This Thanksgiving was unique for the Emmerich family. The day after Thanksgiving, I presented my daughter Ruth Olivia Emmerich at the Debutante Club of Mississippi’s main gala at the Country Club of Jackson.
I must admit, I had a surprisingly good time. In this day and age of mundane mediocrity and universal sameness, it was stimulating to see an old-style social event with all its pageantry and graces.
My healthy dose of American democratic egalitarian rebelliousness (think Andrew Jackson) makes me not the best role model for Debutante Dad. But I adjusted.
I suppose I am just by nature a contrarian. In my youth, when country club mentality dominated, I rebelled. Now that political correctness is dominating, I find old-style traditions refreshing.
I’m glad my daughter Ruth, like her mother, appreciates the cultural uniqueness of being a Southern Belle.
It’s not like I had a say in the matter. My meager and meaningless thoughts on the situation were no match for the combined will of wife Ginny and daughter Ruth. My real role was relegated to chronic whiner about the costs involved, a role to which they both gave negligible credence.
No, no . . . I take that back. When it came time to buy a ghastly expensive wedding-type dress for a one-night occasion, they were swayed by my lecture on greed and waste. Either rent it for one night or be prepared to get married in that same dress, I proclaimed.
Happily, a compromise was reached. As it turns out Ruth and Ginny are the exact same size. Ruth altered Ginny’s wedding dress and made it perfect for the event. Beth Griffith at the Fashion Post did an outstanding alteration job. The cost was reasonable and I heard several women tell Ruth it was the prettiest dress of the night. (No doubt, they say that to all the girls!)
I was upset that I couldn’t wear my usual tux, handed down to me by my father. It’s 60 years old, fits like a dream (with the waist let out) and has that understated James Bond look that I love.
But no . . . I had to be in “tails.” No doubt, the debutante event was the first and last time I will ever wear tails. Come to find out, the “costume” as I called it was far nicer and more affordable than I expected. Tuxes Too in Banner Hall did a great job measuring me and making that whole process relatively painless.
Debutante balls go back to the 15th century in Europe. Back in the day, they had a practical purpose: With limited communications, society needed a way of letting the greater community know of the eligible young women available for marriage.
Of course, with social media and instant communication, the debutante societies are more like Mardi Gras societies, more fun and social than anything else.
There is also the positive aspect of keeping old traditions alive. In Europe, every little town has a big parade and festival to pay homage to the days gone by and old ancient traditions. This is a good thing and keeps us connected with our past. Kudos to Wilkie Engle, Virginia Carlton and all the other volunteers.
Ironically, Queen Elizabeth banned the English debutante ball in 1958. It had gotten to be too corrupt and too hoity toity. Bankers and businessmen were outbidding the landed gentry. Princess Margaret is supposed to have looked around a debutante party and said, “They’re letting every tart in London in.”
Americans are much less class oriented and more laid back about all this. Debutante societies have been going strong in America since the roaring twenties. They don’t seem to be at risk of fading away.
Here in Mississippi there are several debutante societies. One in the Delta, one on the coast, another in Vicksburg. Some are white, some are black. Just like our churches, I wish we could make progress integrating these things. The color of a person’s skin should be of no more significance than the color of their eyes.
Another suggestion: Wait one more year until the young ladies are 21. There was a lot of understandable worry and paranoia about underaged drinking at the main event. Waiting until the debutantes are at legal drinking age would easily solve that.
The evening had only one real low point (pardon the pun.) As a group of fathers lined up behind their daughters, the photographer motioned for her assistant to bring me a three-inch footstool to bring me up to the height of the others.
I could have withstood this indignity, but standing next to me was six foot three inch Rick Dye, whose acerbic wit is legendary. He quickly noted that of all the people in my life, he was probably the one person I would have preferred not to be standing next to me at that moment. “Let’s bet on the over and under of how many times I tell this story over the next 20 years,” he said. My one consolation is that he has yet managed to beat me in singles tennis.
What joy to have my beautiful, perfect daughter on my arm as I presented her to society. What a joy to see my son Lawrence, dressed in tails, make a gentlemanly bow to me as I handed Ruth to him to be escorted out of the main presentation area. By the end of the night, I was wanting to be ballroom dancing to a string quartet (we got a rhythm and blues band playing Mustang Sally instead.)
The next day I saw Ruth sitting on the sofa in our living room. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought I sold you off last night to the highest bidder?”
“Sorry Dad,” she said. “They said I was too annoying and sent me back home.”
