That’s a good belle
When I was younger, I always thought it was strange when people made a big deal about the deaths of celebrities, often people I’d never heard of. I’d watch images of people leaving flowers, or crying, or holding vigils, and feel bewildered at the outpouring of grief for people they didn’t even know.
It turns out, of course, that I was just too young to feel the impact of someone I didn’t know personally on my own life.
When I hopped over to my favorite news site this afternoon, and read that Rue McClanahan had died, my heart sank, the way it did when I read about the deaths of her “Golden Girls” costars, Estelle Getty and Bea Arthur.
During its first run, my sisters and I watched “Golden Girls” religiously on Saturday nights. We probably started watching it because my Dad liked it, but we were quickly a rapt audience, often turning the volume up to tune out Dad’s snoring, which began half-way through the episode. I was only nine when the show ended in 1992, so it definitely had an early and shaping impact upon me.
Some people might be scandalized to think of a nine-year-old watching a show with suggestive dialogue, controversial topics, and frank treatment of sex, but I think the show was a wonderful influence. Rue’s character, Blanche, was my favorite, and one of my first idols. She was confident and glamorous, proud, a little vain, but good-hearted. Blanche always seemed to have lots of fun, and she was so fun to watch. I didn’t understand some of the sexual jokes and innuendo that surrounded her, but the delivery was so good I found it genuinely funny anyway, even if I didn’t get exactly what everyone was alluding to. It was here that I learned about quick comebacks, smart banter, and well-timed delivery—things that got me into a good deal of trouble as a kid, but I can’t imagine being without now.
The women went on dates and their children came in to town from time to time, but so much of the show was dedicated to topics outside of the realm of motherhood, romantic relationships, and marriage. They were older, but still sexual and sexy. They did well at their jobs and aimed for promotions; self-improvement was more than picking up a copy of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. They took risk and got themselves into sticky situations. They didn’t rely on men to bail them out. And, best of all, they were happy.
Blanche loved men, but happily lived with her female friends. They were a team. Even when I was nine, and I played a lot of dress-up in wedding clothes with my sisters, I thought it would be perfectly divine to live with close friends and have dessert and coffee at 3 am while sitting around telling stories. The idea that every time you sat down at the kitchen table you’d have a fantastic conversation was irresistibly charming.
I can’t think of a better message for a little girl who played Barbies exclusively to chew on their feet and dress them up in wedding dresses and parade them down the aisle to a Ken doll who only had multi-colored swim trunks to mark the occasion. Cheesecake with your female friends is always better than marrying a man whose head regularly pops off and rolls to the most unreachable spot under a dresser.
In short, Rue’s Blanche is the sort of charming, goofy Southern belle I’d like to be.