In the days ahead, President Biden and Dr. Jill Biden will install themselves in the White House, along with their fur children, German shepherds Major and Champ, and a new cat to be announced. Even though the world’s stability hangs in precarious balance, the Bidens will need to get settled in, first things first. I would expect and hope that the gold drapes in the Oval Office are first on their list; they need to be torn down with Berlin Wall furor. Perhaps the dogs’ nanny can take a page from the Family von Trapp and refurbish the drapes into sensible rompers for Major and Champ to frisk about on the White House grounds.
I also fervently hope that the portrait of Andrew Jackson which former-President Trump so carefully culled from the White House’s art collection to “grace” his office, will be replaced with something less contemptible, and considerably more inspiring. Maybe Tatanka-Iyotanka — Sitting Bull, or Harriet Tubman. But honestly, I’d settle for Daffy Duck at this point.
Making oneself at home in a new space requires considerable finesse. While it wouldn’t have been necessary for FLOTUS Jacqueline Kennedy to hire exorcists to extinguish evil spirits after the Eisenhowers moved out, even though Mamie Eisenhower was overly fond of the color pink, Jackie assuredly distinguished herself with a historical restoration of the White House. It was a transformation that not only appealed to her own elegant tastes, but one that was suitable for the life of the White House and appropriate for the executive quarters representing a nation. Jacqueline brought on a team, one of whom was French designer Stéphane Boudin, whose resume included the restoration of this li’l ol’ place called Versailles. Ever hear of it? It’s in Europe, or as I call it, Fancyland.
When my parents bought their first home together, they’d been as equally motivated as any incoming presidential couple moving into the White House, in remaking their new house into a place all their own. To tailor it according to their own liking, and personal aesthetics. To tear down the ugly drapes, and paint over the pink, as it were. To create a showcase worthy of entertaining kings and diplomats, or in my parent’s case, a dining room that pulled double duty: staid family suppers on weekdays, a game/party room for hosting the Andersens and Saturday nights’ poker.
Upon moving in, we didn’t rent a shaman for any deep spiritual cleansings, not like the Bidens undoubtedly should do, but we did rid the house of its decidedly hippie vibe, and its hippie ephemera — the purple walls, the groovy piles of clutter, the X-rated Popeye and Olive Oyl poster. However, as much as I love my parents, and honor their memory, I remain to this day appalled by the décor they chose for our new home, which was as atrocious as it was comical. And sure, I didn’t pay rent, so who cares what I thought, but I did have to live there. What was I going to do? Get a job and my own apartment? I was only in the fourth grade. I still believed in Santa Claus.
Their first offense was the new carpeting: an abstract mess of gold and brown flecks, which mightn’t have been so bad, really, but wait — it was the exact carpeting used at our local roller-skating rink. Its promise of durability must have sold my father. The carpet was instantly recognized — in that way that o nly roller-skating carpet can be recognized — “Hey, isn’t this the same carpet as the carpet at Skate King?” my friends would ask. And yes, yes, it was. Embarrassingly so.
There were other faux paus. In lieu of drapes they installed “glass” beads. BEADS. The cat loved them. The lounge units all matched: dark brown Naugahyde, button-tufted, as if we lived in a gentlemen’s club and sat around sipping bourbon and smoking cigars watching ABC’s Afterschool Specials. And in their final desperate cry for help, my parents misappropriated the new kitchen linoleum for the cupboard doors. The linoleum buckled and unstuck in places — a hot mess. I won’t go into too much detail because you probably needed to be there to get the full picture.
Moving into a new place presents exciting challenges and hella work. So join me in offering a big (MAGA) hats off to the Bidens.
Tiffany Midge is a citizen of the Standing Rock Sioux Nation and was raised by wolves in the Pacific Northwest. Her book of essays “Bury My Heart at Chuck E. Cheese’s” was a finalist for a Washington State Book Award. She enjoys composting and frisky walks through dewy meadows. Midge lives in Moscow.
