Letter From thenLower Rightnby John Shelton ReednAUons, Enfants de la PatrienIt was years ago that I first read thencollection of Donald Davidson’s essaysncalled Still Rebels, Still Yankees. Innone of them, “Some Day, in OldnCharleston,” the doughty Last Agrariannaddressed one of his perennialnthemes, the trashiness of modern civilizationnand the superiority of the OldnSouthern regime, by describingnCharleston’s Army Day parade ofnApril 6, 1948.nDown King Street that day came “anceremonious procession stepping tonmartial music, carrying flags and deadlynweapons”: columns of helmeted andnbooted paratroopers, Marines in rednand blue, sailors “who looked unhappynas sailors always do when marching asninfantry,” the old Carolina regimentsn— Washington Light Infantry, SumternCuards —, the Citadel band, the cadetsnof Porter Military Academy.nDavidson was savoring the parade’snorder and decorum, “traditional andnunalterable,” when, suddenly, “morenmusic, with a saucy blare in its hornsnand drums,” and a high school bandnfrom upstart North Charleston appeared,nled by a girl dressed as a bluendevil and turning cartwheels —nAnd behind her pranced anwhole squad of drumnmajorettes. They threw theirnknees high to the beat of thendrums. They tossed and swungntheir batons, twisted hips andnbodies, nodded their headsnunder their grotesque shakos.nThey simpered brassily, theirngirlish features frozen in anHollywood smile.nOh, my (I thought). Brassy simpering?nTwisted hips? Knees up? Steady, Don.nDavidson went on at lengths aboutnthe horror of “the naked legs of drumnmajorettes on King Street, in oldn46/CHRONICLESnCORRESPONDENCEnCharleston.” About majorettes “largelynwithout clothes.” About “the flesh andnthe devil” devoid of “any but the crudestnmeaning.” About the traditionalndrum major displaced by “a follies giri, anbathing beauty, a strip-tease dancer,”n• his baton now “the ornament by whichnthe drum majorette attracts attention tonher charms,” this for “purposes that willnnot bear examination.”nI’ve never forgotten this diatribe. Younknow how some associations are indelible?nLike every time I put shavingncream on my face I think about Hagerstown,nMaryland—and I don’t evennremember why? Well, a year later Incouldn’t have told you much else aboutnDavidson’s essay, but for 20 years andnmore every time I’ve thought aboutnbaton-twirling (which isn’t often, I admit)nI’ve thought about his revulsion atn”the bare flesh of drum majorettes inntheir quasi-march.”nI thought about it, for instance, whennI read a snide but hilarious Esquirenarticle on the Dixie National BatonnTwiriing Institute at Ole Miss, by TerrynSouthern, the author oi Candy. (Whatnwould poor Davidson have thought ofnhis beloved Southland’s taking the leadnin this activity, and being mocked for itnby a pornographer?) I thought about itnagain when someone joked in the earlyndays of the Carter administration thatnmaybe a Southern president wouldncome across with Arts Endowmentngrants for twiding schools? (I thought,ntoo, about Davidson’s prescient warningnin I’ll Take My Stand againstnfederal cultural programs.) I thoughtnabout it when I went to my hometown’snChristmas parade and encounteredna half-dozen twirling schools,neach with its students marching behindna sound-truck. (“The next logicalnstep,” Davidson had written, intendingnsardonic reductio ad absurdum,n”would be to abandon the band and tonsubstitute a sound-truck playing phonographnrecords — a sound-trucknwhich could be preceded by and followednby and covered with a largencompany of drum majorettes, all twirlingnbatons, all as little clothed as thencensor would allow.”) Finally, Innnthought about it when I read somewherenthat the principal twirlingnstance, left hand on hip, is African innorigin. (I don’t know what else you donwith your left hand when your right isnengaged with a baton, but if there’snanything to this theory I fear it maynconfirrh the old segregationist’s worstnsuspicions.)nMy selective memory of Davidson’snessay stuck with me, of course, becausenhis disgust was so violent. Terry Southernnthinks twirling is tacky—well, OK.nBut Davidson almost lost his lunchnover it. Not just your average misogynistn(I thought). St)rBething”of-a4dirt)?nold man. A repressed dirty old man.nYuck.nBut last July 14 the television coveragenof the Bastille Day parade fromnParis sent me back to that essay. As thenancient joke has it, it’s remarkable hownmuch the old man has learned. I maynowe his shade an apology. I’d really lostnsight of his point, which was aboutnexploitation and “abstraction” andnwhat would now be called commodification.nHe saw majorettes not just as^anintrusionnbut as a perversion — pervertingnthe beautiful, just as the big-timensports they often accompany pervertnthe gallant.nI think I know what Davidson wouldnhave made of the French extravaganza.nNo doubt you heard that it wasnexpensive. Newsweek put the cost atn$67 million, more or less. The primetimenparade was put together by anyoung French-Arrrerican named Jean-n..Paul Goude, herelfeforebestjkriowri?fqrhisnwork in advertising and’musicnvideos. “We’re trying to prove anpoint,” Goude told a television interviewer;nhe wanted, he said, to producen”a parade with a content.” Of coursenthat content had nothing to do withnanything as boring as history or asnatavistic as patriotism. “The FrenchnRevolution,” he said (in an accent youncan supply yourself), “is only a schoolbooknsouvenir to me. I mean, justncliche. It’s a big cliche.” Goude didn’tneven want to display the Tricolor, butnhe lost that battle.nHe billed his parade as “The Festivaln