Monterey pine outside our window, and we could see the tip of the Bay Bridge glinting in the sun. We played hide-and-seek and "mother may I" with the kids on our block and some evenings we filled balloons with water and hid behind parked cars and bushes that poked us while we ran and smacked one another with wet, rubbery fun. We rode on coasters we made from planks of wood nailed to ball bearings, shrieking wildly as we careened down the smooth sidewalk, our hands clasping a circle of rope, a close-knit passel of friends.

My father, Saunders King, was a flinty observer of life, a man who spoke only when necessary. Singing was his language. He carried society's racism and his personal view of right and wrong a knife's blade beneath his steely control. His life as a guitarist and singer fulfilled him, and he tried to never compromise his art by working a nine-to-five job. Mom was an outspoken Irish-English woman who fell in love and married Dad, an African-American man, in the 1940s. She worked full-time in an era when it was acceptable, if not expected, that women stay at home with their children and sublimate their dreams and desires to help their husbands reach theirs. Mom loved working, and Dad loved being at home with Kitsaun and me during the day before going to his gigs at nightclubs. Our family was not at all defined by the traditional American mores of 1951, the year I was born.

Sundays, Dad would drive Mom, Kitsaun, and me across the Bay Bridge for church. Dad's brother Ulysses was pastor of Christ Holy Sanctified Church, the Pentecostal house of worship started by their father, Judge King, and Sarah, their mo-ther. Dad would dress up in a shiny fitted suit with a wide tie like he was going to work. He smelled of Ivory soap and lime aftershave. Mom wore suits with stockings and heels. My favorite was pink...

 

"With the candor and vulnerability of one whose search for truth far outweighs any need for subterfuge, [Santana] writes of her husband, her friends, and her family, not as if unaware of their famous names, but as one more impressed with the quality of their souls. This lovely, loving book will make any woman who survived the sixties smile and shake her head in recognition, and give any man with the good sense to read it an unforgettable glimpse into the heart of a woman."

 

"I couldn't put this book down. Beautifully written, full of fine detail, it breaks illusions about gurus, rock stars, and stereotypes about race. This is a dynamic memoir of an extraordinary woman's life."

 

"Deborah Santana bravely takes us on a fleshy earthbound romp across her rock-and-roll life. She stirs the memories of a generation's messy crawl from girl to personhood, and seasons them with redeeming grace, joy, and unfolding. Cancel the spa; this is the release you've been seeking."

 

"Deborah Santana has blessed us with a precious jewel of a book. Her intimate gift of storytelling delights our senses and collects our tears in a resonant memoir. . . . This book has touched my soul with an abundance of grace and wise counsel. It yields good fruit in season."

 

"A beautiful memoir that will delight, surprise, and inspire readers. Deborah Santana has the courage to candidly discuss her life at the center of rock-and-roll history including its glamour, excesses, and glories--and show us a much bigger truth--the power of the human spirit to prevail over the shadows of the human mind."

 

Space Between the Stars by Deborah Santana
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