When I was six or seven, my stepdad came into my life, and I remember thinking he knew everything. He could befriend anybody, anywhere. In grocery stores, he chatted with strangers over cuts of meat; at gas stations, he bonded with people pumping fuel over how the smell of gasoline was disgusting and yet enjoyable. In restaurants, he took an interest in waiters’ lives—like Steve, whose father was dying of cancer. When Steve’s dad died, my new dad attended the funeral.

I admired his intelligence, his openness, his kindness. But what I loved most was how he introduced me to things, making it seem like teaching me was his favorite and most important job.

I was labeled gifted in elementary school based on some silly tests that seemed to have nothing to do with the real world. One brain teaser went something like: If the wind is blowing from the east, which way will the leaves on a pine tree fall? Gifted standards were low in the late seventies. Still, that label—gifted—gave my new dad a mission: to educate me and help me become the family’s first attorney.

He had me reading books about law and justice, researching cases, preparing mock trials we held in the living room. He wanted me to fight for fairness, for righteousness. He wanted me to help make the world better.

I didn’t understand much of what I read. I didn’t care for the trials. I never wanted to be an attorney, but I went along because he was my new dad. I went along because I didn’t want him to ever become the grab-me-by-the-hair-and-throw-me-at-the-fireplace dad. I went along so he would never have a reason to set our house on fire with me in it. I went along to make him happy so he would love me.

Besides law, my new dad introduced me to many things: sailing; books like The Bridge to Terabithia and Island of the Blue Dolphins; artsy foreign films; cheesy B-movies like Attack of the Killer Tomatoes; and pizza—Melo’s Pizza, still my favorite. And music.

He explained that music could change your mood, could make you feel alive, could make an experience a million times more memorable. A great song could help a person express feelings they didn’t yet have words for.

He had an enormous vinyl collection spanning every genre—rock, jazz, blues, soundtracks, country—and artists like Springsteen, The Who, Johnny Cash, Johnny Paycheck, Chuck Berry, Aretha Franklin, Simon and Garfunkel. Of all the groups he introduced me to, The Beatles quickly became my favorite. Their music was imaginative, whimsical, and sometimes beautifully nonsensical.

We lay on the plush living-room carpet for hours listening to Beatles albums. I studied the artwork while my dad talked about what he believed the songs meant. He told me “Come Together” was inspired by Timothy Leary’s call to tune in, turn on, and drop out. “Strawberry Fields” was about imagination—about holding on to childlike innocence and curiosity. He shared the controversy behind “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” whether it was inspired by LSD or a drawing by John Lennon’s son, Julian.

My new dad also had 8-track tapes we played in his brown van. We listened to The Who, Led Zeppelin, Chuck Berry—but always returned to The Beatles. With the windows down, we sang “Here Comes the Sun,” “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” “Magical Mystery Tour” into the wind.

He believed each Beatle was gifted, but John Lennon was the most talented of the Fab Four. Because my dad believed that, I did too. Lennon wrote the most profound songs, the most meaningful ones, which is why my dad insisted I listen to his solo work. Beyond catchy melodies, Lennon believed in peace, in love, in a world where people didn’t try to solve problems with violence.

Though I had my new dad, I still had to see my “real” dad, which I couldn’t understand. Even as a child, I knew he was a despicable human being. He had terrorized my mother and me for years. Because of him, we had countless emergency-room visits. Many nights, my mom piled us—and whatever belongings we could carry—into her crappy, rusty yellow Volkswagen Bug and drove us anywhere: a relative’s house, a seedy motel that reeked of body odor and cheap perfume, a stranger’s property just off the highway. Anywhere to get away from him.

On December 8, 1980, I spent the night at my real dad’s apartment in Antioch, California. He hadn’t lived there long. There wasn’t much furniture: a worn-out couch, a bean bag that served as my bed, a circular table with three chairs. The apartment was on the second floor with several large windows. There were no curtains or blinds. I spent a long time staring into the darkness.

A metal TV-dinner stand held a thirteen-inch black-and-white television that stayed on the entire night.

Renee, my father’s girlfriend, made dinner—probably something simple like boxed macaroni and cheese. I likely told her how good it tasted because I liked her. She was always kind to me, tried to look out for me when she was around. Once, when my father robbed a liquor store with a shotgun while we waited in the car, Renee told me to lie on the floor of the backseat in case anyone started shooting. She didn’t want me to get hit by a bullet.

I didn’t sleep well. I couldn’t get comfortable on the bean bag, and I was cold beneath a thin, worn blanket. My dad passed out on the couch, snoring loudly. I was supposed to go to school in the morning, but when I woke up, he was still asleep. I knew better than to wake him.

I turned the TV knob, searching for cartoons, but every station showed the news. When I realized the images were of John Lennon, I stopped.

I stood close to the screen as Tom Brokaw said, “Lennon was shot and killed…”

My body went tingly and numb. My chest felt heavy. Breathing became difficult, like my lungs had forgotten how to work. I lost control of my body and peed myself without realizing it.

“Dad,” I said. Something important had happened, something big enough that he couldn’t be mad. “Dad, wake up.”

“John Lennon is dead.” My voice was barely there. I pointed at the TV.

“What?” He sat up but didn’t look. “You pissed yourself! What the hell is wrong with you?”

I stared at him and repeated, “John Lennon was killed.”

He didn’t check the TV. He looked straight at me and said, “Good. I hate that fucking hippie.”

Maybe I should have known better, but I snarled, “I hate you.”

He didn’t wait for more. He grabbed me by the throat, slammed me onto the floor, and kicked me a few times.

“You’re disgusting. Go clean yourself.”

I moved only after he screamed “Go!” and kicked me one last time.

In the bathroom, I sat on the floor naming Beatles songs so I wouldn’t forget: “A Hard Day’s Night.” “A Day in the Life.” “Helter Skelter.” “All You Need Is Love.”

There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done.

I stood, stripped off my soiled pajamas, threw them out the bathroom window, and put on fresh armor.

There’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be.

I stepped out and said, “I want to go home.”

On the back of my father’s motorcycle, I thought I might throw up as I clung to him. When he slowed, I jumped off and ran to the front door.

It was a weekday. I was supposed to be at school. My parents should have been at work. I didn’t know what I expected as I pounded on the door, over and over, until my new dad opened it.

He usually wore button-up shirts and ties during the week, but that day he was in jeans and a T-shirt. He needed to shave. His eyes were red and watery. He had been crying.

When he pulled me into his arms, everything hurt. My body ached from being kicked. My head hurt from years of justifying my father’s cruelty, from believing I deserved it. My heart hurt from learning that love meant pain. My soul ached for things it had never known but somehow recognized.

We spent the day listening to The Beatles and John Lennon. We didn’t talk much. We just listened and cried.

I wish I remembered which song was playing when I said, “I never want to see him again.” I like to think it was “Hey, Jude,” because I wanted to take the sad song that was my life and make it better. But I don’t know.

There were so many answers. The screaming. The beatings. Cowering in a car while he robbed a liquor store. Watching him drown his dog for ruining the carpet. Eating Cheerios with water—or beer—because there was no milk.

Jon Tyson

December 8, 1980

Love is All You Need

When I was six or seven, my stepdad came into my life, and I remember thinking he knew everything. He could befriend anybody, anywhere. In grocery stores, he chatted with strangers over cuts of meat; at gas stations, he bonded with people pumping fuel over how the smell of gasoline was disgusting and yet enjoyable. In restaurants, he took an interest in waiters’ lives—like Steve, whose father was dying of cancer. When Steve’s dad died, my new dad attended the funeral.



December 8, 1980

Love is All You Need

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December 8, 1980

Love is All You Need

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Tina D. Lopez

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Not For Me

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of Tina D. Lopez