Imitation of White

"What about white socks or a white shirt?" My inquisitor,not from the United States much less the South, exhibited his confusion about not wearing white pants or white shoes after Labor Day, a notion simply known as The Labor Day Rule. The bewilderment on his face surely was akin to the those men and women of the Supreme Court who had to decipher the complexities of scheme liability, voter identification or, as in 2003, the true copyright of Victoria's "little" Secret.

"No, " I began. "It is just white pants, white shoes and linen clothes." Evidently, his silence questioned this sartorial discrimination. I continued, "Really, you can wear a white shirt anytime. It's great with a sweater or jacket year round." With his look, I knew instantly this was the same confusion indicting poachers of their ease and ability to club a baby seal. "Oh, and you can't wear sandals." I had made the kill.

The swan song of white linen flowed through the backyard on Sunday as my family soaked up the tepid mountain air unmoved by wind or sun. Estelle's strategically placed glass trifles charged with local apples and mums adorned tables already prosperous with crowder peas, barbecued chicken and my grandmother's potato salad. "Laaaaawwd have mercy, look at these tables," declared June. This commentary was for the place settings and not the food. The vacuum of Estelle's desire to stand over a stove is over filled with her ability to set a table. She is the only woman I know who utilizes the multiple of eight exponentially when purchasing silver, china and water glasses. "You never know when you will need these" was her almost apocalyptic acquittal the day she purchased forty-eight ramekins.

That evening found Estelle and her sister in the den lounging on opposite couches and clad in floral pajama sets with Estelle's reading basket open. The wicker chest resembling a casket-sized picnic basket contains back issues of my mom's current magazine subscriptions: Ebony, Essence and Jet. Seeing my mom read a magazine with Michelle Obama, Queen Latifah or Spike Lee on the cover has become common place in the past several years. Estelle will tell you that her favorite Christmas Eve was when the traditional pageantry and communion was put aside for popcorn and a viewing of Ice Cube's Friday After Next. Last month, while away presenting at a conference, I received a phone call from Estelle that initiated with "Did you see the BET awards last night?"

This should surprise no one. Since being very young, I can recall Estelle's aural diet of Roberta Flack and the Commodores was acoustically and racially different from the Southern Gospel Quartets preferred by my grandparents. Estelle lived through integration and shunned the norms of xenophobia for her newly found friend, Joanne. Estelle still recalls funny stories of two girls enjoying careless rides in my grandfather's Cadillac while secretly quaffing the unmentionable sin: Cigarettes. To my grandmother Joanne became known solely as the reason my mother forfeited cotillion classes. "Why would I go if they wouldn't let Joanne in?" She still protests. If Estelle's racial awareness was birthed in music and schooling, it matured several years ago when she sold one of her estate lots to Mrs. Miriam Jackson and her husband, The Right Reverend Collins Jackson.

"I just sold some of the land to the nicest lady," Estelle recounted. Miriam and her husband had relocated from Beaufort where Reverend Jackson had been a long-standing Methodist minister. Like most everyone, they moved to Hendersonville to retire. Selling the land to the Jacksons signaled Estelle acknowledging good home training, no drunkardness and the ability to pay the rather outrageous land value. In a single signing, Estelle integrated the neighborhood.

Estelle and Miriam had much in common: only sons, a love of reading, husbands who were overly involved with video games and the Lord's work, and an unequivocal endurance for shopping. Estelle and Miriam were fast and true friends enjoying each other's wit and wisdom. During a meeting of the Women's Missionary Union, one of Estelle's peers commented on her new relationship with the wife of the old Methodist minister. "Really I think it is wonderful and I, myself, I don't see color." Estelle looked the woman up and down slowly before exhaling a slow , "So I have noticed."

Soon, Estelle and Miriam began delighting in mornings at the country club pool and casual dinners of poorly cooked salmon at the club's pro shop. With Miriam as her companion, Estelle would invoke her guest privileges as much as possible without overstepping the twice-a-week boundaries. In order for Miriam to have open accessibility to pool side chatter and Thursday night's Prime Rib dinners, Estelle sponsored the Jacksons for membership to "the club."

It was with horror that Estelle received the news that her sponsorship of Miriam had been denied. "Well, those jackasses!" This is one of the very few obscenities Estelle will let slip out when she loses her temper and I had seen her this livid on only few occasions. I knew this action would not be without recoil.

Once, on a visit home from that "allegedly elite university," Estelle and I were visiting my good friend Susan and her mother on the porch of their bed and breakfast, the Hendersonville Inn. During our porch talk, a teen stopped at the light yelled a racial epithet towards an elderly woman crossing Third Avenue. Susan's mother lowered her head as Susan and I were stunned and immobile. "Well that jackass" boomed from Estelle's voice as she made a straight shot for the stopped car.

"Oh dear Jesus, go get the phone and call the sheriff," Susan's mother shuddered. We knew this call was for the safety and well-being of that teen boy. Too late. Estelle had the over six foot teen out of his car with her finger vigorously shaking in his face. The whole street was stopped with other cars frightened to honk their horns at the petite woman in St. John Knits yelling "that is about the most shhtupid and ig_no_rant thing I have seen in my life." The tirade continued "What kind of home training do you have yelling that nonsense on the city street? It is just not appropriate" her voice echoing from the library to the court house. The teen's blushed face was lowered briefly before her, "Now look at me when I am talking to you. Now I suggest you get back in that car, get yourself a job and think about a thing or two before you go yelling craziness out and about of your car window again. Do you understand me?" The sullen boy cautiously returned to his car and proceeded through the light with his window rolled up.

The individuals rejecting the Jacksons' application for membership could not be solely chided on the downtown streets for their ignorance. Although I am sure Estelle entertained that idea, her solution adhered to my grandfather's almost unintelligible old saw, "i' ya cain be' um, jine um (if you can't beat them, join them)." Estelle, through ample charm peppered with Machiavellian endeavors, became the newest member of her country club's committee for new membership.

Of all the committee members, Estelle is the one whose interpretation of "an association of mutually compatible people" varied from the historical norm. While this made the Jacksons' efforts for membership impossible, it fired Estelle's desire for integration. "Miriam, really, who needs those jackasses?" Estelle has expanded her protest as she now only uses her club membership with Miriam as guest-in-tow. The other day as I was off to work out at the exercise room, she suggested, "Hey, why don't you take Joe or Vladimir with you?" Most people take an iPod to the workout room, Estelle takes a middle aged African-American nursing student or Ukrainian refugee.

Perplexed by her presence and unable to unearth her, the committee still includes Estelle. She is gracious in her protest of "qualified" applicants. "Is someone who made their money through questionable businesses involving night time entertainment in New Jersey really upholding the ideals of this club? Well, it just seems a little trashy." Her latest round of nominations included the African-American police chief, the former Jewish mayor and the gay wine merchant. Although neither a prohibitionist nor a wine aficionado, she respects a level-headed business plan, the proclivity to say "thank you" and the accoutrements of Brooks Brothers casual attire.

Last night, Miriam walked over to the house as she usually does for a glass of tea. In the living room you could hear the mutually compatible laughing and discussing the events of Labor Day. "Narlena does look good but her mind is going . . well, she is ninety-six and still drives," Estelle sighed. "Oh you looked so elegant in those white pants. I loved those." Miriam's sentences are more like songs in tones and inflection. Estelle just graciously smiled, acknowledging her friend over her glass of tea. Miriam continued, "White pants are my thing, girl. I like khakis but I wish I could wear my whites all year round." The women finished their tea and laughter with Estelle walking hand-in-hand with her friend to the front door before she promised, "I'll call you tomorrow, hon." She then went to her bedroom and gathered the folded white pants and white sandals for a resting place awaiting an Easter Resurrection, a time when saints and white pants arise.

Late Monday evening the chime on my phone indicated a new text message from my friend still confused about The Labor Day Rule. It simply read "What about white socks?" Being the only kid in ninth-grade gym class who wore argyle socks with his gym uniform was a source of much ridicule. Estelle's disdain for white socks is still summed up with "That is just not appropriate." After a few moments of finger fumbling, my reply was short: "White socks are o.k." Some rules are meant to be broken.