There are stories we tell and stories we don't tell. Here are some of those.

I am not like you

November 17, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in life

I haven’t pruned in awhile. I was in New York with my family visiting my cousin before he graduates from college. Feeling proud of him and sorry for my dumb-ass. Why didn’t I graduate from college? I went to DePaul University Theatre School in Chicago and didn’t get invited back after my second year due to its arbitrary cut system. It’s not like I did anything wrong, other than apparently sucking at acting. Or was there another reason? Thinking about it, I was definitely not the worst actor in my class. Some of those students partied a ton and didn’t know how to act, yet still got invited back. So what was it? I never got any answers from them, but deep down I always thought my school didn’t want me because of who I was deep down…a misfit/loner/weirdo.

Dave

October 13, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

Dave was hot! He was a 30 year old high school teacher who taught Civics and Social Studies. He didn’t teach at the magnet high school that I attended, but at a regular public school in the same New Orleans district. Typically the kids who got kicked out of my school, then enrolled in his. But that’s not how we knew each other. Dave had a second job due to the city’s low pay for school teachers. He worked part-time as a barista at True Brew, a coffee shop where I did stand-up on Tuesday nights. I was only a senior in high school when we began to bang on a regular basis…

Narcissistic Parent Woes

September 24, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in life

When you have a narcissistic and/or pathological liar as a parent, sometimes other people have better memories of your parent than you do. Annnnnndddd that sucks, man. It makes you question your reality. Am I being a biggety biotch or was shit not right? Chuck said he liked my dad. So I must be wrong! On top of feeling crazy, a deep feeling of remorse kicks in. Wait…have I been at fault this whole time? Oh no! I’m a bad person. I’m a bad person. I’m a bad person. Hold my calls as I rock myself into oblivion.

Mrs. Rosenblatt

September 15, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

Mrs. Rosenblatt was my 7th grade English teacher. Imagine a female version of Ben Stein but shorter. Less suits. More casual. Shoulder length grey hair. Rarely blinked and never smiled. She woefully talked about her boyfriend who was a postal worker while teaching. She went on and on about how the government does not care about mailmen because mailmen drive those little box cars which could and would tip over easily. If the government respected mailmen, they would drive bigger trucks. She was different than other teachers.

Breaking Up in LA

September 02, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

I was 26 years old. My head was in my boyfriend’s lap as he was stroking my hair. No, I wasn’t giving him a blow job. Instead, I was crying. A different form of intimacy for me. Who am I kidding? This was way more intimate! Tears were more vulgar than cum in my household growing up. I wasn’t allowed to cry, so I learned to weep alone quietly in a ball with the doors locked. I was away from my father now, able to cry freely in another man’s lap, yet I wasn’t feeling free at all.

A Father's Love

June 16, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in life

I’m estranged from my father. We haven’t spoken in over 6 years. It seems like a no-brainer decision now, but I didn’t always feel that way. Years leading up to that, I had boyfriends, therapists, even scientologist acting teachers tell me I should cut him off. But that terrified me. I can’t!! How can I?? He’s my dad!

ONE NIGHT STAND (PART ONE)

June 02, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

I didn’t remember his name. I don’t think he remembered mine. He said I looked like Adrian from Rocky, so he called me Adrian throughout the night. I had never seen the movie Rocky, but I assumed he was simultaneously putting me down while hitting on me. Wasn’t Adrian suppose to be like a dweeb or something? Whatever. I’ll take it. I called him Rocky to validate his flirtations. He didn’t resemble anything like Sylvester Stallone. He was 5’7, blonde, fit with small biceps. He was probably in his late twenties although he had an older vibe to him. An older vibe or even old age was a necessary trait that I needed in men in order for me to trust them. And not just with my vagina, but even with a smile. Because with that, came my imagination and my heart. Rocky had large, captivating hazel eyes that when locked with mine, triggered a longing. A longing for an exquisite fuck? Or was it more than that? His eyes told me he was sad…like me. He, too, had been hurt by life. I could tell he had been through some shit. Or maybe it was just the druggy glow in his eyes from lack of sleep that I was reading into? Either way, Rocky seemed like a real find at the after-hours Thai restaurant I frequented.

Mother's Day

May 12, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in life, dead mom

This mother’s day hasn’t been that hard for me….and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Usually this weekend hits me like a steel toe to the gut. I’m hurled over crying for something that I can’t really explain. It’s more than mourning over a dead parent. It’s more complicated and even darker than death itself. It’s this bleak feeling that I’m cursed and destined for endless pain. Forever feeling different and inadequate because I never got to experience this whole unconditional mother’s love thing that apparently is god given to everyone but me.

The Truth Shall Set You Free

February 24, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in life

“The Truth Shall Set You Free”

I’ve always liked this phrase. I’ve heard it countless times from movies, The Oprah Show, and everyday conversations. Although, I didn’t realize this was a quote from The Bible. (I was born and raised atheist. Now I’m LA spiritual meaning: I own a yoga mat, a few crystals, and I look at the moon more). I didn’t buy a Bible, but I did look it up on the all-knowing google and discovered it’s meaning. So, truth (being Christianity) shall set you free. (Free of sin and misery and all that icky stuff). Okay. Cool. But is there a secular version of this that I can take and run with?

Am I a Masochist?

January 20, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in life

Before I dive back into writing about my childhood and actively work on my book, I want to discuss why I’m doing this in the first place. No. Seriously. Why am I putting myself in this torturous position? It’s so hard. I’m dying! Send help! Or if you’re from my hometown, send a King Cake. I know it’s Mardi Gras season, ya’ll…

7th Grade (Part 1)

December 09, 2018 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

I was so embarrassed that I didn’t have a mother. It was worse than a thousand pimples on my face. I hated being different from other kids and having a dead mom made me the biggest freak of them all. I tried as hard as I could to blend in by emulating others. I wore Abercrombie & Fitch cargo Khakis, a monogrammed L.L. Bean book bag, a silver tulip neckless from Mignon Faget (a fancy jewelry designer in New Orleans), Adidas tennis shoes with alternate shoe laces that were a different color other than just grey or black, anything with a Ralph Lauren Polo logo, I got my haircut where they got their hair cut… But no matter what I wore or what I did, I always stood out. I could never fit in. There was never enough Dream GAP perfume to disguise how inferior I felt or really, how inferior I actually was.

Hookin' (Part 2)

November 25, 2018 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

My mother was classically beautiful. Her looks were the embodiment of a nice girl. Freely smiling in every picture, exposing her perfect teeth and optimism. She had big, bright eyes that sparkled with charm. But underneath…was something completely different. There was an ugliness. A hatred towards herself. It was so loud she escaped to heroin, abusive men, and excessive spending to silence her demons. She endured an overwhelming emptiness, but nothing could possibly fill the void within. She was never able to love herself, and that torment eventually led to her drug related murder. People have mentioned to me that I look so much like my mother. I especially have her eyes. But do I have everything beneath as well?

Hookin' (Part 1)

November 18, 2018 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

I had gotten dumped earlier during the day by Sal, my improv teacher boyfriend. I needed a drink or two or twelve so I decided to walk over to the Dresden, a trendy bar where my friend worked which wasn’t too far from my house. My friend, Betsy, was a cocktail waitress over there and would discreetly give me drinks that the bartender mistakenly made. The hangovers would be gnarly, but at least I was drinking for free. I was terrifyingly broke. I was 27 years old and had less than 20 dollars in my bank account. Now I was heartbroken and broke.

Loneliness

November 11, 2018 by Dixie Perkinson in life

Sometimes my loneliness touches a wound inside me that runs so deep. It travels all the way back to past heartbreaks and losses and down to the core…the umbilical cord that once was. Snip. Snip. I feel like a helpless baby with no one around. No one to pick me up. No one to hold me and left to die. Oh, well.

Mommy and Me

November 04, 2018 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative, dead mom

My mother, Cathy Campbell, at the age of 30 watched her parents get brutally stabbed to death all within the confines of a station wagon. Cathy was told to keep driving, as two men took hostage. They robbed them while stabbing her parents multiple times before exiting the murder car. (67 stab wounds to be exact for her mother. Mostly on her face. 47 lacerations counted on her father). Cathy was uninjured, but her face, hair and body were covered with her parents splattered blood. She even thought that she herself had gotten cut too, but recognized the blood wasn’t hers. She drove straight to the emergency room where her parents were both pronounced dead. A couple months after this, she got pregnant with me. God, I’ve got great timing.

That Time My Dad Got Arrested (Part 3)

October 28, 2018 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

I really thought Patrice was too dumb to leave my dad as if she couldn’t figure out how to use the door handle. Or too dumb in a sense that she even dated him in the first place. Her looks supported my theory. 5’6, bleach blonde hair, super skinny with big fake tits and an airy voice. She was disgustingly cliche. In the beginning, Patrice was obsessed with my dad. Every picture of them together, she would tilt her head and dotingly look at him instead of looking at the camera lens like a normal person. Every. Single. Picture. She called him “Perkinson” because she aspired to be different than all of my other dad’s girlfriends who simply called him by his first name, “Bill.” When Patrice’s father shot himself in the head, she inherited a lot of money and forked all of it over to my dad. We’re talking about hundreds of thousands of dollars. My dad, in return, treated her like a sex slave.

That Time My Dad Got Arrested (Part 2)

October 21, 2018 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

I stood there. Chewing on the inside of my cheek, as I was watched my father, slouched over in handcuffs, being taken away by two police officers above from my bedroom window. The cops were both a head shorter than my dad, even with his incriminating posture. My dad was quite militant about our postures. Shoulders up. Chest out. But I guess, at this moment, it wasn’t important to stand up straight. They escorted him down our hardened gravel driveway into one of the seven police cars along our house. An older, overweight officer was readily standing there. He opened up the back seat door, and guided him inside. My dad did not glance up to my window to look for me, to tell me that everything was going to be okay with a nod or a reassuring squint. Rather his head was down. His face seemed tight with anger. The fat officer closed the car door. Then they drove off. And just like that my dad was gone…

Falling

October 14, 2018 by Dixie Perkinson in life

I’m taking a break this week from writing about my childhood woes because I want to get current. I know I’m choosing to do so, but hot damn it’s hard to face your past head on in a public platform.

That Time My Dad Got Arrested (Part 1)

October 07, 2018 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

I was lying on my bedroom floor on a Tuesday night, talking or rather listening to my new boyfriend, Riley on the phone. It was Fall of 1998, so yes, it was a real phone with a telephone plug and a spiraled wire that always got tangled without even touching it. The chord wasn’t long enough to reach my bed, so I had most of my calls on the blue/greyish carpet that hadn’t experienced a vacuum’s touch in years. Riley was a sophomore. I was a freshman. Riley often said the n-word and spoke fondly of David Duke. He was also obsessed with the Insane Clown Posse. ( The ugly, white hip-hop duo who painted their faces in black and white clown make-up and rap offensive things, in case you didn’t know. And if you did know, I won’t tell anyone). The past weekend we took a streetcar, followed by a bus, to Tower Records in the French Quarter. He pushed me to buy ICP’s latest album- The Great Milenko. So, I did. When I got home that day, I started to listen to the CD, but had to press stop 6 seconds in. It was too abrasive and well…the worst music ever. I told Riley I listened to the whole album. “It was really good.” My youth was either me lying or not saying things out loud even when I should have.

Nose Picker

September 09, 2018 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

Once when I was around 5 years, I sat in the back seat of my dad’s van and picked a giant booger and stuck it on the window. That booger stayed there for a solid 8 to 10 years. I’m not sure if my dad noticed it or not. He probably saw it but didn’t care. My booger held on like a barnacle, until my step mother impounded the car when she left him. It was one of her many triumphant fuck you’s since my dad’s car was in her name due to his shitty credit. At the time, the van was 15 years old and had a jillion miles on it because we drove across country every summer and other holidays. I’d like to think that in my booger's final days at the car junk yard, it had one last fight left as the 4000 hp crusher opened up it’s jaws and demolished its rusty victim, booger and all. RIP Booger.