Adrienne had left me a note before she went to class that morning. She wanted to meet me at the on-campus grill, The Meat Grinder. No doubt she wanted to talk about last night. She was probably mad at the way I stormed out. I raised my chin proudly. I had stood up against the objectification and degradation of women. I preferred to spend my evening at the library anyway. It was quiet; I didn’t have to listen to that noise she called music.
“…may God have mercy on your soul,” Perkins said, apparently finishing a moving speech. Thankfully, I had missed most of it. “Excuse me a minute.” Seeing someone outside the door, he exited the room.
“Somebody needs more fuckin’ fiber in his diet.”
The words came from Carol Munson, one of only two other girls in the class besides me. I couldn’t help but laugh at her comment. I’d noticed her immediately in my other class, Film Appreciation. She’d walked into the auditorium as if she owned it. Wearing a flowery sundress, sneakers, a nose ring, bright red lipstick and a black Annie Hall hat, she seemed like someone who knew where she wanted to go in life, but who had a tendency to keep slamming into brick walls. Her dress was misbuttoned; it seemed either sloppy or intentional. I knew we’d be instant friends.
In the small room in which Film Production class was held, Andrew’s laugh cut the silence. He couldn’t stop laughing, and some others joined in.
A guy sitting behind Andrew with a bandana on his head punched him in the back. “C’mon, man. Quit actin’ like such a fag.”
Andrew turned around, the smile gone from his face. “I guess I’m your type then.” He swiveled back around, and not another word was said.
A few years ago, when Boy George referred to himself as a “drag queen” on TV, the American public nearly fainted in shock. Even though the guys in big-hair bands had long hair and wore more eyeliner than most women, in 1989 it was still assumed that everyone was straight. When anyone branded someone else with terms like “fag” or “dyke,” it was the equivalent of an automatic scarlet letter, not considered something to be proud of, even if there was an occasional parade.
I watched Andrew. I liked his fiery retort. He didn’t act like a helpless person, and he had to be braver than I was to wear those spandex outfits. I smiled to myself, watching the guy behind him make indignant grunting noises to save face. But he didn’t bother Andrew for the rest of the year.
Chapter Fifteen
Governor Sanders gave speeches all across the South over the next few days, selling out stadiums like a rock star. For this series of rallies, she wore her brightest red scarf, the one that of course meant she was more patriotic than her opponents, in addition to the flag pinned conspicuously on the lapel of her black suit jacket.
During one of these packed cheer fests, this one in Birmingham, Robin looked out at the crowd, and the expectant faces and clapping hands froze in place, then resumed as if in slow motion. Everything was quiet. It was like one of those weird out-of-body experiences in the movies. She could see herself, not as who she was, but as the person everyone else saw. There on the stage, an iconic figure full of poise and power that the scared teenage Robin had never had. If they only knew.
She thought about the long, strange, treacherous road she’d taken to get to this place—and about how she almost changed the course of her life with a dramatically different detour so many years ago.
Was it hurt and humiliation that had led her to this place? Only she knew, but she didn’t know if she could separate the truth from the self-delusion. Clearly, it had been fear that sent her running back home, back to the comfort of the familiar. She understood the values her parents had, understood why they believed the things they did. She’d seen how their faith helped them through her mother’s illness.
If only Robin had had as strong a faith as her father, maybe her mother’s death wouldn’t have been so unbearable. Holding her mother’s tiny hand in that awful powder-blue bedroom, waiting for her eyes to open, hearing her father say how God was taking her home—Robin felt her insides churn and knew that nothing would ever be right in the world again, because her mother wouldn’t be in it. At that moment, there was no God. There was no religion. There was only the empty bed where someone she loved so much was supposed to be. The pillow was still creased from where her head had lain. Now there was nothing, only the stale air trapped inside the room.
Later, when she had trouble getting through impossible times in her life, Robin had tried to wrap herself in religion and wear it as armor. She’d heard someone say that in hard times you should act “as if” until you really feel a certain way. She tried that when she shouted about God. She tried that at her wedding when she was stuffing Tom’s face with a piece of white cake. But acting “as if” had never made it so. Not for her anyway.
In the limo after the rally, Robin stared ahead calmly and quietly, enjoying the cheering outside. Maybe she and Adrienne had something in common after all—a love of the stage, and attention.
Robin’s greatest satisfaction in this campaign had come from her ability to throw so many Republicans off balance, pushing back hard on laws that negatively impacted women, laws which were often proposed by her own party. Some people supported her simply because she was so full of surprises. In an age of candidates who were merely mouthpieces for their parties, she was somewhat refreshing, if not infuriating to the LGBT community. Unfortunately, the new conservative movement that was making her a star was also fueled by antigay rhetoric, making it impossible for her to speak against something that helped her rise to the top.
As they traveled to their next stop, Robin caught Peter watching her. On his face was a mixture of awe and confusion.
“Governor,” he began carefully. “Do you think it’s a good idea not to take her call?” Of course he was talking about Adrienne.
“Yes,” she replied curtly. “The subject is closed.”
He folded his hands in his lap and looked down. No matter what he really thought, he’d keep his mouth shut for now. She was his ticket to the top, and he’d sell his own mother to get there.
“I had a cousin, Laken,” she said, staring ahead. “He lived with another man. Course I was too young to know what that was. Laken was my mother’s nephew and my cousin.”
Peter leaned in, hanging on her every word. She rarely spoke of her private life, so this was a special treat for him.
“No one ever talked about his male companion,” Robin continued. “But you knew, the way they were with each other. They acted like my parents did. The day Laken died, everybody said it was from pneumonia. A forty-year-old man who can’t fight off pneumonia?” Her dismissive shrug couldn’t hide a painful truth that was weighing on her. She’d long ago placed the past, Laken’s and her own, in a vault inside her mind and locked it tight, never expecting to want to reopen it one day.
Peter’s eyes filled with concern, but she ignored him. She didn’t see him as a confidante. She simply wanted to talk, and he happened to be there, that’s all. In reality, she saw him as nothing more than a political parasite.
“It was like he never existed.” Robin’s gaze was now far away. She was looking at old home movies in her mind, the kind where the only sound is that of a rattling projector. And there was Laken, hiding behind his seventies-style mustache, holding a toddler-size Robin on his knee.
“He’s in old family albums. But when my father gets to one with him in the picture, he never says anything about him, just flips the page. I doubt Abigail even knows who he is.”
Peter rubbed his hands together, trying to make sense of this revelation. “You’re not changing your mind on…that issue?”
She laughed a hearty laugh, amused by his transparency. “Oh, Pete. You’re about as smooth as a bull on roller skates.”
He didn’t know whether or not to smile. Not originally from the South, he didn’t know what to make of her little “down-home” analogies. Usually they involved grits. This was a new one. Did it mean a yes or a no?
“You think beca
use I had a gay cousin I’m going to vote for gay marriage?” She turned to face him.
Peter shook his head.
“You know, Laken always said I had pretty eyes.” She looked out the window, smiling to herself, as if it was the only compliment she’d ever believed.
They reached their destination.
* * *
In truth, it wasn’t political issues that motivated Robin Sanders, but her need to be in control of some aspect of her life. The young girl growing up on a farm near Atlanta saw a mother who lived and breathed cooking. And Robin wasn’t much of a cook. She wasn’t much for the farm animals either. Every time she tried to help her father, she got hurt. Like the time she was helping to feed an older horse. Aside from occasionally flipping his tail, he wasn’t that active. But Robin stood in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he stepped back, his hoof breaking her foot. Farming clearly wasn’t for her.
She needed to find a way to get out from under her father’s thumb, as well as something to satisfy her insatiable ambition. Ironically, the quiet girl from Atlanta finally found the platform where she could have all the power, like her father, in politics.
Somewhere along the line—she couldn’t pinpoint exactly where or when—her conscience had been swept away by the wave of compromises she’d made to get where she was.
Now she could look at the issue with a sort of detachment. But every time she called people a sin, she seemed to lose a piece of herself. That was why she traveled with enough antacids and migraine pills to put down a horse. Maybe on some level, the voice inside that knew of her duplicity sickened her to her stomach.
Politics was all about compromise, she’d remind herself. If she had to make a few statements here and there to get what she wanted, then so be it. If she was able to get a bridge repaired, an organization more funding, all of her compromises, she reasoned, were for the greater good. It was the only way she could keep doing what she was doing and stay sane.
Besides, in time she might, might be able to soften her position on certain issues. So many people often did—but that could only happen after her father was dead. By then she’d have all the clout and influence she’d ever dreamed of.
Robin knew she was a coward. But more than anything, she wanted to be heard. And if that meant chunks of her soul falling away with every step up to the next stage, then that would have to be okay. A big bloody mess, but okay.
The governor gave speeches from Nashville to Savannah—covering the most red-hot cities where people were all so eager to hear her message. But the Atlanta speech was going to be the most well attended of all of them. People were coming from all over to hear her, and everyone seemed loyal in spite of the scandal. Maybe they admired her for appearing at all instead of hiding out in her bedroom, stuffing her face with ice cream. Of course, that was not her style. And everyone was about to know that for sure.
They got to the arena with only minutes to spare—someone had neglected to check if the Braves were playing a home game and adjust travel plans accordingly—and Robin settled herself backstage to prepare. She was going to close her eyes for a minute or two, shut out the noise, meditate for a moment and envision what she was going to say and do.
First, though, she popped a Valium in her mouth and washed it down with a swig of bottled water. This rally appeared like all the others—tens of thousands of screaming supporters, signs waving in the air, and a giant American flag hung behind a well-lit stage at night. It wouldn’t be a rally like the others though. And it would take more than a pill to help Robin Sanders get through it.
Chapter Sixteen
“Auteur is French for author,” Dr. Gentry explained. “Do you know why they call a director an auteur?”
No one answered, not because we didn’t know, but because most of us were too intimidated to speak.
“Because a true auteur makes the same film over and over again. In each one, he reveals his world view or weltanschauung.”
“Gesundheit,” Carol muttered under her breath.
I smiled, glancing over at her. Film Appreciation followed the Production class. So today I took the opportunity to sit a little closer to the girl I thought I might have something in common with.
Dr. Gentry continued, “You’ll note the rape scene was clearly a metaphor for his view of society out of control.”
“Oh, please.” Carol sighed loudly.
“Yes, in the back.” He pointed at Carol.
“Well,” she snapped. “I think that’s bullshit. Not every rape scene is a metaphor. Sometimes it’s purely gratuitous.”
Some of the class rumbled with comments, while others chuckled. Dr. Gentry tried to quiet them. “Everyone is entitled to their opinion. However, I do believe it’s more complicated than that. Anyone else?” He turned his dismissive face away from her and scanned the class.
I was completely outraged, looking at Carol, who, seemingly undaunted, was sipping a soda. She didn’t notice, but I was studying her with the intensity of someone who longed for a kindred spirit. Deep down, I was always outraged when women’s voices were dismissed, because I suppose I saw myself as someone whose voice was always quieted at home.
When class was over, I approached Carol as she was gathering her books. “He completely disregarded what you had to say,” I said. “I think you had a very valid point.”
At that moment, the bags under Carol’s eyes seemed to vanish, and she smiled brightly. “Carol Munson,” she offered, extending her hand.
“Robin Sanders.”
“Sanders? You’re not related to that guy in the news, are you? The one who’s trying to ban curse words from public schools?”
“Guilty.”
“That’s fucked.”
I frowned. Maybe she wouldn’t be a kindred spirit after all. “I’m actually very proud of him for standing up for his beliefs, no matter how unpopular. It’s always easy to do what’s popular.”
“Good luck enforcing a law like that.” Carol impressed me because she actually watched the news and seemed to pay attention to the issues.
When I’d first arrived at the university, I had studied the crowds of Greek clubs, football players, girls who wanted nothing more than to date football players—and I only found those I could identify with in the film or drama departments, those who had strong points of view, who were misfits in some way, as I saw myself. Whether it was Carol’s Annie Hall hat or Andrew’s animal-in-heat laugh, no one in my film classes would have fit in with any of the other groups. And even though I dressed conservatively, I knew in my heart I couldn’t be a sorority girl. Oh, I could look the part, but I couldn’t feel it inside. My mind was always moving me in other directions and usually not toward the same places where everyone else seemed to be going.
Carol and I walked around the campus in the thick, sticky air. “I gotta be honest,” Carol said. “When I first saw you, I thought you were some rich fuckin’ snob. No offense.”
“None taken. I don’t think.” I laughed nervously.
“Then I thought you might be a slut. You kinda look like my cousin, and she’s been ridden more times than my Harley.”
“It’s funny how we use stereotypes to keep others at a distance.” Ironically, I realized I’d done exactly that with Adrienne. After all, she was far less threatening if I imagined her as an empty-headed party girl.
“Whoa.” Carol stopped and stared at me. “You’re serious?”
“Uh-huh.” She was staring at me like I didn’t have any clothes on. “What?”
“Never mind.”
We resumed walking.
“I live on a farm back home,” I said. “And my dad’s always sayin’ not every pig is a slob.” That was his way of saying not to stereotype, I guess.
Carol looked weirdly at me again. Maybe she was regretting this conversation.
“Didn’t it bother you? What he said?” I had to know.
“Nah, he’s an asshole.” We stopped again under a sprawling oak with hanging Spanish moss. Ca
rol set one foot on a bench and lit up a cigarette with nervous hands. “I’ve taken him before. Failed his class three times so far.”
“Are you serious?”
“No, his tests really suck.”
“Great,” I quipped sarcastically.
“Every semester, he tries to make an example out of something I say. The little fuck.”
“Why do you take it?” I asked.
“’Cause he’s a damn good teacher, the prick. Probably the best I’ve ever had.”
I marveled at how she could admit that he was a good teacher in spite of her frustration. It was clear on the first day that Film Appreciation was going to be an intense course. At first, the auditorium was filled with students who thought it would be a breezy elective that would enable them to sit back and watch movies the whole time. What they didn’t realize was that the movies were going to be analyzed, some frame by frame, and that long essays would be required to explain the themes and vital elements of each one.
They also assumed we’d be viewing popular Hollywood movies. While some were included, there were many more films from around the globe—French, Eastern European—all with subtitles and more complex, unfamiliar ways of telling a story. For some, just the word “subtitle” made them break out in a sweat. By the second class, I had no trouble finding a seat in the much less packed auditorium.
I shook my head, as we trudged across the grass. “Why do you think so many girls don’t care about sexism in film?”
“Today’s girls are idiots,” Carol exclaimed. “Their bra-burning mothers had the right idea. But they did too many drugs, so their kids are fuckin’ zombies.”
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