TRADITION
BY HANNAH BROPHY
Why is it whenever I hear the word, tradition I want to raise my arms and snap my fingers as though I live my life in a musical reproduction of Fiddler on the Roof "Tradition!"
I grew up in a small Texas boom-or-bust town which was known for two things - oil and an Air Force Base. I am not a gambler which I attribute to being from a town where we learned that the price of oil dictated our economy. We also learned what goes up, always comes down.
My mother was a nester. Once she's established a home, she's never wanted to move again. But this behavior on her part dictated our summer vacations for twenty years. To her way of thinking, a vacation was the time to see family. Both sets of grandparents lived in Nebraska. Every summer and most Christmases we drove from North Central Texas through such fly-over states as Oklahoma, Kansas and into the wilds of Nebraska.
Occasionally on television you will see a night scene of the United States from space. The East Coast is lit up from New York to Washington DC. Chicago and Denver occupy the middle of the country before you see the lights of the West Coast. There are no lights on in Oklahoma, Kansas or Nebraska which pretty much tells the story of our family vacations. These were dark times.
Eventually, my family traveled somewhat. I cannot remember a single place we stopped for more than half a day that my mother didn't say, "we should have an apartment here."
Nester.
My response was equally as repetitious. "Why? We've been here. Next time, let's go someplace else."
My hometown was also a participant in Jim Crow laws which affected all people of color, but blacks were more discriminated against than Mexicans. Blacks lived on the East Side of town. With separate-but-equal being the motto of the day, they had their own high school.
Times were slow to change in a town with a deep suspicion of East and West Coast liberals in particular, and Yankees, in general.
Rioting in Watts occurred in 1965, the summer of love took place San Francisco, in 1967 and Vietnam War protests were in full swing by 1968, the year I graduated high school. America was in the throes of change. But Wichita Falls had rubbed lamb's blood on their city limits' sign, because anything new and exciting passed us by without a whisper in the dark.
Our proudest achievements were our high school football teams and our debutants - the traditional ceremony where fathers announced their daughters were now available for marriage.
There were two groups of debs. One was composed of black women in their senior year of high school who had a Cotillion Ball which received a lot of newspaper coverage which was the only reason I knew about it. The girls dressed in white anti-bellum dresses and the boys were in tuxes.
The second group was white girls also about to graduate high school. Since I was a member of this group, I can assure you that not every girl qualified for the purity of white and there was a scandalous whisper that a couple were said to be pregnant. Which is pretty much where I'm sure the phrase 'clutching one's pearls' was derived.
In 1968, my eyes were turned toward college and the future. I thought the entire concept of being a debutant was stupid, but dutifully I went along with the flouncy dresses and bouquets of flowers because that was what there was to do.
I was not an independent thinker at that point in my life. Rebellion for me and my friends qualified as driving on back country roads, drinking beer and peeing by the side of the road without a bathroom. Thank goodness, Fidel Castro had already taken over Cuba and wasn't waiting for my help as a revolutionary.
I left town as soon as I was able and spent several years away. Eventually about ten years later I returned home and stayed for several years. Somewhere in that time period I was invited to attend the Debutant Ball as a spectator rather than a participant. I was not expecting time to have changed my mind about the event, but I was wrong.
The girl comes out on stage and curtseys to her father, who then leads her down a short flight of stairs and along a long run way. Ten years after I'd made that walk, I noted that the debs looked either as scared or bored as I remembered, but the fathers beamed. It occurred to me that once girls reach puberty they have few events that involved their father in a meaning way. The only other time such an event happens is the walk down the aisle when the father 'gives his daughter away'.
Being a debutant was an event for the fathers, not the girls. And maybe it dates back to when daughters were chattel to be bartered for land or farm animals, but it was the only event my father and I participated together during those years.
I hope it was as memorable for him as it had been for the other fathers I viewed. Men of his generation were taught not to express their feelings so it was never discussed between us. And he is long dead now, so I will never know.
Life is made up of moments, held together by traditions, rituals and memories which few of us recognize their importance until long after the time has passed. | HB
This is a great essay. Interesting insights and engaging turns of phrase.