The Fears of Albert Weik

by Nikki Little

Another family reunion. And there's no way out without disappointing my father. Oh, how I hate those reunions. Every five or so years my father drives my mother and me down to Kentucky for a gathering of all my redneck, racist, bigoted relatives. You know the type. They're the rural folk dressed in near rags who spout off against every hot button issue you can think of. They're the poor folk, the "good Christian" folk, who keep putting the worst type of Republican politicians in office. Almost everything the women cook -- God forbid that one of their men be seen in the kitchen! -- is fried in lard. Yuck. I'm a fish-eating vegetarian myself. Usually the only thing on the table that is something I normally eat is bread. They use lard to make the bread, too. The vegetables all have shredded ham or bacon in them. I usually carry several bars of chocolate with me and nibble on that while everybody else wolfs down their meat, potatoes, and gravy. Just about all of my cousins are over 300 pounds. A few are clearly over 400 pounds. They look gross -- like beach balls with arms and legs. I'm five feet tall and a pear-shaped size twelve. I'm the skinniest adult female in the family -- and I'm not skinny by anybody's standards. I'm the only person in the entire bunch who looks healthy. The rest of them all look like they'd drop over dead from a heart attack if they had to make a quick sprint for the bathroom after a feast of everything cooked in lard.

The worst person at my family reunions is Uncle Al. He's the one who's always spouting off about the "damn niggers." He's married to one of my father's sisters who happens to be a school teacher in an urban school where -- you guessed it -- over half of the students are black. Unlike most teachers, I hear that my Aunt Ellen keeps her mouth shut about what goes on at the school. She knows her husband well and keeps silent on anything that might trigger another round of bigoted ranting. My Aunt Ellen is the most enlightened of my Kentucky relatives. She's the first person in our family line to graduate from college. Rumor has it that she's a Democrat, but she never ever talks about anything political. She keeps her mouth shut. Her cooking is awful and she's just as big as the rest of my relatives. For a teacher, however, being over 300 pounds can be an advantage when you're dealing with some seriously difficult kids. "Large and in-charge" she sometimes jokes.

There's a funny thing I've noticed about my Uncle Al. At every family reunion that I can remember, he has always pontificated at length about his "worst fear." When I was a tiny child and too young to remember anything, my father tells me that Uncle Al went on and on that his "greatest fear" was that that "damn Lyndon Johnson" would sign the Civil Rights Act that was being debated in Congress. Uncle Al just couldn't stand to see black people lining up to vote on election day. My father tells me that he hates Catholics almost as much -- even when they're white. Sure enough, old Uncle Al's "worst fear" came true. That was only the first one.

At the first family reunion that I was old enough to remember, Uncle Al ranted and raved about Nixon's supposed environmental sympathies. Now most people these days, even Republicans, have a bit of a soft spot for the Environmental Protection Agency. After all, even Republicans enjoy nature. Lots of them are hunters who don't want to see their favorite duck hunting sites fouled by pollution. Uncle Al was implacable, however. His "worst fear" was that Nixon would sign a bill creating a national agency to protect the environment. Anything that encroached on private property rights was "socialism" to Uncle Al. He owned some land that had valuable timber on it. I figured that explained his hostility to environmental protection. Uncle Al's "worst fear" came true.

At the next family reunion, I was a teenaged tomboy who could outclimb any of the boys up a tree. With my shirt, blue jeans, and short hair, most people couldn't even tell that I was a girl. The dreaded Uncle Al was there, and I remember him teasing my father that he needed to feed me better so I'd look like a proper Kentucky girl. I looked over at the other girls around my age to see what a "proper Kentucky girl" looked like. Chubby with big breasts, big hips, and a big butt. Even then I realized that junior high-aged girls should not look like that. The girls who were my age looked like they were in their twenties. I seriously doubted that any of them could climb a tree even ten feet up. This reunion took place around the time that the Watergate scandal was filling the newspapers. Uncle Al's "worst fear" was that people would elect some "naïve, idealistic Democrat" president in 1976 as a reaction to Watergate. In 1976, Americans elected Jimmy Carter president. He was an honest, honorable man with some admirable ideas, but I remember that he didn't seem to accomplish much. Congress blocked most of what he wanted. I do remember that he shot himself in the foot by bringing back draft registration, however. Sometimes I wonder how much that had to do with him losing in 1980.

The years went by and the next family reunion came with the U.S. economy in the tank. Somehow, I had started to think, the U.S. economy was always in the tank. Little did I realize then that the downward slide was just beginning. Uncle Al ignored the state of the economy and focused on one of his favorite bete noirs: the Russians -- or, as we knew them back then, the Soviets. As I nibbled on chocolate ignoring the feast of fatty meats and gravies before me, Uncle Al expressed his "greatest fear" that our next president, whether Carter or Reagan, would "make nice" with the Russians. Sure enough, it eventually happened. The Cold War ended and Americans even went to Russia as Peace Corps Volunteers. Once again, one of Uncle Al's "worst fears" coming true had made our country -- and the world, this time -- a better place. The "Peace Dividend," however, never arrived.

The next reunion came, and dear old Uncle Al was in high dudgeon. Illegal immigration had become a hot-button issue with so many factory jobs disappearing due to the bipartisan love affair with "free trade." This time the pontificating blowhard's "greatest fear" was that Reagan would sign an immigration bill granting amnesty to at least some long-term illegal immigrants. I didn't care much for illegal immigration myself, but the thought of suddenly just rounding up all the Latin-American illegals and dumping them on the other side of the Rio Grande, as dear old Uncle Al wanted to do, was too much for me. They may have been illegals, but they were still human beings. I doubted that Mexico was prepared to suddenly have ten million or more destitute people suddenly dumped just inside their borders. Sure enough, during his second term, Ronald Reagan signed the Immigration Reform and Control Act which not only made it illegal to knowingly hire illegal immigrants, but also provided an amnesty to about three million long-term illegal immigrants. The amnesty may not have been popular, but it was the humane thing to do. It was one of the few compassionate things that Reagan did. Once again, one of Uncle Al's "greatest fears" had come true. I climbed a tree twenty feet up to escape his mouth. Clouds of cigarette smoke from Uncle Al and most of the other men there swirled below me like Los Angeles smog on a bad day.

The summer of 1989 was our next reunion. I remember the year because it was the summer just after George H. W. Bush had been elected. This reunion was perhaps a bit less miserable for me because I found out that the husband of one of my cousins was a chess player like me. I took a chess set with me and spent most of the reunion playing chess. I was enjoying myself until dear old Uncle Al sat down at the same picnic table to watch us play. He wasted no time being offensive.

"Good Lord, girl! What age are you, now? About 30? You're still skinny and flat-chested. Don't you ever eat?"

"I'm a fish-eating vegetarian. I eat well, but I eat healthy. I never count calories. I think it's pretty obvious that I'm not starving to death." I stood up and poked a hip. I had finally acquired a hint of hips and a butt. Creepy old Uncle Al looked me up and down in a way that made me feel really uncomfortable.

"Well, I'll be. You still look like a boy, though." I was wearing a shirt and blue jeans. I made a point of it that I would wear dresses to family reunions from then on. Uncle Al lit up a cigarette and clouds of smoke drifted over the chessboard. My chess-playing companion and I both fled. I went up a tree to my usual perch to escape the smoke and my chess-playing companion went and got his wife -- one of my blimp cousins -- and left. Down below I could hear easily as Uncle Al began to hold court with other male relatives. This time his "greatest fear" was that our new President George H. W. Bush would cave in on his "no new taxes" pledge and raise taxes to deal with spiraling deficits from the Reagan years. Dear old Uncle Al was one of those antitax zealots who seemed to think that taxation equals socialism -- which in his eyes was the greatest of all evils. Considering that he worked for the Social Security Administration and was a federal government employee, I found this to be an amusing irony. I seriously doubted that he would be "pure" enough in the future to refuse his social security check, either. Sure enough, a year later our Republican President made a compromise with the Democrats to raise taxes to avoid draconian cuts in social welfare spending. It was certainly the responsible thing to do given that unemployment and poverty were rising. Once again, Uncle Al's "greatest fear" had come true. It was a relief to me that our first President Bush, unlike the second one, was deep down inside a responsible and reflective man.

Our next reunion came just before the elections of 1994. It was fall and the leaves had turned color in Kentucky. When the day of the reunion came, we had gotten lucky: it was one of those warm-as-summer days in late October. I wore a summer dress that came down to just above my knees. It was probably the most feminine clothing I had ever worn to a family reunion. Even at this late date, however, the tomboy in me was still balking at make-up. I applied mascara and absolutely nothing else. I had always hated the idea of having gunk on my face, and lipstick was absolutely out of the question. I searched out my fellow chessplayer and set up the chessboard on a picnic table. He looked at me a bit surprised and finally asked, "Are you the same girl I played chess with at the last reunion?" I guess my appearance in a dress was a bit of a shock for everyone. We sat down to play chess and I won game after game after game. Five years ago I had only won perhaps two out of every three. He wasn't as good as me, but he did have some skill. This time his play in every game was marred by inexplicable blunders. The reason for his mistakes was obvious. He was spending more time looking at me than at the board. After about one hour his wife -- who had completely blimped out in the last five years and now looked to be barely able to walk -- joined us. Seeing her close up made me realize just why my chess-playing companion could not keep his eyes off me. Compared to his wife, I looked like a movie star. Her facial features were buried under a mattress of fat, and just under her chin was a huge glob of gelatinous flesh. I almost gagged. He excused himself and walked off with her. Another of my relatives announced to us all that dinner was ready.

Ah! Another family reunion feast of greasy meat, potatoes, greasy gravy, and all sorts of fried-in-lard goodies. I did my usual thing. I ate the bread and nibbled on chocolate. No one said a word to me. No one ever did. No one ever seemed to notice that I was not partaking of the feast. They were too busy shoveling. Gag. After about twenty minutes of furious shoveling, everyone, except me of course, appeared glutted to the gills. Uncle Al, stuffed as the rest, now made use of his pulpit. Even though two years had gone by since Clinton was elected, Uncle Al was still furious and railed against the "damn hippie" in the White House. He lit up along with the other men and they quickly fogged the air with noxious clouds. This time his greatest fear was that the "damn hippie" would be in office for a full eight years and be a "wimpy peacenik" on foreign policy. I got up to flee the smoke and dear old Uncle Al loudly noted that my ass was getting to be rather impressive. I gave him a dirty look and went straight up the tree from where I glared downwards in smoldering resentment. When you consider what came afterwards, the "wimpy peacenik" actually served our nation quite well. He was thoughtful and deliberative in making foreign policy decisions. Once again Uncle Al's "greatest fear" came true.

Our next reunion was held a year earlier than usual for some reason and took place in the dead heat of summer. I wore the same summer dress that I had worn to the last reunion and failed to realize the mistake of that. I had taken my chess set again, but my chess-playing compatriot was nowhere to be seen. One of my male relatives informed me that the chessplayer's wife had died last summer from a stroke. I can't say I was surprised but I kept my thoughts to myself. As I was walking back to the car to put the chess set away, I ran into Uncle Al who looked at me a moment and then asked, "Is that the same dress you wore to the last reunion?" I nodded in the affirmative. "It looks like it's stretched pretty tight in the hips and backside." I pulled on the material and it was loose in the hips the same as it had been four years ago. Uncle Al laughed that he had gotten me to check. He was being an ass, as usual. Dinner was the same grotesque affair as always, and Uncle Al did his usual after everyone had finished their ritual twenty minutes of shoveling. This year his "greatest fear" was was that the scandal-plagued Bill Clinton would somehow wriggle out and escape being impeached. It was the year of Monica, and I remember that our hound dog President was being pursued relentlessly by the Republicans and the media over something that I thought should have been a private matter. Clinton did end up getting impeached for having lied about sexual encounters with Miss Lewinsky, but the Senate dismissed all the charges. Uncle Al's "greatest fear" came true once more. I thought that if lying about sex were a legal offense, there'd be nobody left to guard the prisons. I asked creepy Uncle Al if he had ever lied about sex. "Never!" he declared. "So you deny you've been lusting after me since I turned 30, if not earlier?" Uncle Al went completely silent and backed away.

At our last reunion, George W. Bush had just "won" his second term in office. Uncle Al was ebullient and enjoyed rubbing the face of the only known and open Democrat in the family -- me -- into the mud. As for "greatest fears," he didn't seem to have any this time. His beloved "President Dubya" was a mean, nasty reactionary's dream come true. He also found time to rib me for no longer being "an underfed, skinny stick." This was the first reunion I had ever attended in which I carried enough weight to look normal and healthy. I really didn't mind at all as it was certainly better than watching my face shrivel up as happens to so many middle-aged women who remain stick-thin. I also happened to like how I looked in a dress. The ribbing didn't really bother me at all until dear old Uncle Al magnanimously reminded me that I was still flat-chested. I'm sure my face dropped like a stone. My cousins of my age, male and female both, nearly all appeared to have passed the 300-pound mark. They looked gross and were even more disgusting at the outdoor dinner tables as they shoveled in massive quantities of the meat, potatoes, and gravy that I had long refused to eat. Now in my mid-forties, I wondered how many of them would still be around ten years from now. In my family, lots of people suffered a crippling stoke or heart attack in their early fifties and died by their mid-fifties. Uncle Al lit cigarette after cigarette and blew the smoke in my face. As I had done several times before, I escaped by climbing my favorite tree overlooking the tables to my now-familiar perch at about twenty feet. Uncle Al seemed surprised when he looked up at me. Just because I now had some meat on my hips, bottom, and thighs didn't mean that I couldn't climb. "Pervert!" I yelled as he walked directly under the tree and stared up at me. I was wearing a dress.

Now I await our next reunion. I am dreading it, but I can't think of a realistic excuse not to attend. Dear old Uncle Al is said to be planning to attend, although I suspect this will be the last reunion he ever attends. Years of heavy cigarette smoking have finally caught up with him. He has emphysema and tires easily. He collects disability payments from Social Security. I'm sure he'll tease me relentlessly over having filled out to a rather plump size twelve. Dear old Uncle Al will probably make public note of me finally having gotten a pair of breasts and say that I now look like a "proper Kentucky girl." Never mind that the rest of "proper Kentucky girls" my age now look like something you'd expect to see at a circus. I've seen them in photographs. A couple of them, short as I am, are clearly over 400 pounds and can barely walk. A lifetime of shoveling in meat, potatoes, and gravy exacting its price. I can just imagine the torrent of worst fears that will come spewing out of his mouth now that we have a black man in the White House. He will probably spout about our new president being an "evil socialist" who "wants to redistribute the hard-earned wealth of productive members of our society." Every one of Uncle Al's "worst fears" has come true, and each one of his "worst fears" coming true has made our country a better place for most of us. Come on Uncle Al -- you bastard, you -- just one more rant. Just one more wild-eyed ranting and raving before your mean, nasty corpse starts to rot. Maybe this country will become humane and civilized at last -- no thanks to people like you. Once more up the tree -- I can still climb as well as ever -- and then no more.

The End