Jackie Kennedy
Fabulous beast rumored to have roamed the dunes, a sighted unicorn
of sorts, gone to the Moors for a slumming late-night drink, or so
some claim. Somewhere behind her oft-photographed dark glasses,
possibly a private self. Carrier of culture waving from the back of
the awful convertible. Forty-four thousand acres of land protected
with her husband’s flourishing signature, just ahead of developers
eyeing the Provincelands and contemplating the construction of
a bridge from Long Point back to Plymouth. At Land’s End, at
the Pilgrim’s landing site, did she order the very, very dry martini
preferred by Arthur Schlesinger? The Cold War’s narrow ties, its
playboy spies, gadgets and international girlfriends on the side. That
Atomic Age as one of optimism rather than doom, galactic horizons
as something other than a dump site for Earth’s waste. Outer space
versus inner resources. Her favorite poem by Millay recalling all
our country’s youthful, windblown promise. Iconic shared visage,
not only historic but component of us, a multitude’s satellite decade
with her as breathless bungling mother to a network generation. In
front of Town Hall, she’s resurrected in pillbox and tottering heels.
from Cultural Tourism by Mary Maxwell (LongNookBooks, 2012).
Ed. note: Jackie Kennedy shares her birthday of July 28 with Marcel Duchamp and John Ashbery.