Boyd's Girls

the poor knight's narrative

As long as I can remember, there’s been a thing called “Boyd’s Girls.” I didn’t create the name. I didn’t make the list. It exists because the world is cruel, and I’m very large. “Duck down behind me, child, and cover your ears.” I’ve spent my life absorbing missiles meant for other people. I’m not done yet.

Every so often, somebody will say, “Why do you do this? Women have been horrible to you.”

That’s not true, though. Women have been wonderful to me. Relationships are the problem. Relationships require vulnerability. It’s very difficult to be both powerful and vunerable. I made my choices. I have no regrets. There are hands strong enough to make me vunerable in an instant. I avoid touching them. They know who they are. Good morning. Thank you for reading me. It might rain today.

I create relationships as a service to wounded people, not as a quality to improve myself. I’m aware that’s a horrible idea. It’s also the only way to achieve some things. Certainly, there have been those who took advantage, but I knew that was a possibility. I’d rather live with that than live with knowing I could have helped, but didn’t.

I’m to a stage in life now where there are second-generation members of the Boyd’s Girls club. One day, there will be a third. Technically, the Little Bird is a second-generation Boyd’s Girl, but with her, there’s so much more to it. Somehow, she’s a part of me. It’s been that way since before our families left Scotland.

I’ve been told by people with no skin in the game that I shouldn’t spoil her. Screw that. She’s not my child. I’ll pour love on her like rain. I think she deserves it, and I owe it to her family.

There are boys included in Boyd’s Girls. There are even people who were girls, but are now boys. In many ways, there’s no difference, but in many ways, there are. Part of my obligation with Boys is helping them discover how to be men. I don’t know how to be a girl, although I do know an awful lot about makeup. I do know a great deal about being a man, though. We’ll have that conversation fairly often.

As a man, knowing how to love goes far beyond marital advice, blue pills, and books on how to kiss a woman. Men fight. Men die. It is our nature. Defending them is both a matter of heart and an adventure in Vi et armis. I have a sword. Fight me before you touch her. I will die for her.

Will you, friend? Will you die for her?

I messaged a student yesterday (it’s Kota) and told her how proud I am of her absorbing Paris like she owns it. There’s a cadre of Millsaps girls experiencing the world this summer. Candice is with Sam and Henry in Japan. So far, nobody has been arrested. Godzilla’s gone into hiding for his own protection.

There’s always been a collection of women everybody called “Boyd’s Girls.” Some of you have always been on it. Some of you were recently added to it. I don’t make the list, and I didn’t come up with the name.

Guard the right, protect the weak, guard the honor of women.

What I look for is a quality of mind and an artist’s heart. Artists are hurt easily. That’s why I’m so goddamn big. Women who are here to share their heart and their minds almost always make the list. Some never know they’re on the list. Some never knew a life off the list.

I’ve had two amazing stepdaughters and a niece who’s a louder version of her mom (who is already pretty loud). Little Bird isn’t my stepdaughter; she’s my clone. Where would the world be without daughters? Where would we be if women didn’t forgive us?

The world destroys even the strongest of us. Without grace, beauty, and a quality of the mind, it’s not worth doing. It’s just not. “Good morning, ladies. It might rain today. I love you both.

At Christmas, Clan Campbell assembled for dinner at Amerigo. As usual, baby sister sits at my shoulder. Looking at her golden daughter, looking so much like her, I said, “I’ve been away so long. She has no reason to trust me. No reason at all. I will earn her trust.”

“Good morning, ladies. It might rain today. I love you both.” Little Bird gets the same message. Feist-Dog says I have to.

Last night, I saw where two of the younger set of Boyd’s Girls at Millsaps celebrated their sixtieth birthday. I’m pretty much against that. They’ve been Boyd’s Girls, the beneficiaries of my arms and heart for forty-one years. That’s actually not the record. Not including my sister, the record is fifty-three years and counting. I’d give my life for her, a certainty she’s always known.

Every morning, and again every evening, I’ll text the Little Bird. Like me, she suffers from profound depression. Like me, she blames herself. Yesterday, she fell all over herself apologizing for things that were in no way her fault. We have an agreement where, even if she is at fault, she’s never to apologize to me. My love is such that she, by now, should know she’s already forgiven.

After about the fourth apology, against our agreement, last night I finally said, “ya know, you’re not too old to get a whippin’.” She quit after that. Guess she didn’t want a whippin’.

I’m actually strongly against corporal punishment for children, and she’s technically not a child, but it’s such a great phrase.

For the most part, almost all my girls married pretty remarkable guys and sometimes girls. If they weren’t remarkable, and the girl didn’t push him out on their own, I’ve always stood ready to make them vanish in the night without a trace. Homey don’t play.

One night, one of Boyd’s girls told me her psychologist said she should get divorced because she was so love-starved.

“If I break both his legs, will it help?” She thinks I was kidding.

Baby Sister followed me to Millsaps. Sometimes I say she was born with a tail. That’s made up, as far as you know. Her daddy called her “monkey.” Just sayin’.

She was so brilliant, so beautiful, so perfect. I was aware that my personality had grown as large as my body. I considered it vital that she find her own place in this world, a place she deserved based on her own remarkable qualities, and not live in my shadow, even a little bit. I was aware when she dated boys I knew. They were aware of me when they dated her. I don’t think she was ever aware of that dynamic. That was intentional. I tease her about breaking one of my friends’ hearts. I don’t think she did, but she coulda.

There were a number of times when I stayed away from things because she was in them, and I wanted her to shine very separately from me. She was always stronger and better than I was. I wanted people to see that.

My mother and I struggled to communicate. We never discussed this when Martha signed up for college. Toward the end of Martha’s second year at Millsaps, my mother told me in confidence how much she was aware of what I was doing and how much she appreciated it.

They decided that, after three tries, it was probably wrong to make us work full-time during college. I told my mother she should reconsider. Working for Daddy is how I became his friend. I wanted that for my sister. I always knew there was something remarkable about father-daughter relationships. I was never jealous of that, although it sometimes meant she got ice cream while I watched monster movies. I wanted her to have what I had, though, even though she couldn’t pee off the side of the boat like Daddy and I could.

I think if Deaton and Wingate took the Monkey fishing like they did with me, nobody would have paid attention to the fish. I suppose it’s best they didn’t. Those fish aint gonna catch themselves, ya know.

There ended up being a sort of split in my family: the two older children could communicate, and the two younger children could communicate, but there wasn’t much communication between the camps.

The girls in my sister’s class were stunning and brilliant, but there were two problems. First, although hardly anyone knew, I was already in love. More than that, though, these were her friends. I didn’t want any measure of me to come between them, and in boy/girl relationships, that sometimes happens.

There was a girl in my sister’s class who was inviting me to Chi Omega parties and baking me cakes. She stood close enough for me to kiss her. I noticed she had worn something to catch my attention. No way, though. No way at all. Shirley Olson said, “Why aren’t you dating her?” Among my professors, only she and Lance had privilege to discuss my private life.

“She’s just too young.” I was adamant.

If I showed you her picture, you’d hit me. “Stupit! Stupit! Stupit!” Yeah, maybe, but my life is not my own. Every girl in Martha’s class should shine without me. I was adamant. It doesn’t mean I didn’t watch every breath they took with a hand on the hilt, just in case the sword needed to come out. I protect this one. Will you die for her?

With Old South Ball coming up, my sister’s classmate stared me down like a jaguar, “Why haven’t you asked me, you son of a bitch?” I personally hand-picked a boy to ask her and insisted that he do so. She was so beautiful. Old South Ball was held in the town where she was born. It was the right choice.

In retrospect, three years probably wasn’t too young. None of my friends seemed to have a problem dating Freshmen and Sophomores. This was my sister’s universe, though, and the heart of Chi Omega. I had no choice but to bow out. Shirley would just have to understand.

Truth be told, if anything ever happened to Duke, her husband, trained to kill in Vietnam, I would have camped out on Shirley’s doorstep with a dozen roses through the rain. God, brilliant and beautiful raven women make me weak to the soul. Sometimes they have white hair now. Makes not a bit of difference. Born a raven, you cannot hide it. Not from me.

I’ve never discussed with Little Bird’s uncle, The Original Adventure Kid, the quality of nieces, daughters, and little sisters, but I’d love to. One day, I took his daughter to meet an elephant at the zoo. She’s a pretty big deal now. I have no idea if she remembers me. I remember her. John’s dad was Big John. He was the coolest dad in town. His progeny descended like jewels on my life. Little Bird is trying to find a photo of them together so I can paint it.

I’ve drawn or painted Little Bird maybe ten times now. She has a great face for it. Beyond that, she’s such a great example of how I see girls. We discuss her art, her cat, her lunch, and sometimes boys. Boys are mean, I tell her. She agrees.

Boys are mean.

As much as I talk about taking care of my girls, they take care of me. When Mr. Williams died, the story of how I broke down doors to try and save him was pretty big news among Jackson teenagers. The adventures of Boyd have always made for pretty good gossip. Only one of them, though, one of my girls, one of the very first, touched my shoulder and said: “I’m sorry, Boyd.” She didn’t care about what I’d done. She cared about what I felt. Forty-six years later, I still feel her fingers on my shoulder.

Guard the right, protect the weak, guard the honor of women.

Sounds like bullshit, doesn’t it? You can make it real, though. It’s not easy, but you can do it.