In my family there is a tradition: all of the women are named for state capitals. Don’t ask me why because frankly I have no idea. All I know is that that’s how it is. My mother’s name is Cheyenne, her mother’s name was Atlanta, her mother’s mother’s name was Olympia, her mother’s mother’s mother’s name was Helena; the list goes on as far back as our family line can be traced. Naturally, my mother named me for one as well: my name is Madison. Madison Prudence Soliel to be specific. That’s another thing about names in our family, the middle name reflects an attribute you want that child to have. For instance, my mother’s full name is Cheyenne Saccharine Soliel.
I was born in 1954 in Los Angeles, California. I lived there until I was about eight. Back when I was in school in L.A., the worst plastic surgery any girl ever got was a nose job. Now, I hear that if any of the women in L.A. get to close to fire, they’ll melt. When I was in school, girls were not allowed to wear anything except knee-length skirts and dresses. It was a bit of a shock for me when I found out about that because my mother always let me wear jeans and a T-shirt and I was a bit of a tomboy who thought the whole idea of skirts and dresses was repulsive.
I don’t remember too much of my experiences in the L.A. public school I attended; I think I blacked out those memories. I do remember my best friend Amanda Richards and most unfortunately, I remember the self-proclaimed sovereign of the school, Katherine Kilborune.
Katherine was rich and snobby. She mercilessly teased anyone who was of lower class than she was and she wore the most expensive clothes. She abided the dress code, but even at 7-years-old she pushed the envelope. She wore bright red dresses that were just above the required knee-length hem, she wore heels, and she wore leather whenever she could. It always amazed Amanda and I that her parents allowed her to prance about dressing more like a 17-year-old than a 7-year-old.