Still Not Good Enough To Look the Auchinclosses in the Eye
Earlier today, I was invited to a luncheon reception at DC's Metropolitan Club honoring the 2005 recipients of the National Humanities Medal and the National Medal of Arts. Humanities medalists included the great Judith "Miss Manners" Martin, philanthropist Richard Gilder, and Alan Charles Kors (who over the years has penned memorable pieces for Reason). Medal of Arts winners included jazz great Wynton Marsalis, dancer Tina Ramirez, and one of the world's most underrated songwriters, Dolly Parton.
But despite all the incalculable intellectual and star power of those folks, I was there primarily to see Louis S. Auchincloss, the well-regarded novelist who also happens to be the last remaining specimen of the WASP. I have a tenuous yet meaningful personal relationship to him and his clan: My father's mother, you see, worked as a cook and a servant for the Auchincloss family during the Great Depression (well, I'm sure it was great for them--my grandmother and her kids had it kind of rough). Doesn't it say something great about America that the relationship between master and servant had evolved enough so that we could be in the same room some 70 years later, and me being able to eat the shrimp rather than serve it?
Alas, I never got a chance to see, much less meet, Auchincloss. It turns out that the Metropolitan Club rigidly enforces a dress code for men and my ensemble did not conform to their strict-constructionist definition of "business attire." Which is to say that my stylish (to my mind), yet scandalously open-necked, shirt and leather jacket combo offended more than the many ill-fitting jackets, ties, and pants in the room. In my defense, I certainly did not mean to offend, subvert, or transgress (and, with the exception of the car-washing outfit I wore recently on C-SPAN, I am even occasionally complimented on my clothes). In its defense, the club of course has the right to set and enforce any policy they want, though I'd be curious to know what "codes" other than dress codes they enforced until recently. And they did offer me use of a loaner jacket and tie, but by that point my mood had soured, so I declined (politely) and I was hustled out the door before any of the honorees were degraded by the sight of my fashion faux pas. The front door--not the servant's--so I guess America is delivering at least partly on its promise of mobility.
I only wish now we had thought to present this Solomonic sartorial standoff to Miss Manners for her to solve. And as for the Auchinclosses, I'm sure our descendants will meet up in another 70 years or so and wonder what took the reunion so long.
