parents moved to Texas. The first year they left, we here in Boston wondered if we should even celebrate Christmas at all. Without the Rouge’s holiday party, what was the point of it?
“I figured you’d appreciate coming back here.” Malcolm says. Security at the front doors doesn’t bother to check for Malcolm’s name on the guest list. With a smile and a nod, they simply let us both in. Within an instant, as we step through the French doors and over the threshold, we’re bombarded by the sounds of Christmas jazz and drunken laughter. And, as it appears, Malcolm and I seem to have walked into a scene in which we are all but invisible; not a soul acknowledged our entrance. And why would they? The jazz girl is crooning, the ensemble band is rocking, everyone’s drunk and there are more important people here than Malcolm and me. This is, of course, my worst nightmare. For so long I’ve longed to be an active member of this set and yet here I am, a former Queen of Massachusetts, still considered one of the most unimportant people in the room—second only to the help.
These elites here, dressed in ball gowns and tuxedos are informally known as The Boston Board of Blacks around the political arena. Or simply, The Board: black professionals and politicos that mayors and governors and presidents turn to in order to reach the entire Black population of Greater Boston. These elites here are the group I am destined to be a part of.
“So this is the annual Christmas party that we aren’t invited to, huh?” Malcolm says as he looks around. Waiters walk around, their arms raised with sterling silver trays; swan ice sculptures dot the room; white and black marble floors run throughout the Rouge home; a grand crystal chandelier hangs right above us, and framed paintings of Thomas Kinkade hang along the walls.
“You see these paintings?” I ask Malcolm as I look around at the walls.
“Kinkade, right?” he answers immediately.
“Yeah, you’re definitely Danielle’s second husband. The Rouges love Thomas Kinkade and they bring his holiday paintings out each year.” I point to my right. “That one is called The Lights of Christmastown and the one next to it is called A Victorian Christmas Carol .” I look around. “There are tons of other ones but those are my favorites.”
“He was decent painter,” Malcolm says as he nods his head at the paintings. “Danielle has Flags Over the Capital hanging up in our living room.”
“Yes, well I bought that for her,” I say while giving him a snide look. “I gave it to her as a birthday present since her second husband is a politico. It remains to be seen which painting I will give her once she marries her third.” Malcolm lets out a light laugh but says nothing. As we stand between the double French doors and the winding staircase, I glance around and see my mom and dad, Zara and Leo, laughing and falling drunkenly, blissfully all over each other near the grand piano, off in the corner. My mom is dressed in her azure blue ball gown, my father in his tuxedo. Flirty. Festive. Happy. Must be nice …
“Senator Roy,” I say as I point to Senator Sandra Roy and her husband Gene who are standing near my parents, clinking their glasses of champagne together.
“I noticed them. And there’s Judge Carmichael.” Malcolm points to Grayson Carmichael who’s standing by his wife Paula near the meat carving station.
“Danielle’s parents,” I say as I point to Elise and Jax who are kissing in front of the seafood buffet.
“I’ve got a feeling Jax is going to stiff me on the Celtics game next week and take my father instead.” Malcolm concentrates on Jax. “That leaves me with two options: I can either buy my own ticket or knock my father off.”
“Buy your own ticket. Much easier that way.”
“You’re probably right.” He says as he begins to check his cell phone. “Damn, I
“I figured you’d appreciate coming back here.” Malcolm says. Security at the front doors doesn’t bother to check for Malcolm’s name on the guest list. With a smile and a nod, they simply let us both in. Within an instant, as we step through the French doors and over the threshold, we’re bombarded by the sounds of Christmas jazz and drunken laughter. And, as it appears, Malcolm and I seem to have walked into a scene in which we are all but invisible; not a soul acknowledged our entrance. And why would they? The jazz girl is crooning, the ensemble band is rocking, everyone’s drunk and there are more important people here than Malcolm and me. This is, of course, my worst nightmare. For so long I’ve longed to be an active member of this set and yet here I am, a former Queen of Massachusetts, still considered one of the most unimportant people in the room—second only to the help.
These elites here, dressed in ball gowns and tuxedos are informally known as The Boston Board of Blacks around the political arena. Or simply, The Board: black professionals and politicos that mayors and governors and presidents turn to in order to reach the entire Black population of Greater Boston. These elites here are the group I am destined to be a part of.
“So this is the annual Christmas party that we aren’t invited to, huh?” Malcolm says as he looks around. Waiters walk around, their arms raised with sterling silver trays; swan ice sculptures dot the room; white and black marble floors run throughout the Rouge home; a grand crystal chandelier hangs right above us, and framed paintings of Thomas Kinkade hang along the walls.
“You see these paintings?” I ask Malcolm as I look around at the walls.
“Kinkade, right?” he answers immediately.
“Yeah, you’re definitely Danielle’s second husband. The Rouges love Thomas Kinkade and they bring his holiday paintings out each year.” I point to my right. “That one is called The Lights of Christmastown and the one next to it is called A Victorian Christmas Carol .” I look around. “There are tons of other ones but those are my favorites.”
“He was decent painter,” Malcolm says as he nods his head at the paintings. “Danielle has Flags Over the Capital hanging up in our living room.”
“Yes, well I bought that for her,” I say while giving him a snide look. “I gave it to her as a birthday present since her second husband is a politico. It remains to be seen which painting I will give her once she marries her third.” Malcolm lets out a light laugh but says nothing. As we stand between the double French doors and the winding staircase, I glance around and see my mom and dad, Zara and Leo, laughing and falling drunkenly, blissfully all over each other near the grand piano, off in the corner. My mom is dressed in her azure blue ball gown, my father in his tuxedo. Flirty. Festive. Happy. Must be nice …
“Senator Roy,” I say as I point to Senator Sandra Roy and her husband Gene who are standing near my parents, clinking their glasses of champagne together.
“I noticed them. And there’s Judge Carmichael.” Malcolm points to Grayson Carmichael who’s standing by his wife Paula near the meat carving station.
“Danielle’s parents,” I say as I point to Elise and Jax who are kissing in front of the seafood buffet.
“I’ve got a feeling Jax is going to stiff me on the Celtics game next week and take my father instead.” Malcolm concentrates on Jax. “That leaves me with two options: I can either buy my own ticket or knock my father off.”
“Buy your own ticket. Much easier that way.”
“You’re probably right.” He says as he begins to check his cell phone. “Damn, I
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