I Won’t Back Down

Let me tell you a story. It’s mostly about me.

Now that I’ve lost about 50% of potential readers, I hope the rest of you will sit back and enjoy a tale that begins with satire before veering into romance and conflict, and then ending up in politics.

Back in the 1980s, my beloved city of Chattanooga concocted a summertime event called the Kudzu Ball. It was a brazen parody of the Cotton Ball, a revered local tradition.

The Cotton Ball dates back to 1933. As a child, I would see the annual photo spread in the Chattanooga paper. This was not a gala to which I would ever be invited. Rural Alabama laborers were not a part of the Cotton Ball glitterati. I would be the proverbial “dropping” in the punch bowl.

The Cotton Ball, as my grandparents would say, was for “them with money.”

It was a coming out party for the well-to-do debutantes. The finale was the crowning of the Cotton Ball King and Queen. The teen Queen was always resplendent in her gown, and she was paired with the King, who was typically a middle-aged banking executive. Not creepy at all.

It was invitation-only, for the top one-percent. The rest of us would look at those newspaper pics with a mixture of envy and hilarity.

The jokesters among us concocted the Kudzu Ball as a combination of a good time, a charity fundraiser, and a form of revenge therapy. Instead of sipping fine wine, beer was chugged. As an alternative to saluting the south’s cherished cotton crop, we saluted the scourge that is the invasive kudzu vine. Kudzu-based attire was encouraged, but not required.

Now my story takes a turn. One year, the Kudzu Ball organizers needed an emcee for the costume contest. The Cotton Ball had the same emcee every year, a local actor-singer who oozed elegance. The Kudzu crew wanted just the opposite. Someone who aimed low, and could hit that target. They immediately selected me, and I was honored to be among my own kind.

The costume contest rewarded those with creativity and a sense of humor. Some employers encouraged their workforce to compete. My wife Cindy joined her office mates in creating kudzu-wear. To her credit, she went full tilt kudzu, spending hours morphing into a Kudzilla monster. Her outfit was a standout. So much so, the judges awarded her first place.

The Kudzu Ball emcee with the mighty Kudzilla, August 8, 1986 at Engel Stadium in Chattanooga

Keep in mind, this honor came with no real rewards. The prize, like everything else associated with this fiasco, was cheap and stupid. You know, one of those fake trophies that sits on your desk until you take your forearm and swipe everything into the trash can. That was the coveted first prize.

Despite the silliness of it all, one good ol’ boy was offended that my wife got top honors. As we began to leave, Bubba confronted her. “You only won because you’re married to the emcee!’

I took umbrage at this challenge to my wife’s honor. Quite out of character, I got right in the guy’s face.

(Keep in mind, I am not a large man. I had never been in a fight. Bubba looked like he had sparred a round or two. I do not drink. Bubba was drunker than Cooter Brown at his cousins’ wedding. And yes, that apostrophe is in the right place.)

Something clicked inside me, and I was ready to fight. I defended my wife, and the bully backed off. I was as surprised as anyone, and more relieved than everyone. I still can’t believe I was that bold. You can call me anything you want, but don’t mess with my family. My wife never forgot that. She was never more proud of me.

I was reminded of this recently while watching a political convention. A US Senator from Texas was gushing over a presidential candidate. A few years earlier, that same candidate had referred to the Senator’s wife as “ugly.” The Senator never did stand up for his wife. Doing so might have cost him some points with the candidate’s fans.

Thank God I am not a politician. I am glad I can look into the mirror without shame.