I’d like to take a ninety-degree turn from this review with a personal note
about Jackie Devotion. Worshipping at the altar of Jacqueline is tricky
business. One risks losing all credibility and perspective, and yet, like the
Macarena, even respectable people find themselves drawn in. This was proven by
the circus-like atmosphere surrounding the auction of Jackie’s personal
possessions at Sotheby’s, here in Manhattan. I did not attend the auction (the
lottery system can be so cruel), but I confess that one of the proudest
moments of my life was seeing my face on the CBS Evening News at
Jackie’s funeral.
My personal obsession didn’t really have a beginning, because I have never
really known Life Without Jackie. I was born in 1957, and therefore, by the
time I came into consciousness, Jackie was already a world force to be reckoned
with. The effects of the assassination are an early memory for me. My mother
saved magazines with the event on the cover, and for years I would furtively
sneak these treasures into my room and pore over them. The images of
blood-splattered Jackie burned into my psyche as did the photos from JFK’s
funeral. In those pictures, Jackie exudes an unutterably tragic glamour, not
unlike the photos of her wedding a few scant years later to Greek shipping
magnate Aristotle Onassis. The world was appalled at her second marriage but I
only wished her happiness. I also wished that I could try on her Valentino
wedding dress.
By 1978, however, studying her was not enough. I had to know what it was like
to be her. I whipped up a copy of Jackie’s assassination outfit and wore
it throughout that holiday season in Houston, complete with bloodstains and
foam-rubber brain matter. The pink-and-navy-blue-trim Halston suit with
matching pillbox hat was instantly identifiable. Everyone knew who I
was, and for those few bizarre moments, I knew how Jackie felt being recognized
all over the world. It was supreme ecstasy. It was like a drug (and that
always heightened the effect), and I was hooked.
I took this routine with me to San Francisco in 1978 and then back to Houston
a year later, where this little outfit grew into a full-fledged cabaret act. My
“girls” — Joan and Ethel) and I performed live in only the seamiest of venues,
such as Houston’s notorious leather bar the Different Drum. This Week In
Texas magazine devoted much coverage to these antics — we worked as
“Jackie O & the Trash-masters” and were in much demand.
Austin then became the setting for appearances of Jackie (or Jackleen,
her preferred pronunciation). There are telling photos from one dizzy night in
1980, when my sister and her first husband were invited to a soir�e
en blanc, an all-white party. Naturally, we dug out our nurses’ uniforms
but it wasn’t quite enough. When I donned my Jackie suit, we instantly became
Jackie & the Trauma Team at Parkland Hospital in Dallas. When I left Austin
in 1981, I bequeathed the outfit to a friend, and it enjoyed a life of its own
for several years. I was content with my memories.
Until 1995 in New York City, that is, when the echoes of Jackie’s death gnawed
at me, whispering, “Do it again! Do it again!” I did do it again,
reconstructing the outfit and shopping for just the right wig. I was hardly the
sylph-like Jackie of my earlier years. I abandoned my youthful figure long ago
(some people think of their bodies as temples; I think of mine as a convention
center) and I was now Large-n-Lovely Jackie, bigger and better, 32 years after
the assassination.
I attended a Halloween party, an AMFAR benefit, and was an immediate hit. I
attracted the attention of the star of the evening, Cyndi Lauper, who poked me
in the chest and cackled, “You look fabulous!” I kept thinking, “What if
I run into John-John? How can I explain that I like to dress as his dead
mother? Could he possibly forgive me, have his marriage annulled, and marry me
anyway?” Fortunately, I did not see him, so it wasn’t a problem. But many
people saw me. Everywhere I went, the crowds were whispering, “Jackie!
It’s Jackie! Look, it’s Mrs. Onassis.” Here I was, in Manhattan — Jackie-land
itself — and everyone knew me. I felt at one with the universe, and all was
right with the world. — S.M.M.
This article appears in October 4 • 1996 and October 4 • 1996 (Cover).