I was talking to someone tonight, and she wrote me that she’d laughed at my “Oh honey. You betcha,” telling me my roots were showing–that nobody native to the West Coast talks like that.
Oh honey. You betcha I’m from Maryland.
I mentioned to her the story of a few years back of some uptight Yankee twit who’d charged the sweet old black lady in the U.S. Senate’s lunchroom with sexual harassment: she was always saying, Thank you, honey, or, See you later, sugar. He thought she was coming on to him.
As if.
What I didn’t mention was the reason that news story had stuck in my craw so, aside from the obvious cultural disconnect and self-centeredness of the man. It was a little more personal than that.
And so after puttering around with the strawberries in the kitchen for awhile, I thought I’d come back to the computer and explain exactly why that was so. I want the grandkids, whom I grew up with, of the man I’m about to write about, and then their future grandkids to know what he did. I imagine it’s a story they haven’t heard.
My grandmother was the wife of a US Senator who served for 24 years. When she arrived in DC, as she later wrote in her autobiography, “Here we were told in no uncertain terms what was required of all wives of new members of Congress. Calling requirements had been modified, it was true; but we were expected, once a year, to leave cards at the White House, and at the homes of the Vice President, The Speaker of the House, members of the Cabinet and Supreme Court, the chairmen of our husband’s committees, and all members of our state delegations whose husbands outranked our husbands. Still quite a list!” as compared to the days when new House wives had to visit every ranking House member’s home. There were still strict requirements as to how many cards to leave vs. how many women were in the household, how and under what circumstances to carefully fold the edge of the card down properly… Arriving by horse and buggy was no longer required, at least, but it was a near thing.
Living in a place where segregation was the law of the land and casually expected was a shock to my western-born grandmother.
As Grampa grew in seniority and rank over the years (and defied ranking members of his party and voted for the Civil Rights Voting Act–hard to believe now how fiercely he was blasted for it, but he was very proud of that vote), Gram eventually became president of the Congressional Wives Club.
And then came the day this story is about. There was a big to-do held in the Senate lunchroom honoring various people, and when it was over, Gram (protocol, shmotocol) went back into the kitchen to thank the chef for pulling out all the stops. The food, the presentation–everything had been just exquisite.
While they were chatting, somehow Gram happened to mention that J. Willard Marriott had been there. The founder of the chain that bears his last name.
The chef was upset. “Why didn’t anybody tell me J. Willard was here!?” she exclaimed indignantly. “These congressmen. They all think they’re such hotshots. J. Willard! If only I’d known! I would REALLY have put on a show!”
Then she proceeded to tell my grandmother that as a young woman she’d been suddenly deserted by her husband, left with a small child and no income and no skills and basically thrown out on the street. (How literally, I’m not sure.) J. Willard Marriott had randomly encountered her one day and hadn’t cared what color or accent she came with; moved by her plight, he offered her both a job and the training for it.  He had personally taken great care of her, just a random woman out there on a random day, and had helped her back on her feet and had gotten her established in her new career–and look where she was now!
“Oh, Mrs. Bennett, if only I’d known!”
And if only he’d known it was her, he would have been back there too, throwing his arms around her and rejoicing in her hard work and success.