DAUGHTER OF THE AMERICAN RESOLUTION

I need to get into the spirit of networking instead of sitting home, waiting for rejections from my latest employment applications. I’m not much of a “joiner”, preferring to lurk on the periphery of groups. However, desperate times call for desperate measures.

Living in the deep South as a transplanted Northerner, I figure what better way to endear myself to the locals than to join one of their venerated institutions? I’ve always been charmed by the Revolutionary War era and tales of the time. I thought joining the local chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR) would be the way to go. I got goose bumps envisioning sharing a genteel tea with the Daughters and a ham-biscuit or two.

I’d need to be accepted first, though. And there could be some problems with that: 1) I didn’t look like a Daughter; and 2) I didn’t have a bona fide “patriotic ancestor”. I was pretty sure item one wouldn’t be a big barrier, given our enlightened times. Proving my heritage was by far the greater challenge.

Luckily, I’m blessed with some say an over-abundance of creativity. I was sure I could get past the “ancestry” requirement with a little guileless fibbing. No-one expects you to tell the truth in a situation like that anyway, do they?

There are several categories for eligibility so the trick would be to chose one that would be difficult to disprove. So I knew claiming lineage to a signer of the Constitution or a member of the Continental Congress was out. Then, I had a stroke of genius. I sent my email to request admittance and waited for the phone call from DAR.

I didn’t have to wait long. When the phone rang, I answered it without waiting for the message machine to chime in.

“Hello, this is Miss Ellie from Daughters of the American Revolution. Is this, Miss…?”  

“You can call me Miss Denise. Fine weather we’re having, eh?”

“Yes, it is, Miss Denise.” Miss Ellie sounded nervous even through her thick, southern drawl. I heard papers shuffling. She cleared her throat.

“We received your application. It states that you’re descended from Benedict Arnold. Is that correct?”

“It sure is. You might say traitors run in my family. Everyone has one or two, don’t they? I’m just kidding.” I tried to laugh, but it came out as a snort. Miss Ellie didn’t sound amused, in any case.

“Can you please explain your direct lineage?”

“Of course. As I stated in my application, my Great-Great-Great…I forget how may Greats…Grandfather was a bastard son of ol’ frisky Ben. Seems Ben developed a powerful attraction to an Iroquois woman named Wantun. That’s a family joke — we never knew her name. But Grand-daddy Phil was the result of that union. I know what you’re going to say about papers and proof, but all that burned in the Wigwam fire of 1774.”

“Our historians will check into those events. However, I don’t think your application is valid. Benedict Arnold was not a Patriot.” I heard a lot of indigant huffing.

“I disagree. Ben was a loyal Patriot before he attempted to turn West Point over to the British. He was General George’s right-hand man. Or don’t Ben’s prior military accomplishments count? Poor Ben was actually a disgruntled employee. Others received credit for his accomplishments. He was passed over for promotion in favor of those much inferior to him. I can empathize.”

“But there is the business of your family name as well. It hardly sounds Colonial.”

“That’s an easy one to explain. You see, Phil’s Grand-Grand-Grandson saw an Armenian woman drying sausage outside her tenement window in New York City, circa early 1920’s. He proposed to her on the spot. He always did have a fondness for sausage. She insisted he take her Armenian family name or it was no sausage for Phil, Jr.

“I see. Well, the Eligibility Committee will have to check these facts. We’ll get back in touch with you when we’ve concluded our investigation, Miss Denise.”

I don’t think Miss Ellie was sincere. And I haven’t heard back from either her or DAR.

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