The War of Northern Aggression
Ages ago, in the early 1990s, I lived in Houston. Had a date with a local gentleman. Not sure how, or where, we met but the evening started pleasantly enough. I picked him up at his home and we drove to a local bar.
This was a year after the release of Ken Burns’ Civil War documentary. The Ashokan Farewell, the violin and guitar anthem of the program, was still in the air. We started to discuss Burns’ work.
“It was a war of northern aggression,” he said.
I laughed. Probably too loudly.
“There’s no way I’m ever going to use that term,” I replied.
We quickly moved on. We went to another bar. It was Rich’s. I would have preferred Heaven. That establishment had better go-go dancers. Will gladly die on that hill.
On the way to Rich’s we were stopped by Houston’s finest. I made an illegal U-turn. We were surrounded by a number of police cars. An officer, not the one who took my license and registration, asked multiple times if I thought I was above the law. My answer (no) didn’t make him happier. He walked off.
“At least we can get him on the U-turn,” Officer Cranky grumbled to his peers.
The night continued. We met one more time. I invited him to a house party. After that we lost contact. He was cute. In a nerdy way. Glasses. Liked to talk about books and culture. Drank coffee. Proudly opinionated but polite. Was out in ways I could only dream of.
But certain terms stifle desire.