The Weird and The Wacky Meet

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The Cowboy Caucus Narrative Essay

                 Once upon a time I was young.  No really, I was.  I wasn’t married, or even attached.  I went to bars, and I worked odd jobs at odd hours.  Most importantly, I considered myself to be relatively cool.   I wasn’t really cool; I just thought I was.  This was the time when I was just starting to get on my own two feet.  Although I still lived with my parents, it was in the basement apartment, and I was most certainly not turning out how they expected.  I was, of all things, a liberal.  I was 19 and almost cool.

                 Despite this, my dad invited me to attend the Utah Governor’s Inauguration with him, though only because my mother didn’t want to go.  I agreed just so I could shake the hand of the only state official I voted for who actually won, the very liberal State Attorney General, Jan Graham, crusader for women’s rights.

                 I selected my clothing that morning with special care.  I found my shortest, most outrageous dress.  It wasn’t sexy, just different from anything a good Mormon girl would wear.  The dress came three full inches above my knee, and was a delightfully urban orange print reminiscent of a batik pattern, but not nearly as thick.  In fact I would say it was rather sheer.  I accessorized with just a bit too much silver jewelry and a pair of small black loafers.  All told, it was enough to make a statement without scaring my dad.

                 We got to the capitol building on time thanks to his fearless driving, and parked in the spot under the building reserved for State Senator Evans.  As with all political events I attended with my dad, I knew this one would have more than its share of rural people, and rural politicians.  Despite Bob Dole’s loss in 1996, 1998 had been a big year for conservatives all over the country, and Utah was no exception.

                 Most conservative were the rural areas of Southern Utah, which sent delegates and legislators who combined an unfamiliarity with city life with a surprising amount of political clout.  This Cowboy Caucus, as we called them, was out in full force; bolo ties and cowboy boots abounded.  My dad, having lived in and represented suburbia for the last thirty years of his life after escaping the rural areas of Idaho, wore a suit with his trademark red silk tie.

                 The whole inaugural ceremony was something of a disappointment.  The governor and his Republican cronies had much to say about where they wanted the state to head.  My hero, Jan Graham, Attorney General, said little more than, “Thank you,” and didn’t use up her full allotted speaking time after she was sworn in.  She didn’t even stick around for the reception and handshaking after the ceremony, because of a public feud with the governor.

                 I wanted to make one quick pit stop before we drove home.  Even though we lived in Salt Lake Valley, we were still thirty minutes from the big city.  My dad was busy talking to his political contacts, so I went off by myself to use the Senators’ bathrooms on the third floor, because the public ones were never as clean or as pretty.

                 I stepped into the elevator along with one other man.  He turned to me and asked, “Going up?”  I nodded, said “Three please,” and stepped to the back of the elevator.

                 Without looking much, I knew that this man was from Southern Utah.  He was wearing a beige cowboy hat with a thin green band running around the base.  His shirt, which was the second cleanest thing on him, was freshly pressed and had a green and peach diamond print on a beige background.  The clasp on his bolo tie was the shape of the skull of a bull, bone white with black eye sockets.  His worn and faded blue jeans were held up by an intensely shiny silver belt buckle that rivaled dinner plates in size.  His boots were creased and stretched and contoured to his feet like a second skin.

                 Every inch of him, save his shirt, tie and belt buckle, was covered in a fine layer of dust.  He was seventy, or at least looked like seventy years of hard ranch work and tough rural living had sunk into his skin.  The dust seemed to blend into every wrinkle and crevasse in his face.  His tan was dark, and over the years, had turned his skin into a thick piece of leather, shaped like a topological map of the desert.

                 After hitting the elevator button, the man turned to me.  He tipped his hat, and his eyes wandered slowly and leeringly from the bottom of my shoes to the top of my head.  He sucked in a deep breath and said, “Hi.  I’m Will.  What’s your name?”  I mumbled something incomprehensible, and wished that the elevator would go a little faster.  Will’s eyes focused in on my chest, he took another deep breath, shaped his thumb and forefinger into a gun and said, “You know, where there’s a Will, there’s a way.”  This was quickly followed by a double sucking/clicking sound, meant to sound like a gun being cocked.

                 I stood there in shock for what I’m sure wasn’t more than a couple of seconds, but felt much longer.  I was rescued by the elevator arriving at my floor, allowing me to quickly escape and to the restroom.  I hid there for a good fifteen minutes, realizing once again that men who run Utah presented a very real affront to women’s rights.  If one young woman couldn’t wear a dress which came three inches above the knee at a formal event without being treated like an object, then something was seriously wrong.

                 Sitting by the bathroom window, looking out over the gardens in the back of Capitol Building, I realized there was something seriously wrong with me as well.  That morning, I had prided myself on my liberal way of thinking, yet I couldn’t even speak up for myself or my beliefs when it came down to it.  I realized then that a strong voice is the essence of being true to your beliefs.  That voice doesn’t come from clothing or accessories; it’s inside.  Even if you’re just one un-cool young woman in an elevator telling one old man to find someone his own age.

                 That night, as I hung up my dress and put away my jewelry and accessories, I decided that I needed to change.  I had to get past trying to shock or impress people, and focus on being myself, only stronger and more outspoken.  I would say what I meant because it was true, not for the reaction.  That was when I committed myself to working on being the strong woman I wanted to be.  The old cowboy was right about one thing; where there’s a will, there’s a way.

 

Copyright 2003

by Amanda Evans

Date: 08/06/03