Our trip to Atlanta took place in the spring of ’93 to coincide with the 50th birthday of my mother. A celebration that no one would soon forget. The feminine mystique cultivated at Wellesley College was about to encounter a political firebrand forged in the hot flames of southern feminine culture. Northeast establishment Republican meet rock-ribbed southern Republican! My stepfather had a PhD in Ceramic Engineering from Rutgers University where he also received Bachelor and Masters degrees. He spent many years interacting with people from the northeastern part of the country while in school and throughout his professional career, but his deep southern roots from North Carolina with familial connections to Robert E. Lee formed his identity. My stepfather and mother picked Martha and I up at the airport. They were driving the van which had plenty of space and a cooler of beer on ice. I loved this gesture of hospitality whenever I arrived in Atlanta. Martha passed on the beer.
Despite her travels and overseas studies, Martha had lived a sheltered life. The saying ‘When in Rome do as the Romans do’ only applied to her when she felt she was elevating herself. Her whiny voice had the resonance of an east coast snob, but she wasn’t a snob even if she came across as one. My mother knew that Martha graduated from Wellesley College and the most famous alumnus of that school had just been elected President of these United States. When Martha arrived on the scene with her whiny voice, hairband, and her unintentional air of superiority it was as if that famous alumnus herself had just come to Atlanta. Like when a volcano emits steam before erupting, I could see signs of a future eruption coming from my mother. Martha also loved frogs. You could call it one of her quirks. She had frogs on everything. Her clothes, earrings, rings, sandals, purse, hairband, hairclips, and frog stickers on things that she couldn’t find that came as a frog. My roommate called her Toad. He would say, “Are you going to dinner again tonight with Toad?” I couldn’t help but laugh every time he said that. He said all you two do is eat and read. I tried to explain that I was in an intellectually curious phase of my life.
During the 1980s and 90s, one of the feminist concerns being addressed was how men didn’t have to worry so much about their appearance, especially their hair, while women had to fuss unceasingly with their appearance, especially their hair. A feminist response to this inequity embraced by the Wellesley intelligentsia was to make sure to have wet hair when the occasion called for a more polished appearance. Martha did this often. I didn’t care because I wasn’t physically attracted to her anyway. I could care a less if her hair was wet or dry, but this would not go over well during our visit to Atlanta. My stepfather made a reservation at a nice restaurant for my mother’s birthday. As everyone got ready to leave Martha came out of the bathroom with wet hair. My mom took this as an insult. She made a comment about Martha’s hair and then Martha became upset. The atmosphere became toxic. Tensions ran high during dinner. Hardly a word was spoken during the drive home.
After arriving home, my mom went straight to her room. The rest of us tried to maintain some sense of normalcy until my mother called for my stepfather to join her in the bedroom. After about 10 minutes, my stepfather came back downstairs and told me and Martha that we needed to go back to DC. Essentially, my mother could no longer tolerate the presence of Martha in her house. Martha became even more upset and started to cry. I scheduled an earlier flight and called my brother to ask him to take us to the airport. Martha and I collected our things and went and sat on the curb outside to wait for my brother. Martha was sobbing. My mom was screaming inside the house how her birthday had been ruined. Amazingly, I started to feel like I was getting an erection. Then my brother drove up saving all of us just in time!
As my brother drove us to the airport, Martha continued to sob while asking what she did to make my mother react that way. My brother seemed to understand the situation better than I did. He grew up living with my mom while I spent my early teen years living with my dad. My brother dropped us off at the airport and wished us well. Martha and I boarded the plane and found our seats. She was still quietly sobbing. After getting ourselves squared away, she said “Your mother is not invited to the wedding.” I looked straight ahead in shock while saying to myself, ‘Whoever said anything about a wedding.’ Next stop…. Gloucester, Massachusetts!
To be continued
The Accidental Apostle 