When I moved to Houston after college, my grandma, a true Yellow Dog Democrat, told me “You’ve got some cousins in Houston. They’re Republicans, but they’re still kin.”
Grandma was big on family and dragging me to meet relatives
I had little interest in and nothing in common with. I didn’t pursue an
introduction to these Republican cousins.
A few years rolled by and Grandmother passed at the ripe old
age of 90. We drove to Missouri in a snowstorm to bury her ashes next to her
husband in Mexico Missouri. My oldest child was a new baby, wrapped in blankets
and understanding nothing except the discomfort of a long car trip. We left her
in the car as we hurriedly placed Grandma’s urn in the tiny prepared grave and dropped
red rose petals over the black ceramic. George read a Bible passage quickly, we
murmured “amen” and then hustled back into the warm car for the long drive back
to Houston
Some weeks later my mom called to tell me she’d gotten an
invitation to a birthday party for Grandmother’s cousin, Margaret Hotze, in the
mail, and did I want to go crash the party with her? These Republican cousins
were rich, after all, and might throw a good bash. Amused, I said sure why not.
So Mom and George drove down to Houston. I put on a LBD that
I bought from Target for $15, a pair of rhinestone earrings, and some strappy high
heels. That’s as posh as I get. Dan stayed home with the baby. And off we went
to the Houston Club. Mom showed her invitation at the door and we sauntered in.
There were crowds of people holding champagne glasses, talking in groups. They looked dour and expensive. There were a fair number of Catholic priests or bishops or whatnot, all in the collars and embroidered frocks or whatever they’re called. They looked dour too. One I remember as clearly as yesterday because he looked exactly like Frollo in Disney’s Hunchback of Notre Dame. No lie. I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise.
“This is creepy,” I told Mom bluntly.
“We’re definitely in enemy territory here,” she said blithely.
“Let’s get some champagne.”
The long serving table was loaded with champagne flutes,
silver bowls of caviar, and piles of assorted hors d'oeuvres. We drank and
grazed a bit to the tunes of a 12-piece band. I watched the matrons and dowagers
of Houston society sparkle and strut in their Neiman Marcus finery and decided
that my $15 dress, with me in it, was definitely a cut above them all.
“That’s Margaret over there,” Mom said. “Put down your plate
and let’s go introduce ourselves.”
“If we must,” I sighed. But I hung on to my wine glass.
Margaret stood to one side of the room, with her carefully
styled gray hair and glittering evening gown, looking like any other 70-year-old
rich white woman trying to impress. Next to her stood her son Steven in his tux, jowly and
non-descript. They looked us over, saw nothing to impress them, shook hands
with barely concealed disinterest, and that was that.
Meanwhile George was chafing to hit the dance floor. I know
fuck all about ballroom dancing, but he led me through the steps well enough that
it was a pretty good fake. The band, happy to see someone actually dancing,
stepped it up a notch, and soon we were twirling and laughing like hyenas.
After eating, drinking, and dancing, there didn’t seem much
point to sticking around. It’s not like there were any interesting
conversations happening, no spicy game of Cards Against Humanity going on in
the corner, nobody starting a Conga line, and my feet hurt. So we slid out into
the thick Houston night air and headed back to the car.
That was the first and last time I ever saw any of my
Republican cousins, although they just can’t seem to stay out of the news.
Margaret ran for office and lost. She’s long since passed away. Her son Steven,
medical quack and hate-monger, gets described in the media as a “mega donor”
but he might soon be described as a “felon” and about time, too.
For fun, I used to donate every year to the Southern Poverty
Law Center in Steven’s name, using his medical clinic’s address for the SPLC to
send their newsletters to. Maybe he saw them and wondered who the hell sent
them and why. I’m sure he doesn’t remember the long-legged woman in the cheap
black dress who crashed his little Nuremberg Rally at the Houston Club. But
then again, I’m not the one who’s been charged with assault.
My baby is 27 now, but I still have the LBD and it still
looks great on me. Just saying.
