by Karen Karbo
IN 1947, AT THE AGE OF 41, Josephine married French orchestra leader Jo Bouillon. This time, she finally seemed to have gotten it right. Like Pepito, he was devoted to her and supported her aspirations; like Jean Lion he hailed from an orderly French bourgeois family and helped to keep her grounded. At least for a while.
In 1936—the same year as her calamitous trip to the United States—Josephine had purchased her country house, Les Milandes, with the profits from Bakerfix. It was a decrepit, if romantic, château tucked away in France’s rugged, remote Dordogne. After her marriage to Bouillon, she hatched a plan to refurbish it and create a tourist destination that would be a cross between Michael Jackson’s Neverland Ranch and Downton Abbey. Josephine blew through money faster than she could shake her hips, and she was hoping Les Milandes would provide a nice revenue stream. She envisioned hotels, restaurants, stables, a miniature golf course, a farm with strolling peacocks, a big swimming pool in the shape of a J, and a wax museum depicting dramatic scenes from her life. To run the operation, Josephine installed families in the surrounding village—and because she was fundamentally kind and generous, provided them with decent housing and hot and cold running water.
As you might imagine, this kind of project costs a fortune. During the war Josephine had lived on her savings, performing for the troops for free; now she was broke. To fund Les Milandes, Inc. (as I think of it), she returned to the stage. So devoted was she to making this monumental vision come true that she was forced to go where the money was. Europe was still crawling from the wreckage of a world war, but nightclubs across the United States were flush. Her Ziegfeld Follies folly was a distant, prewar memory, and nightclub owners were happy to book her.
You probably won’t be surprised to hear how this ended up. Even in the aftermath of a war that had engulfed the entire world, one of France’s most esteemed citizens still could not get a room in a “white” hotel in her homeland. According to one account, she and Jo were turned away 36 times. This time, rather than hiding her pain and anger in a fling with a random Frenchman (although as distractions go, you could do worse) she just got plain old angry. And an unrepentant, angry woman is a difficult woman. If a city refused her request for a reservation, she would cancel her performance and tell the press why. She insisted on fully integrated shows, and would reserve a big table near the stage for local members of the NAACP; until they were all seated, she would not appear.
By this time, at the age of 45, Josephine was also completely over whatever lingering reputation she may have had as an exotic primitif. Her activism involved giving performances where she demonstrated that black people could be as sophisticated and worldly as anyone else. Dressed in Dior, Balmain, and Balenciaga (she made 13 costume changes over the course of the evening), she showed off her language acquisition chops by singing in French, Italian, Portuguese, even Yiddish. She told stories about the old days, chatted up the audience. She was lovely, but also fierce and uncompromising. Once, she overheard someone use the n-word in a restaurant and called the cops. As her biographer Phyllis Rose observed: “Like a comic-book superwoman, one moment Josephine was an innocuous celebrity eating a meal—and then (quick moral change in invisible phone booth of the mind)—an intrepid fighter for civil rights, leaping into the fray, clad in the uniform of the Free French Women’s Auxiliary.”
The New York branch of the NAACP deemed May 20, 1951, Josephine Baker Day, and Life magazine ran a feature story declaring that “La Baker is back.” Six months later—perhaps further emboldened by these public affirmations—she accused Manhattan’s celebrated Stork Club of racism when she was made to wait an hour for a steak. Accounts differed about whether this was a passive-aggressive display of bigotry or just really bad service (history has come down firmly on Josephine’s side). But at this point, she had become such a staunch and respected foe of discrimination that the reputation of the club never recovered.
JOSEPHINE HAD ALWAYS EXPRESSED a desire to be a mother, but for one reason or another (timing, various female maladies), it never happened. In 1954, after seven years of marriage to Bouillon, Josephine decided that she wanted to create a family that would also make a political statement. They would all live at Les Milandes, where, for their visitors, they would demonstrate love and tolerance. “Jo and I plan to adopt four little children: red, yellow, white, and black. Four little children raised in the country, in my beautiful Dordogne,” Bouillon wrote in his memoir. “They will serve as an example of true Democracy, and be living proof that if people are left in peace, nature takes care of the rest.”
But Josephine and Jo did not adopt a tidy quartet of kids. They started a kid collection. In the same way some people get one tattoo, and then cannot help getting 10 or 12 more, Josephine started picking up kids there and then—pretty much whenever the spirit moved her.
The Baker-Bouillons’ first four children were a pair of half-American, half-Asian babies adopted from a Japanese orphanage (their fathers were most likely GIs); a “white” Finnish toddler from Helsinki; and a “black” infant of indeterminate race. Four children that, alas, represented only three of the required colors. Josephine was a stickler for seeing her fantasy to completion, and she refused to call her family whole until she was able to adopt a “red” baby: an American Indian.
It escaped her (if she ever knew) that the skin color of Native Americans is actually a shade of brown. In any case, there weren’t a lot (possibly any) Native American babies to be had in the orphanages of Western Europe after the war. This inability to easily fulfill her original mission inspired a new thought: Her tribe would have not only children of different races but also of different religions. Think of the possibilities!
They adopted Moïse (Jewish). They adopted Brahim (Muslim). She acquired a few more Catholics for spare parts, Jean-Claude and Marianne. I believe we’re up to eight? Bouillon, who managed the money, started to lose his sense of humor. It was the usual thing: Josephine following her heart without a thought for how it might be affecting anyone else. She refused to consider the cost of raising all these children. A time-honored ongoing marital squabble ensued, where Jo called her impulsive and irresponsible, and she called him a petty bean counter. In 1961, he left. They had been married 14 years: a relationship of duration for the impulsive, difficult Josephine.
She spent most of the rest of the decade trying to save Les Milandes—the only home her kids had ever known—but was evicted in 1968. She had to be dragged bodily from the kitchen of her château, and sat on the porch barefoot, a patchwork blanket over her knees, a lunch lady bonnet on her head. She waited for photographers to record her injustice and humiliation for posterity. Here I am, she seemed to be saying, La Baker, trying to do good for the world—and this is how the world has treated me. She seemed to lack any responsibility for her current state of affairs.
But Josephine was nothing if not a survivor. That same year, she made yet another comeback, singing and dancing at the Olympia in Paris; five years later she played a sold-out show at Carnegie Hall. Four days before she died of a cerebral hemorrhage in 1975, she opened in Joséphine à Bobino, a revue that paid tribute to her 50 years on stage. The show was sold out; Mick Jagger, Sophia Loren, and Jackie Onassis were among the opening night crowd. Josephine, at 68, was still wicked and captivating: a drama queen with a heart of gold.
*1Beyoncé would pay homage to Josephine and her banana skirt several times, first in her “Déjà Vu” track, and again in “B’day.”
*2Zou-Zou (1934) and Princesse Tam-Tam (1935), both written exclusively for Josephine, were popular in France, but largely sucked.
*3Courtesy of author Elissa Schappell, from whose Twitter profile I pilfered this descriptor. Merci bien, Elissa!
CHAPTER 7
RACHEL MADDOW
Brainy
I’M GOING TO APPROACH Rachel Maddow the way Rachel Maddow would approach Rachel Maddow: by taking my sweet time to build the story of how sh
e’s broken the rules of reporting, and continues to break them, daily. MSNBC’s biggest star anchor, Rachel, is out and proud about being the smartest person in the (cable TV news) room. She refuses to dumb anything down—and if you cannot keep up, that’s fine with her.
Almost 20 years into the new millennium, our political parties have devolved into warring factions that seem to be a spin-off of World Wrestling rather than a crucial component of a democratic government. Now it’s the Red Team versus the Blue Team, and there’s no discussion, just gamesmanship. It’s as if we’ve slid into a parallel universe where invisible points are being totted up on an invisible scoreboard—the health and well-being of the republic utterly beside the point.
It wasn’t always this way. I’m a lifelong Democrat raised by staunch Republicans. My dad was an old-school, nonreligious right-winger, tacking Libertarian. Our political debates, often unspooling during the all-important martini (or two) hour (or two) that preceded dinner, were textbook right versus left. My dad and I assumed a basic set of facts, gleaned from the news of the day. If one of us made a point that was irrefutable, the other conceded. We were united in our belief that facts were facts. Looking back, these debates seem so sweet and courtly. We were so old-fashioned!
The Blue Team’s signature strategy is ad hominem attacks;*1 the Red Team’s signature response is to label anything they disagree with as fake news. When the Blue Team proves to be true an event or accounting the Red Team spokesman has deemed “fake,” the Red Team pivots, claiming their mistake is an “alternative fact.”
This drives the Blue Team bonkers, which brings the Red Team deep and abiding joy. We Blue Teamers respect facts. We believe the world is complex, and politics and government tend to be really complex. We think there are way more than 50 shades of gray.
And this is why people adore Rachel Maddow. She is the patient, bemused explainer who puts our increasingly nutso nation in perspective. She is proudly brainy. She has no problem holding the floor, and is willing to get as detailed as necessary to explain the evermore Byzantine ins and outs of contemporary governing. She is the exact opposite of the woman who has been told (me, by my mother) not to be “a know-it-all.” I have no doubt that when it comes to politics, Rachel probably does know everything worth knowing. And she’s made it look as hip as it is necessary.
As host, since 2008, of The Rachel Maddow Show on MSNBC, Rachel is a tomboy nerd who has said of her political leanings, “I’m undoubtedly a liberal, which means that I’m in almost total agreement with the Eisenhowerera Republican party platform.” Blue Teamers dig her dark cropped hair, black hipster glasses, black blazer, boyfriend jeans, and Converse sneakers. Her stylish butch mien sets her apart from the phalanx of overdone pageant queen–style newscasters.
It will come as no surprise that Rachel’s academic credentials are impressive: In 1994, she graduated from Stanford with a degree in public policy, and in 2001 earned a doctorate in politics from Oxford, where she was the first openly gay person to be awarded a Rhodes Scholarship. Some on the Red Team disregard all this extreme book learning as yet another example of elitism, therefore not to be trusted. Blue Teamers, however, believe this erudition makes her extra-trustworthy. Since the arrival of Rachel on the news scene, if the behavior of my friends and me is any indication, we’ve felt freer and more emboldened to argue our points at gatherings where we might otherwise distract ourselves with the Chardonnay.
Rachel Maddow doesn’t report the news. Instead, she explains it, drawing connections that are often buried—either because they’ve been intentionally obfuscated by people in power or because they simply get lost in the increasingly complicated shuffle. She is the wonk’s wonk, telling complex narratives (critics call them “convoluted and labored”) in which she pulls in seemingly disparate facts to make a larger point that might not be obvious at first. Her show is the cable news embodiment of reading an article to the end, which no one seems to do much anymore.
For example: In early 2017 she began a broadcast with a short history of the United States’ purchase of Alaska from Russia 150 years ago, followed by an introduction to the We the People petitioning system the Obama Administration created in 2011 (in which citizens could directly petition policy experts). She then made an easy joke about the nine million legalize-pot petitions before directing us to a very odd petition that popped up in 2014: the “Alaska Back to Russia” petition, which called for returning Alaska to Russia. The petition was bizarre, and not just because it was obviously translated from another language (we’ve all received those idiotic- sounding and obviously fake spam emails). It was also bizarre because it garnered a quick 39,000 signatures. “These can’t all be from people who think this is hilarious,” Rachel commented. It took her 10 minutes to get to the meat of the story (an hour in newscast time) about the role of bots in the Russian cyberattacks to influence the 2016 election.
No matter the implications of her nightly reports, Rachel is never angry. She never appears angry, nor does she ever report that something made her angry. As far as her viewers know, she has never been angry in her life. She explains the news with amiable astonishment: Can you even believe this? It’s as if she’s sharing some titillating gossip about the neighbors.
Somewhere in the world, there must exist a culture where female rage is appreciated: where the moment a woman raises her voice, the village gathers around, believing that if a woman is freaking the hell out, it’s probably worth hearing what she has to say. That place is not American cable TV news—or anywhere in America, for that matter, except possibly spin class. Rachel has chosen to be of good cheer: the better to keep people watching. It’s a con, in a way, because her devotion to telling the stories no one else has the patience or discipline to tell usually tips her hand.
Both teams blasted Rachel for a 2016 show that featured the issues raised by Donald Trump’s refusal to disclose his tax returns. Financial reporter David Cay Johnston had received a portion of the returns through the mail, and asked Rachel whether she was interested. Was she ever.
At press time, the reasons for Trump’s secrecy regarding his returns remain mysterious. Blue Teamers have been slavering for them, convinced the documents will reveal he’s either not as wealthy as he’s claimed—or that he’s up to his eyeballs in investments from foreign banks that will prove, once and for all, his many financial conflicts of interest. Red Teamers don’t know what the big deal is.
Ah, but I’ve now finally come around to what makes Rachel Maddow truly difficult: About 90 minutes before airtime, she tweeted that she’d obtained the president’s tax returns. She didn’t say what year, or how many pages. It was an epic tease. More than four million people tuned in that night. Tucker Carlson of Fox News normally dominates that time slot; she beat him out by 1.1 million viewers.
Rachel refused to treat the returns in her possession like breaking news. She told the story as if it were any other story. She carefully laid the groundwork, lingering on the nerdy details she always seems to find so interesting. She reminded us that every president since Nixon has released his tax returns as a matter of course, and speculated about what it may say about this president that he is adamant in his refusal to do so.*2
Thanks to Twitter, the backlash erupted before the broadcast was even over. Journalists, both Blue and Red, berated her for the come-on tweet and commensurate lack of scandal (as if that’s never happened on TV news). Others said she “flubbed” the story. My Facebook feed was a microcosm of the swift and rampant disapproval. My progressive friends who didn’t call her a ratings whore said she should be shot for burying the lead. “Biggest Over-Hyped Live TV Epic Fail in History!” claimed one Red Team news site.
Actually, it wasn’t. Actually, it was just Rachel Maddow doing her signature difficult woman Rachel Maddow thing. She talked about a topic of great interest in her customary, cool style. The degree to which people were clamoring to know had no bearing on her approach. She didn
’t flub the story; she just refused to adjust her style to accommodate the desire of viewers.
My father died in July 2000—before President Bush lost the popular vote to Al Gore, but won the electoral college, and before the Red Team versus Blue Team lunacy was in full swing. I can imagine he would enjoy Rachel Maddow, appreciating her charts, graphs, and statistics, but raise an eyebrow at what to me seem obvious connections, and what to him would seem like leaps in logic.
Rachel Maddow’s audience has been growing steadily since 2016. Between March 2016 and March 2017 her ratings increased 107 percent—an unheard-of surge. As of this writing, her show is handily winning its time slot. When she was an under-the-radar girl nerd who was an acquired taste, no one cared about her approach; now that she’s come up in the world, people seem to feel she owes them something. Ease, simplification, something. She’s expected to give up her individuality and get with the program, to get straight to the point when, for Rachel, it’s the journey to the point that intrigues her, the way her own mind works. For girls and women who are made to feel apologetic for being too brainy and too analytical, we have Rachel: difficult comfortable in her know-it-all skin.
*1I never really knew what ad hominem attacks were until the 2016 presidential campaign. Essentially, it means attacking the person, not the position, on an issue.
*2Before the show, the White House confirmed that the two pages of Trump’s 2005 returns were authentic, but the president then tweeted that it was fake news.
CHAPTER 8
COCO CHANEL
Imperious
ONE CHILLY DAY in 1910 or thereabouts, Coco Chanel borrowed a pullover belonging to her lover, Arthur “Boy” Capel. She was perhaps 27 years old: tiny and dark-eyed, easily mistaken for a 12-year-old. Capel was a renowned British polo player, and Coco loved borrowing his clothes (something, I might add, none of her contemporaries would dream of doing). But hauling a pullover over her head had the unfortunate side effect of messing up her hair. To solve the problem, she cut the borrowed sweater straight up the middle with a pair of shears, belted it, and voilà! The cardigan was born.