“I still can’t shake those darn SAT vocabulary flash cards,” I said, piling a mountain of scrambled eggs over my jellied toast. It wasn’t a real complaint though. Those cards helped me beat my target score by 5 points. Call me Rumi and Sir, because the Ivys were calling my name. “And because I love and respect you, I won’t even lie and say I forgot to give you the invitation.”
“I suppose that means I haven’t failed totally as a parent, then,” he said wryly as he looked up from his New York Times. I bought him an online subscription for his birthday last year, but he still liked to do the crossword puzzles on a hard copy. He let slip once that sharing the newspaper used to be his and my mom’s Sunday ritual. I could imagine Dad idling in the Health section for a couple of minutes before shuffling through for the wedding announcements, and Mom examining the front page with a magnifying glass to confirm her sources hadn’t withheld even the tiniest of scoops.
Now she was too busy making news on the Sunday morning show she hosted to worry about which politician might or might not have been playing coy during the week. If she (or “the American people!”) wanted to get to the bottom of something, she’d just ask said public servant about it on live TV.
“...a deep dive into the secretive health care bill that will leave millions of Americans uncovered and scrambling for a way to pay...”
Mom might have been a thousand miles away from Miami, but her voice was right there with us each weekend, emanating from the family room television to where we ate in the kitchen. Dad rarely watched Sunday Politicos with me unless Mom had a majorly super fancy interview subject (think POTUS), but after I grabbed my plate and hopped onto the couch, he usually pretended not to listen from the table. It was our own special ritual.
This morning though, he rounded up his puzzle and coffee mug and sat beside me in front of the flat screen. I glanced at him but stayed quiet. The guests included the usual roundtable setup plus a congressperson or two. No one majorly super fancy.
“Health care reform is an important topic,” he grunted by way of explanation. “And me watching also serves as reinforcement of what it looks like to have a healthy relationship, even post-divorce.”
“Sure it does.”
I pulled the coffee table closer to the couch and made sure that my new laptop was safely positioned (I hadn’t dropped it once yet!) so that I could skim the Tweets coming in about Sunday Politicos as I ate my breakfast. On Sundays at 11:00 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, the social media posts about religious services and dreading Mondays devolved into a cesspool of viewer comments regarding my mother’s hosting [in]abilities, her occasionally controversial guests, and her appearance. On the one hand, I loved that there was a community of women of color out there who felt true pride in seeing someone who looked like them #representing. On the other, it never stopped being creepy when some rando shared a YouTube link of a compilation of my mother’s legs in skirts “just because.” What kind of sexist maniac edits something like that together? And why did it have over 100,000 views?
THIS JUST IN:
SELECT ENTRIES COPIED FROM
#SUNDAYPOLITICOS TWEETS
United States Trends
Brian Hoffman | 1m
Not this chick again. What an idiot diversity hire #SundayPoliticos #MourningtheEndofPoliticalJournalism
Celeste’s #1 Fan Club | 2m
Celeste shut that Murphy guy down and is WORKING that press n curl #YASqueen #imlovinit #SundayPoliticos
Viola Printz | 4m
Idk. Please don’t come for me Black Twitter, but is it just me or is Celeste a little off her game today? #SundayPoliticos
The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant
Say what you want about my mother (everybody else has), but you had to give her props. She was always the first to say that being on TV was just “the means to a greater end” and that journalism was about “upholding democracy” and giving “a voice to the voiceless” and blah, blah, blah—but the camera loved her. The way she held court at her roundtable was masterful. Straight-up Arthurian. She was the conductor who wasn’t afraid to stop the train to put someone in their place and kick them off if need be.
“See, that’s exactly why Americans today don’t trust—”
“What Americans are really concerned about is making sure they have enough money to—”
“How would you know what Americans are concerned about? You’re so far removed from—”
“Oh, please. Give me a break. You own two homes in New Canaan! You’re not exactly the woman of the people you think you are. More like Marie Antoinette—”
“Now, hold on—”
If anyone interrupted beyond the admittedly higher-than-what-was-acceptable-in-real-life (but appropriate-for-cable-news) level, or started getting personal with their insults, Mom always called them out on it fast. She was even known for hounding her booking producer to stay away from the talking heads on other shows who went viral for losing their tempers in their on-screen tic-tac-toe boxes. She called it “choosing substance over spectacle.” I expected her to tell the two opposing flacks who were getting into it to cut the crap in three...two...
What was the holdup?
“Oh no...” Dad muttered.
I looked up from my laptop in time to see the countenance of the confident no-nonsense ice queen I was used to flicker into a blank stare. I turned to my dad to confirm I wasn’t seeing things, but his gaze was still transfixed on her.
“The name-calling will have to stop now...uh...” Mom said, touching her hand lightly to her forehead before dropping it quickly. I had never seen her so flustered. I gripped the arm of my seat, as if I could squeeze the words out for her.
“Delano?” Delano said.
“Of course. Forgive me. Let’s take a time-out. We’ll be right back with more Sunday Politicos.”
The rest of the show went smoothly enough, but more than a few people online mentioned the odd moment. I (obviously) responded to some from the secret Twitter account I reserve for ratchetness and told them where they could shove keep their opinions. I regret nothing.
But off the record...what I didn’t say online was how scary it was to watch her freeze like that. Mom never freezes.
Thursday, November 19
From: Alaine Beauparlant
To: Estelle Dubois
Subject: ¿Cómo Estás Tía?
Dear Tati,
Bonjour! Or should I say hola? Because I’m definitely writing this en mi clase de español. How are things in Haiti? Anything new and cool happening with PATRON PAL? I wanted to check in to find out whether you watched that Sunday Politicos link I sent you. I’m sure Mom was just having a brain fart but, even so, it kind of freaked me out. (The family curse strikes again, am I right?) Normally I would say that I was overreacting, but it really doesn’t help that everyone keeps asking me if she’s doing okay.