Because You Never Asked

     (This essay was written in the mid 90’s. It was inspired by an auction of some of her personal possessions after her death.)

     In a previous essay it has been said, in reference to Elvis Presley, that “never has so much been made of so little” (see essay, “A Million Men”). After having digested the feeding frenzy at the auction of Jackie K-O’s personal possessions, the ex-queen of Camelot might now be more apt for such designation. Let’s face it, Elvis was a better dancer than Jackie, a better singer and maybe even a better actor, though Elvis being a better actor than anyone perhaps does not fall within the laws of physics.

     Much like our old friend Lady Di, after studied deliberation, Jackie K-O seems little more than a professional famous person. An attractive woman with a mediocre body, she became the sacrificial virgin of the bootlegging, social climbing Kennedy clan in their attempts to find the proper spouse for a future president. Perhaps the most laudable thing she ever accomplished was marrying the Quasimodo-like Greek jillionaire, the somewhat less than dashing Aristotle Onassis, thus exacting her measure of revenge for the tawdry treatment received at the hands of those over-sexed huns from Boston.

     So much for the sacred memory of her legendary first husband.

     It cannot be denied, at least from an American standpoint, that Jackie was sprung from the bluest of bloodlines, her lineage being as certifiably aristocratic as the New World establishment can come up with. Here’s a woman born with a French surname reminiscent of the gardens of Versailles, a name which shares a pedigree with a recognized breed of dog. I’m not sure how much the Bouviers had to do with the Bouvier, but for the peasant writing this essay, it’s impressive enough.

     There can be no mistake as to where Mrs. John F. Kennedy came from. One can only imagine her image amidst the bray of chestnut horses, the spray of varnished teak and the white sweaters of grass court tennis clubs. She was the debutante’s debutant, with the delicate good looks of an exquisite china tea cup.

     And yet, if we were to examine the women of her time and place, of her privilege and social class, I’m sure we’d find many with the same fine chiseled taste and erudition, with the equally refined, optimally developed good looks her noble stirp is so good at bringing out. As an individual, there is nothing very notable about Jackie K-O. She was so inept in any spontaneous or live situation --- it was painful to listen to her speak --- that we rarely experienced her in any genuine way. Jackie was magazine covers, strings of forbidden photos, or fleeting glimpses as she was whisked away. She has always been something we imagined, something we wanted her to be.

     We created a myth.

     Her real mystique is born from the fascination we grunts have with her origins, with her charter membership in a small group that is strangely beyond our grasp, that we can never experience, even if we somehow manage to accumulate some “nouveau” wealth.

     The former Miss Bouvier came along at the precise moment to be what she became. The Truman-Eisenhower years had given us the Garden Club variety First Lady, with all the glamour of biscuits and gravy. Even their names --- Maggie and Mamie --- reflect their homily nature. In much the same way a Cub fan is ready for a pennant, America was ready for Jackie, and, as witnessed by recent events, they’ve never gotten over it.

     My primary purpose in writing this essay is less Jackie K-O and more the auction itself, where something as mundane as a used set of out of date golf clubs went for almost one million dollars. The media has had a field day with this Neronian decadence, and not one word of negativity has been uttered anywhere.

     Someone’s gotta do it.

     Perhaps the most universally fundamental issue in any organized society is the development of resources and how they are distributed. In the modern world, this means money: when do too few have too much; when do too many have too little; what kind of work gets what kind of compensation; how much should be kept when somebody else has earned it; who gets taxed and who jumps through the loopholes; who gets screwed and who gets the whipped cream? These questions have been at the core of just about every social upheaval in history, and it is certainly not within the constricted parameters of this essay to resolve these timeless bones of contention (I‘ll need some more time for that). Suffice it to say that rich people buying nice things is not inherently unjust in a reasonably just society.

     With regard to this auction, however, there is something vaguely off color, like a fart in a crowded room that everyone is trying to ignore. When people spend six and seven figure prices for forgotten bric-a-brac, trinkets and souvenirs, we have entered the realm of poor taste. It is an insult to working people who drag their asses out of bed every day and go to work. It is an insult to the kids who don’t have proper text books in run down, neglected schools. It is a symbol of irresponsibility in a society with too many social problems and a supposed lack of resources to deal with them. It is a frivolous attitude reminiscent of the “let them eat cake” world of Marie Antoinette. The next time the rich guys clamor for more tax breaks, the rallying cry should be:

     “remember the million dollar golf clubs!”

     If Jackie K-O Bouvier were alive today and the possessions of some mythical  deceased person were the subject of just such an auction, I’m sure she wouldn’t have the least bit of interest. She had way too much class for that.