Modern Screen (Feb-Dec 1959)

Introducing Connie Francis (Continued from page 39) entranced him. "Connie," he announced one day, "you're as good as the kids on that show . . . You ought to be on it! So he took her to Scheck's office in New York and said, "Mr. Scheck . . . this is my daughter Connie . . . She's thirteen . . . and she sings." ... , . , Scheck, who was overloaded with kid singers, started to end the interview before it began. , . ' , , Franconera added,^ hurriedly, But she plays accordion, too." "That's different," said Scheck. Bring her around tomorrow for an audition. The next day, Scheck watched the short, plump Connie, with her big brown eyes and thick dark hair, as she played accordion and sang. He thought she was gifted, and put her on his show. From then on, Connie Francis— she cut her name short for tv— showed up each week for the two rehearsals and the telecast always accompanied by one parent or the other, plus a big salami sandwich. She ate so heartily the other kids on the show were completely awed. She was never left alone for one moment. Poppa or Momma was always around. "In the old country," explained Poppa, "girls don't go with boys until they're married. That's how girls stay out of trouble." Connie protested many times, "But, Poppa, you're so old-fashioned." "Never mind," said Poppa,^ firmly, A girl must never be left alone." This little scene was repeated often, and sometimes Connie would say, "Oh, Poppa, you talk to me like I'm a little girl, but I'm growing up!" Poppa would give her a hug and say, "Never mind growing up ... To me, you re my little girl . . . Always, my little girl. Connie moved slowly but surely ahead as a singer. She developed poise, timing, know-how. But, at home, Momma and Poppa glowed at her and exclaimed, "You're our little girl, Connie, our little girl!" Plenty of time for boys — later When she started at Newark Art High School, the other girls her age were starting to date. They talked incessantly about boys. But Connie kept silent. She had no dates, and she knew very little about boys. Momma and Poppa, who married at twenty-two, always pointed out that young girls ought to worry about school and good marks . . . and never mind about boys. "There's plenty of time for boys and marriage . . . later." Bursting with enormous drive, Connie turned her back on romance and concentrated on becoming a good singer on Scheck's TV show and on getting high marks at school. At fourteen, she was not yet even five feet tall but she already weighed 138 pounds. When she got up to 140, Scheck said, "Connie, I don't want to hurt your feelings . . . but don't you think you ought to start dieting?" But Connie was crazy about food. Poppa, who came from a country where people don't fuss so much about calories, said, "Come on, Connie, eat! You work hard, and you need strength . . . eat!" And Connie ate like there was no tomorrow. When she became bored with salami sandwiches, she went for hamburgers, two or three at every rehearsal. When she was depressed she would eat more. At rehearsals and performances, 74 between hamburgers, she would sigh, "I can hardly wait till I get home, to eat. At school, some of her friends urged her to reduce. But Connie would answer, "I'm too busy." And the truth was that she was busy: three nights for her tv show; editing the school paper; winning the New Jersey State Typing Championship; studying for high marks. She excelled in debating contests and read heavy books on psychology, religion, politics. When she happened to be with a bunch of boys, she didn't moon around or hold hands. Instead, she would yak with them about religion, psychology, logic. She was strictly an intellectual. Just as she had become a standout in school, she moved to the top of the tv show. She polished her singing, she learned a lot about cameras, lighting, wardrobe, make-up, direction. She got so smart that soon Scheck was letting her be his assistant. She even directed the show from the engineer's booth, until the Directors' Guild protested that she wasn't a member of their union. Soon she started writing songs and one, An Answer to My Prayer, was published. „ Around school, she was never really happy. She found it difficult to mix easily National Society for Crippled Children and Adults 2023 W. Ogden Ave. Chicago 12, 111. with the other students. She felt so much more mature than they were. She had become accustomed to adult talk and was annoyed at the teen-age jive talk. She felt left out, and not part of the group. The other girls would come to school in Bermuda shorts and chat gaily about their dates. But Connie didn't dare to wear shorts (she was too plump) and she had no dates to brag about. She didn t have the figure to try out for the cheerleading team; but she consoled herself by saying, "I'm too busy for such nonsense!" She didn't have any close girl friends, and she felt isolated. Even her brother, George, was too young to understand — he was three years her junior. And Momma and Poppa were too unyielding in their attitudes about dating. "Nice girls don't date," said Poppa, and that ended the discussion. Connie knew, of course, that she had something the other girls didn't havehigh marks and musical talent. But it sure didn't seem like enough. Time and again she forced herself to mix; but she never felt comfortable. The other girls talked about clothes and boys. Connie hated to think about clothes, and she didn't know what to say about boys. Then one day in sewing class she made a skirt and miscalculated so much that the skirt came out three sizes too small. Furious at herself, she decided she would wear that skirt if it killed her. So she dieted heroically, and dropped from 140 to 102 pounds within a period of two months. The girls at school, startled, began to praise her and boys started to notice her, and she liked it. But it was always a struggle. Whenever she became tense, she reverted to heavy eating. She couldn't help herself. Her mind was very bright, very active. She questioned everything, challenged traditions, insisted on the highest ideals, and developed a hostility to hypocrites. When a girl friend phoned to say, "Connie, I can't go to church with you today I haven't anything to wear," Connie was horrified. She felt the girl had missed the whole point of religion. Conflicting ideals She joined a sorority; but quit after two weeks. "You're all so phony! she told the sorority sisters. "There's no^ real friendship here. You're just faking. This did not win her any pals, needless Around the school, the kids knew she was a tv celebrity earning fifty dollars a week, and sometimes more. The boys were awed; the girls were jealous. When Connie put on a real pretty green halter dress to go to a school dance, she heard a girl sniff: "Huh . . . who does Connie think she is? ... A big shot? The other girls wore flats and bobby sox; Connie wore one-inch heels. So when she went to another school dance, a girl said out loud: "That Connie is always showing off." Connie left early. She was uncomfortable, and had no boy to dance with. Then there was the time her cousin Charlie was going into the Army, and Connie gave him a going-away panyWhen she kissed him a cousinly good-bye, her own best girl friend said: "Oh . . . you know Connie . . . She always thinks she's privileged." , it_ . ., After two years at Newark, the family moved to Belleville, a suburb, and Connie enrolled at Belleville High School. There, too, she shone as a scholar and soon became a celebrity. Her parents were proud of her success on tv and at school, and they lavished affection on her; but Connie felt that though in a way she had everything, actually she had nothing. At sixteen, she got up enough nerve to ask Poppa, "Can I go to the moyiestonight?" Poppa said, "Sure, go ahead. Then Connie asked, "But can I go with Nick? Poppa stared at her, amazed. "Why take Nick? If you want some company, I ll go with you." , Another time, she yearned to go with Steve, a tall, husky local football hero. She asked Poppa, "Can I go to the corner store foi ice cream with Steve? Poppa, alarmed, said, "Connie, if you want ice cream, I'll go and get it for you. She went into her room and played listlessly with her collection of stuffed ^animals. "Poppa just doesn't understand," she told herself. "He doesn't understand!" A date — finally She told her favorite uncle, Gus, about this incident, and he was horrified. He went to Poppa and kidded him about his lack of sensitivity to Connie's needs. Then Poppa became embarrassed and admitted that maybe he had been wrong. After three high school years of no dates, she finally was allowed, in her senior year, to accept a few. But Poppa still wouldn't let Connie go out alone. ... When she graduated with high honors, she won a scholarship to New York University. She yearned vaguely to become a doctor, perhaps a psychologist ... but she couldn't get singing out of her system.