Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady

by Florence King

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  »prologue«

  ››one‹‹

  »two«

  »three«

  »four«

  »five«

  »six«

  »seven«

  »eight«

  »nine«

  »ten«

  »eleven«

  »twelve«

  »thirteen«

  »fourteen«

  »fifteen«

  »sixteen«

  »seventeen«

  Copyright Page

  To the memory of my father,

  HERBERT FREDERICK KING

  »prologue«

  THERE are ladies everywhere, but they enjoy generic recognition only in the South. There is a New England old maid but not a New England lady. There is a Midwestern farm wife but not a Midwestern lady. There is most assuredly a California girl, but if anyone spoke of a California lady, even Phil Donahue and Alan Alda would laugh.

  If you wish to understand the American woman, study the Southern woman. The sweetening process that feminists call “socialization” is simply a less intense version of what goes on in every Southern family. We call it “rearing.” If the rearing is successful, it results in that perfection of femininity known as a lady.

  I was reared. On the day in 1948 that I got my first period, my grandmother gave me a clipping. I suppose it came from the Daughters’ magazine since she never read anything else. It said:

  When God made the Southern woman, He summoned His angel messengers and He commanded them to go through all the star-strewn vicissitudes of space and gather all there was of beauty, of brightness and sweetness, of enchantment and glamour, and when they returned and laid the golden harvest at His feet, He began in their wondering presence the work of fashioning the Southern girl. He wrought with the golden gleam of the stars, with the changing colors of the rainbow’s hues and the pallid silver of the moon. He wrought with the crimson that swoons in the rose’s ruby heart, and the snow that gleams on the lily’s petal. Then, glancing down deep into His own bosom, He took of the love that gleamed there like pearls beneath the sun-kissed waves of a summer sea, and thrilling that love into the form He had fashioned, all heaven veiled its face, for lo, He had wrought the Southern girl.

  That my mother referred to this paean as “a crock of shit” goes far to explain why Granny worked so hard at my rearing. She was a frustrated ladysmith and I was her last chance. Mama had defeated her but she kept the anvil hot for me and began hammering and firing with a strength born of desperation from the day I entered the world until the day she left it.

  This is the story of my years on her anvil. Whether she succeeded in making a lady out of me is for you to decide, but I will say one thing in my own favor before we begin.

  No matter which sex I went to bed with, I never smoked on the street.

  ››one‹‹

  MY ladylike adventures have taken me from Seattle to Paris, but last year I was carried back to Tidewater Virginia, which my ancestors helped to unsettle.

  A romantic version of my address can be found on the first page of Thackeray’s Henry Esmond, which kicks off with a description of the Esmond family’s royal grant “in Westmoreland County between the Rappahannock and Potomac rivers.” It was the only book I ever read that Granny did not tell me to get my nose out of. Though she hated “bluestockings”—her name for female intellectuals, who could never be ladies—she actually read a few pages of it herself, muttering, “Esmond … Esmond … do I know any Esmonds?”

  Being an Englishman, my father was singularly unimpressed by Granny’s ancestors, so I knew he was getting ready to enjoy himself. I met his dancing eyes and read the message in them: Don’t tell her it’s a novel. We let her go on until she was saying, “It was Samuel Esmond who married my great-great-grandfather’s half-sister.” Preening herself, she added, “Our royal grant was next to theirs.”

  I had heard about our royal grant many times. Granny was always careful to keep it in the same place, but the grantor changed depending upon what monarchical name happened to pop into her head while she was launched on her pipe dreams. Her boasts were believable as long as she stuck to kings and queens from the pre-1776 era, but when she claimed a royal grant from William IV, my father started laughing so hard he had to leave the table.

  “William the Fourth reigned from 1830 to 1837, Granny,” I said.

  “Be that as it may,” she replied serenely.

  Our ancestors did arrive very early in Virginia—1672—but they were not the kind of people Granny said they were, and they rose very little in the social scale in subsequent generations. I would not be at all surprised if I turned out to be a direct descendant of the Spotsylvania hatchetman who relieved Kunta Kinte of his foot.

  I began life by letting down the side. Being the first person in my family who was not born in Virginia made the radio quiz shows of the forties a painful experience for me. Crouching like Cinderella beside the huge Philco console, I listened to the wild applause that vibrated through its brocaded sound vents when a contestant named Texas as his home state. Texas always got the biggest hand, but any state seemed to arouse the audience; even Rhode Island got a big sympathy vote.

  I looked up at the two adults on the sofa. Granny was crocheting and Mama was reading the Times-Herald sports page and chainsmoking Luckies. They looked as if nothing was wrong, and of course, nothing was wrong for them. They had a home state; I did not.

  “What would I say?” I asked.

  “About what?” Mama muttered abstractedly.

  “If I was on the show and they asked me my home state?”

  “You’re a Virginian,” Granny said with a sublime smile. “Everyone is.”

  “But I wasn’t born there. Suppose they asked me where I was born?”

  Mama lit a new cigarette from the butt in her yellowed fingers.

  “Well, tell ’em the truth, what’s wrong with that?”

  “Because they wouldn’t clap. They only clap for states.”

  “If the District isn’t good enough for ’em, tell ’em to take their sixty-four dollars and shove it.”

  “Oh, Louise!” Granny cried. “That’s no expression to use in front of the child! How do you expect her to grow up to be a lady if you cuss like a trooper?”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “I don’t have a home state,” I mourned.

  “Oh, for God’s sake! Tell ’em you’re from Maryland, then. Washington’s really in Maryland anyhow. Washingtonians used to have to put both District and Maryland tags on their cars. Tell ’em that.”

  Like charity, schizophrenia begins at home. Washington would really have been in Virginia, too, if Virginia had not been what Mama called “a bunch of goddamn Indian-givers.” In 1789, the Old Dominion donated a section of Fairfax County to make up the South Bank of the District of Columbia; but angered when all the important government buildings were erected on the Maryland side, they took it back. The disputed portion was called Alexandria County until 1920, when it was renamed Arlington County. It was here that Mama was born in 1908.

  Arlington is now part of the polyglot Yankee suburb known tactfully as “Northern Virginia,” but until the end of World War II there was no such place. It was simply part of Virginia, a rural area dotted with small villages whose names survive today as shopping malls or beltline exits: Rosslyn, Clarendon, Ballston, Cherrydale, Tyson’s Corner, and Bailey’s Crossroads. The people who lived there were not commuters in the modern sense; they might, like my grandfather, have worked for the “guvment” because the government happened to be close by, but otherwise they looked on the Nation’s Capital
as a shopping town, the way people in northern Mississippi regard Memphis.

  Mama grew up in Ballston on a dirt road in a white frame house bordered by a field of wild strawberries and enhanced by a lacy gazebo in the backyard. She had an older brother, Botetourt (pronounced Bottatot), named for the Virginia Royal Governor from whom Granny claimed descent. Granny, of course, actually called him Botetourt; Mama called him Gottapot and everyone else called him Bud. After my grandfather died in 1921, the worthy Botetourt married and moved to Falls Church, leaving Granny and Mama to fight out alone what was by then a hopeless battle over Mama’s image.

  She was not pretty but our Indian blood had come out in her and given her face a noble cast. She looked like a blond Duchess of Windsor; the same winglike cheekbones, big tense jaw, and thin clamped mouth. Her stark features and big-boned bonyness were made for devastating compensatory chic, but unlike the Duchess, Mama was not interested in creating illusions.

  She started smoking cornsilk at eight. At twelve she taught herself to drive by stealing Botetourt’s car and driving all the way to Fairfax Courthouse before they caught her. At fifteen she quit school, applied for a work permit, and got a job as a telephone operator at the Clarendon exchange. With her first pay she bought an infielder’s glove and joined the telephone company’s softball team as shortstop. Granny tried to put a good face on matters by attending a few games so people would think she approved of girlish sport, but the day she noticed a lump in Mama’s cheek and realized it was tobacco, she had to be helped from the bleachers and escorted home.

  Scarcely a day passed without an “Oh, Louise—Oh, shit” argument. The worst crisis erupted over the gazebo. Granny kept telling Mama to “use” it, so Mama hung a punching bag from the middle of the roof and got one of her good ole boy pals to give her boxing lessons. Needless to say, men felt comfortable around her and frequently took her to ball games and races, but no matter how many times Granny told her to keep her dates waiting, my competitive mother would dress early, lie in wait behind the curtains watching for her escort, and then throw open the door before the first ring and say, “I beat you!”

  Knowing that she could do nothing with Mama, Granny looked around the family for a malleable girl who would heed her advice, a surrogate daughter cast in the traditional mold, someone delicate and fragile in both body and spirit, a true exemplar of Southern womanhood. Someone, in other words, either sick or crazy.

  One of the joys of growing up Southern is listening to women argue about whether nervous breakdowns are more feminine than female trouble, or vice versa. They never put it quite that bluntly, but it is precisely what they are arguing about. These two afflictions are the sine qua non of female identity and the Southern woman is not happy unless her family history manifests one or the other. Her preference is dictated by her own personality and physical type. Well-upholstered energetic clubwomen usually opt for female trouble, while languid fine-drawn aristocrats choose nervous breakdowns.

  Granny’s next-door neighbor in Ballston was Aunt Nana Fairbanks, who made a home for her niece, Evelyn Cunningham. Evelyn was the same age as Mama but famed for a very different sort of double play: on the day she was supposed to be taken to the state mental hospital in Staunton, she had such bad cramps that she missed the ambulance.

  Here was an ornament to grace any family tree, so the two dowagers started fighting over her. Picture, if you will, Aunt Nana, née Cunningham, moving across her yard in her Mandarin glide to meet Granny, née Upton, who is moving across her yard in her Roman matron strut. They meet at a hole in the hedge like two opposing generals in a parley ground and discuss the prize booty both of them are determined to claim.

  “Evelyn is having a nervous breakdown,” Aunt Nana said proudly. “All of the Cunninghams are high-strung.”

  “Evelyn doesn’t take after the Cunninghams,” Granny replied. “It’s the Upton womb that’s causing those spells of hers.”

  “I was in the middle of my nervous breakdown when I married Mr. Fairbanks,” Aunt Nana recalled with a fond smile. “I was so run down I only weighed ninety pounds. He had to carry me around in his arms that whole first year.”

  “When I married Mr. Ruding, the doctor told him I might never be able to carry a child.” Granny smiled. “I had a descending womb—it runs in the family—and it was just hanging by a thread. I couldn’t sleep, I cried all the time—just like Evelyn.”

  “I almost lost my mind,” Aunt Nana reminisced. “Evelyn’s mind is going, I can see all the signs.”

  “You can just look at Evelyn and tell she’s delicate down below,” Granny sighed.

  “It’s the Cunningham taint.”

  “It’s the Upton womb.”

  Granny got the prize booty. One morning around four she was awakened by a violent pounding at the door. It was Evelyn, her blond hair in rag curlers and her peaches-and-cream complexion streaked with tears.

  “Aunt Lura! Aunt Nana said she’s going to send me to the insane asylum again!”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your mind, it’s your parts. Come in and have a glass of warm milk.”

  Evelyn accepted and stayed two years. During this time Granny had the malleable daughter of her dreams. Clay in the hands of a strong personality, Evelyn did everything she was told. There was no need to teach her to be late; her catatonic seizures, when she stood frozen in the middle of her room with silent tears running down her face, were good for at least half an hour. Nor did she have to be reminded to “make him look for you.” Wandering off was one of her specialties. Ballston parties at this time were enlivened by the many girls who pretended to disappear, and Evelyn, who actually did.

  No matter when these spells occurred, Granny always blamed them on premenstrual tension, which she called “the pip.” Eager to deny Aunt Nana’s diagnosis of madness, Evelyn grasped the pelvic straw Granny held out. Soon she forgot all about the Cunningham taint and started talking about the Upton womb, until she convinced herself that being “delicate down below” was part of her charm.

  Choreographed by Granny, she became the most popular hysteric in the Virginia Hump. Men came from as far as Leesburg to gaze into her popping eyes and grasp her trembling hands. The intense femininity that seemed to come so naturally to her held them in sexual thrall. They grew hot with desire when she searched frantically through her pocketbook, shrieking, “Oh, what am I looking for?” They sighed like furnaces over her habit of breaking into a chorus of “Jada Jada Jing” and being unable to stop. They could not get enough of her berserk sensuality; the more she shook, the more she gasped, the more their spirits rose, for if she was this way on the porch, what must she be like in bed? Even the man whose car she wrecked came back for more; he bought another one and went on giving her driving lessons just to be near her.

  The one man in Ballston who was not in love with Evelyn was Preston Hunt, whose heart belonged to Daddy. If the Jewish boy’s problem is the umbilical cord, the Southern boy’s is the tail of the spermatozoön. Preston’s father was a classic Colonel Portnoy whose favorite word was “manly.” Preston was not manly enough to suit Daddy. The family hardware store was frequently the scene of screaming debacles whenever Mr. Hunt, who saw himself as a hot-tempered beau sabreur of the Old South, lost what little self-control he had and inflicted corporal punishment on his twenty-eight-year-old son.

  It was rough-and-ready Mama who met Preston’s emotional needs, and so he began courting her. She despised him for being the garçon manqué she knew herself to be, but he came along at a time when she needed to show Granny and Evelyn that she, too, could catch a beau. They got together, and to Granny’s unanalytical delight, they used the gazebo, where the punching bag swaying gently in the breeze supplied the filip Preston required. He came over every night and sat in the lacy boxing ring talking about his father.

  “My daddy whipped me till my nose bled buttermilk,” he confided happily. “I was late to work this morning and he took an old harness left over from when we sold them, and
he just laid it on me something terrible. But I deserved it. Daddy’s right to whip me when I need it, I know that. I don’t mean to talk against him.” His voice began to tremble. “You know that, don’t you? I love Daddy! Did I sound to you like I was finding fault with him? Tell me the truth, Louise. Do you think I badmouthed Daddy just now?”

  “You’re a sissy, Preston,” Mama snarled in the azalea-scented night. “I hate sissies! If I were a man, you wouldn’t catch me being a sissy! I hate you, Preston! Get out and don’t come back!”

  Naturally he obeyed but he always came back. He could not keep away from her. A few nights later he would return and they would sit in the moonlit gazebo and whisper another round of sweet nothings.

  “I’d like to kill you, Preston. I’d like to get in my car and run right over you. If I were a man, I’d wipe the floor with you! I’d knock you into the middle of next week! Stop doing your mouth that way. You know what way I mean—twisting it down at the corner and making that squirty noise. Why are you sitting with your feet folded one over the other? You always sit like that! I hate the way you sit! I hate your feet!”

  “I’m sorry, honey—”

  “Shut up! Get out!”

  In the summer of 1933, he bought season box seats on the first base line at Griffith Stadium and took her to see the Senators play every weekend. As Mama expertly marked her scorecard and squinted through the smoke from her Lucky Strike Greens, Preston gazed at her with plangent expectancy, but she was so intent on the game that she forgot to bully him. Unable to bear the torments of respite, he devised ways to get on her nerves, like eating his hot dogs from the middle, but it drew nothing more than an absent-minded “Stop that, Preston.”

  As the season wore on, he developed several new facial tics, squeezed his blackheads, and even tried wearing one black shoe and one brown one, but Mama was too engrossed in Lou Gehrig to notice. At any other time of the year she would have threatened to cut off his feet and throw them in his face, but not in summer.