I’m going to get into trouble for this essay.
The morning began with my son treating me to breakfast at the Four Seasons Hotel in Palo Alto. The greeter was exquisite in her attention to us. Perhaps, the capstone was her recognition of the pink and green medallion worn by my Mom-in-Law. “Oh, you are AKA (Alpha Kappa Alpha)!” Of course, the way to flatter Our Kind of People first thing in the morning. And we were off to the races.
The setting for the restaurant was a work of art from the stylishly bent heaters to the the Aladdin’s Lamp motif. Every server was attentive and genuine and in full service mode. The sky was a clear blue and we were all in a great mood. I ordered the eggs benedict which my son foresaw. If you are ever in Palo Alto for breakfast, I suggest Quattro for a transcendent experience. And if you are AKA, wear your colors girl!
As we left our experience, I noticed a line of fancy cars in the entry way — black suburbans adorned with the Mercedes emblem. Ah, Palo Alto. Nothing less would I expect. My Mom-in-Law struck up a conversation about the role of mothers and grandmothers, that the kids may not listen to advice but they will hear the words. And you never know how hearing wisdom at 21 may manifest at the age of 41. The more and more I think deeply about these things, the more I understand it is in the natural order for things I knew in my little southern town in the 1970s to fade into the mist of yesterday. Even things Mom-in-Law knew in the Big City are fading from view as well. Nonetheless, we of a certain generation will always remember.
Our son drove us to the Hoover Tower for spectacular views, simply amazing panoramic views as if Von Gogh himself had decided to paint God’s green earth on canvass. I was enthralled as I love views. Alas, we had a tight schedule and it was on to Alpine Inn for a late lunch. All I Ever Do Is Leave by Luke Combs played on the radio.
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“Just to let you know, the pronoun is THEY.”
We were meeting a distant cousin for lunch at Alpine Inn. A little back story is in order. This essay will get me into trouble. Writers always have to face the anxiety of writing about recognizable family members. I write about “Hippie Girl” out of love and affection and intrigue. I think of Hippie Girl fondly. Why do I use the label “Hippie Girl?”
The daughter of a black cousin and a white woman, Hippie Girl grew up in comfortable circumstances. She became more and more leftist over time. She moved to Berkeley, California and found her people. And good for her (I know, I know, a microaggression). Affirmed by her people, Hippie Girl moved further and further to the left, changing her name in the process to a New Age spiritual name. I respect the individual, so good on Hippie Girl.
She continued her leftward move and became distant from family members. Alienation is a downside of being a non-conformer. The slide from liberal to far leftist carries consequences.
Today, Hippie Girl has a young Kid who I was going to meet for the very first time. “Remember, Hippie Girl will correct you if misgender the Kid. The Kid’s pronoun is THEY.” I don’t know about you all but this precondition felt constraining. I like little cousins in a genuine way. Now, I was in a mindset where I was hyper concerned about my words around the Kid. I decided I would use the Kid’s name or just say The Kid to avoid trouble. Like a good sheep, I wanted to go along to get alone. I would abdicate my conscience and human dignity during lunch.
The Kid is four years old. Does the Kid care about pronouns?
As we approached the Alpine Inn, I was losing the warm glow from breakfast at the Four Seasons.
The sunny vibe was dying. The wait for lunch was an hour. I had never seen so many people waiting for lunch. It was hot and there was no parking. Nerves were frayed. I had never seen a place so busy. Were these my kind of people? The jury was out on this call.
Most of the estimable people I saw wore obligatory sunglasses. It is a California thing. Being cool is a state of being. I noticed that the Age of the Internet began at one of the picnic tables out back on August 27, 1976 when “scientists from SRI International celebrated the successful completion of tests by sending an electronic message from a computer set up at a picnic table behind the Alpine Inn.”
I was going to dine at the center of the Universe. But if this was the center of the Universe, God help us all.
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Unable to find parking at the restaurant, we returned to the main road. Every available space along the road leading to Alpine Inn was taken with cars parked alongside the road. In a desperate attempt to cut down on our distance from the restaurant, we circled back and elicited snarky remarks from motorists who had to wait all of 30 seconds for us to turn around. A passing cyclist disgruntled that we blocked the biking lane for all of 15 seconds shamed us: Not cool, man! Not cool, man!
For you see as in all things, the ultimate insult is to not be cool.
Shudder me timbers!
We returned to the restaurant parking lot, appropriated my wife’s handicapped parking sticker and seized upon a high value vacant parking space for the handicapped in a car of four.
Phew! Maybe now that we were parked, I would feel a better vibe.
Nope.
Within moments of observing the scene of well-off folks, I overheard two women behind in a state of shock. One woman said to the other — “And she said you might want to be a bitch and back up traffic. Ain’t that terrible?” This place was in serious need of Zen.
As I soaked in the surrounding vibe on this hot day, a guy smoking a cigar in a black Mercedes drove by. Too cool for school my man.
Hippie Girl showed up in true form. A styling straw hat, a shaved head, no flowers in her hair but flowers on her sundress, extra long ear rings, a sweet THEY in tow. The Kid was the sweetest, cutest thing. And I held my breath fearful of misgendering the Kid. Sigh. The Kid knows no other existence at the age of four. Long black curls, a Hispanic look, a love for chocolate ice cream.
Hippie Girl caught up with family across the grand canyon of ideology. I played with the Kid. We made paper airplanes together from paper napkins and the Kid squealed in delight. I never said the Kid’s name lest I risk wrath of Hippie Girl. Once upon a time when I was young, I romanticized the counterculture of San Francisco in the 1960s. Haight-Ashbury now means cousins no longer speak the same language.
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As I avoided pronoun transgressions over lunch, Hippie Girl and I exchanged glances. We do speak the same language of family history. I looked for an opportunity to ask about Hippie Girl’s recent trip to Charleston, South Carolina in search of her roots.
Another family member droned on about the Alphas and the AKAs. “My father was an Alpha. Everyone was an Alpha and an AKA. Nowadays, there is no community and no one knows anyone. Community must support the kids and the adults through scholarships.” The conversation swerved to the Hamptons. I knew this was touchy ground. Hippie Girl has a very close relative who lives in the Hamptons. It is an open question whether the Hamptons relation is passing for white. “Things have changed. The Hamptons are too trendy nowadays. You can’t find a strong black community there anymore.”
I was a little surprised at how close to the nub of things this conversation was drifting for Hippie Girl.
And then we locked eyes. Hippie Girl asked me a question about family history. I asked Hippie Girl about her recent trip down South. Hippie Girl enjoyed her time at the Avery Institute. Hippie Girl shared the profound feelings she felt about her ancestors. The Avery staff informed Hippie Girl that her family had the longest documented history (dating back to 1790) of any black family in the U.S. She felt a sense of gratitude, that she had taken for granted generations of accomplished ancestors and that most black Americans do not have those long memories in this country.
I have been saying this to my family for years but it takes a third party saying the same thing for the impression to stick. Despite the name change and the flowers on her dress and THEY tossing paper airplanes around the birthplace of the internet, the meaning of a unique family heritage resonated with Hippie Girl. Her sense of self in the universe had shifted ever so imperceptibly.
Conclusion: Last night, the commencement ceremony began for my son. So many people remarked upon his character and virtue, his outgoing personality and flair for friendship. It was a good day all in all. Although Hippie Girl could not make it, we all concluded the evening with a wonderful dinner and fine dancing on the restaurant floor. We Twymans were in the House and Palo Alto was ours for a day.
I Wish I Were Born Black!” — overheard in the Stanford Business School courtyard, Asian graduate and Indian graduate conversing as they passed by me
Resistance is good in this case and you chose to adapt so you could talk to your relative and her child. The door may be open a crack. I don't know how this insane and destructive ideology has captured so many people, but I will go down fighting to wipe it from existence. I have to chuckle at the impatient drivers. We live on a private, unimproved "road." It's mostly an eroded, 12ft wide sand trail, but the actual deeded road is 60ft wide. A few property owners got together and now have control of the first 3/4 mile of the trail. This was necessary as there has been 40+ years of bickering while the road eroded. We are paying a professional road crew to clear the surveyed area, backfill, put down a topping and build water runoff. Many support the work but then there's the unhappy people who scream and rev their engines as they have to wait 15 seconds for the excavator to get out of the way. Keep in mind cars and trucks often get stuck and it takes much longer to get them moved. I love your very obvious pride in your son. Happy Father's Day (a day late) Winkfield!
I’m glad you had a nice Father’s Day, and congratulations on your wonderful son!!
We never had quite the same situation, but you reminded me of my brother and his wife when they had their first and only child. We had so many great years of family gatherings, and just like that, things changed, and not in a good way.
My brother, in particular, was obsessed with this child. My husband used to joke about “the baby Jesus,” although it wasn’t funny because it felt too much that way. Their son was honestly very cute, but as he matured, he wasn’t a particularly nice kid. Everything was about him!
I remember when they had him tested, and it turned out he had a very high IQ. At least that’s what they told us. My sister-in-law was bragging about it while they were visiting our home one time, saying pretty much that. Our small black mixed breed dog happened to be lying nearby, so I said, “Molly does, too!” Molly didn’t move, but her eyes looked up at us, and her tail wagged. Even my sister-in-law had to laugh.
The sad part is (and sorry if I’m repeating myself) this young man is now 35, living with his parents, drinking a lot of beer, and smoking pot. He has a job, working on his PC from home, which means he basically hangs out in his bedroom except for meals, and when he needs to go out for more beer.
So, having a high IQ really doesn’t mean much if you aren’t putting it to use. I hope Hippie Girl does a better job with THEY than my brother and his wife did with HIM!