My Protégée
This is the time of night when I like to really embarrass people.
Usually, in the South, we introduce our lady children to society when they’re eighteen or nineteen. That’s a terrible idea. Nobody knows what they want to be when they’re nineteen. I suppose the original plan was to help them find suitable suitors, but that’s a terrible idea, too.
Unless you’re Nicole Saad, you don’t want to marry whoever you dated at nineteen. Nicole’s case is kind of an exception because she used the full force of her will to mold him into the perfect husband. The poor guy never had a chance. Even now, I say a little prayer of protection for him from time to time.
There are four people in history I give authority to say when I’ve gone off the Path, and don’t hesitate to use it. There’s my mom, my sister, my protégée’s mom, and Nicole.
In the spirit of “better late than never,” I’d like to formally introduce you to my protégée. Her name is Mary Buchanan Sellers.
A child of Brandon, she attended St. Andrew’s Episcopal Day School and graduated from Jackson Prep. After that, she spent some time at a sometimes well-thought-of community college in Oxford, Mississippi, where she willfully became, not a Chi Omega, but a Delta Delta Delta. We do not judge. Following her time in Oxford, she got her masters in creative writing from a school in Baton Rouge with a reputation for stealing coaches that nobody liked anyway.
Mary spent some time having adventures in the wild, wild Pacific Northwest. She’s back in Mississippi now. We don’t always get our children back.
Like many Mississippi natives her age, with her level of education, most of her childhood tribe no longer lives here. As she is my protégée, I’m working on strategies that will enable her to build a new tribe—one of the brilliant, creative people like herself who live here.
Like her mother and father, grandmother and grandfather, she’s remarkably literate and actually brilliant, although if I use that word, she’ll deny it.
An enormously creative person, she works as an archivist at the Mississippi Department of Archives and History. I like to tell her that when what you do is in the name of the organization, it’s a good sign. I also remind her that Charlotte Capers had that position before she took over the joint. Before working for the MDAH, Mary taught creative writing, which dominates 90% of our conversations. She understands a great deal about the craft—more than I do.
If you’re a creative, intellectual person who enjoys being around others like yourself, please introduce yourself. If you’re attractive, straight, and between the ages of thirty and forty, introduce yourself twice. It can’t hurt.
They finally hit Bill Goodman with a stick and got him to retire. Mary’s father replaced him–well, he took his job. Nobody could replace him. While Grant accomplished many remarkable things in his own light, that one connection to Mississippi’s more storied past earns him a place in our constellation.
Grant’s office used to be Bill Goodman’s office, which had previously been Stuart Irby’s office. Before that, it was part of Jackson’s swankiest restaurant, where a fella might try to woo the more remarkable ladies here and impress them with his taste. A fella might do that. I never would–as far as you know. Well, some of you actually do know. I’m counting on you not to tell.
Before that, it’s where every decent lady in Jackson bought her hat and gloves, which were required on Capitol Street. Sometimes, just a place is a major part of the story.
Mary’s grandmother taught me to read, which was a huge long shot. She thought she knew why I couldn’t do it and what might help. To say it influenced my life is an understatement. I would not exist without her.
Her mother taught me to do boy-girl dances, even though I was against it. She made it clear I had no choice in the matter, and we moved on. You can’t imagine how much trouble I’ll get into if I brag on her mother much more. Let’s just say this: I’ve always believed she was the most intelligent person I knew. She still is, although her child is gaining ground fast in the far lane.
When I was sixteen, General Louis Wilson gave me a direct order to watch over his baby cousin, Mary’s mother, and whoever came after—which would be Mary. My Dad and Rowan thought he might be kidding me, but I accepted the challenge. When the other Wilsons started telling me the same thing, I was glad I did.
Like my sister’s children and the children of most of my friends, I missed Mary’s childhood. I’d taken on too many wounds and convinced myself it made me too ugly to be a part of society anymore. While it may annoy some people, I’m back now, and I’m stronger than ever before–stronger than I ever imagined I’d be.
Ceci est ma protégée. This is my protégée. Her name is Mary B. I’m immensely proud of her. Of all the Mississippi children we’ve lost, she is one who came back. She wants to contribute. In my estimation, it’d be a loss not to let her. She is not my child, but I am bound to her in eternal ways that began long before she was born. Please welcome her as you would me.
The difference between an acolyte and a protégée is that the acolyte glorifies the master, while a protégée glorifies the student.
