I saw Elvis a couple of weeks ago.

It did not go well.

Everything started off fine. M and I had gotten tickets to take my mom and stepdad to a tribute band at a winery in nearby New Hampshire. Just a fun little holiday outing, especially for my mother who can still recite Elvis’s Army serial number.

We all bopped along happily to an hour or so of the classics. Heartbreak Hotel, Hound Dog, Blue Christmas, all as expected.

Finally it’s late in the show, and Elvis pauses. He squints out past the lights into the crowd.

“Thankyew, thankyewverramush. Do we have anyone here tonight who served in the Armed Forces?”

A scattering of hands goes up. My mom takes my stepdad’s elbow and physically lifts his arm into the air despite his modest reluctance. He’s 93, a Marine from the Korean War, doesn’t put himself forward but he’s as real as it gets if you wanna thank a vet.

Apparently, Elvis does. “Thankyew all for your service. We’d like to dedicate this one to our veterans out there.”

The first notes hit my ears.

“No,” I say, my eyes widening as I turn to M.

“Yep,” M says.

“I wish I was in the land of cotton,” Elvis says, right on time to confirm M’s assessment of the situation.

“What the actual f*ck?” I say.

“Old times there are not forgotten,” Elvis says, as though that was a good thing.

“Elvis was a Southerner,” M says, disgusted but not surprised.

“Look awaaaaay, Dixieland,” Elvis says.

“Did you fight for the South, dear?” my mother says drily to her husband.

“Yes. South Korea,” he says, not missing a beat.

Elvis segues smoothly into Glory Hallelujah. He’s doing a medley, a little bit of this and a little bit of that, but there’s no coming back from Dixie as far as we’re concerned, and we sit frozen in the middle of the still happily bopping crowd while the show comes to a close.

There’s an AARP-eligible rush for the bathrooms and exits, which means the auditorium empties remarkably quickly. I blink and find myself nearly alone with the band, while M is guiding my mother towards the door and my stepfather has disappeared towards the gents.

Elvis has left the building; he’s enough of a star to leave the heavy lifting to his bandmates. I count: ten of them onstage, all white, and can it be possible that *none* of them thought Dixie might be a bad idea?

I make my way to the foot of the stage. “Hello!” I call cheerily. “Scuse me!”

Their manager comes forward. “We’ll be back in February,” he says on autopilot, bored with small-time groupies.

“I wanted to let you know, my stepdad who’s here tonight is a Marine veteran. He’s 93,” I begin. Mr. Manager now nods encouragingly, the bandmates pause and smile.

“He’s very offended that you played Dixie as a tribute to him and the other veterans,” I continue into a suddenly sullen silence. “That’s a Confederate anthem. That is not the country he fought for.”

“Elvis sang it,” says the manager defensively.

“That doesn’t mean Y’ALL gotta sing it,” I say, voice rising.

There’s a collective shrug palpable in the air as the bustle of packing resumes. They’ve done this show before, they will do this show again, I am just a blip. If they bother to tell anyone about this, it’ll be because I’m the punchline.

I spot my stepdad emerging from the loo. My mother and M are waiting by the exit.

“Not cool,” I say, shaking my head. “Not cool at all.” It’s not the persuasive closing argument I’d like to have offered, but it’s all I can come up with on short notice.

I walk away. Job number one tonight is to take care of my folks. M too, now, if he needs the shield of my privilege in this audience that just gave a standing ovation to enslavement.

I rejoin them. I get the car, we go to dinner, we order hot cocoa before we head out again into the cold, and my parents tease me and M that we should follow their tradition of dabbing whip cream on each other’s noses. There is much giggling. It’s a good evening. With a lingering undertone.

The quiet part is getting louder, my friends. We’re all gonna need to speak up, too. And hold each other close. 🖤