My grandmother was tactile and affectionate. She always pulled me onto her lap, kissed the nape of my neck and told me what flavor she tasted — honey, marmalade, lavender. At bedtime, she used her long red manicured nails to compose imaginary paintings on my face. She let me try on all her jewelry, the two of us in front of her mirror, her graceful hands clasping necklaces around my neck, bracelets on my small wrists. She had fake versions of my favorite pieces made for me for Christmas, all perfectly arranged in a red lacquer box.
My grandmother was wounded by Capote taking the things she told him, changing them, betraying her confidence and her privacy, which she guarded fiercely. Now her life has been stolen and twisted again, posthumously, by the creators of “Feud,” including the executive producer Ryan Murphy, the writer Jon Rabin Baitz and the director Gus Van Sant. In the show, Babe is drawn as the ultimate victim: of her husband’s infidelity, Capote’s betrayal, her failing health. In victimhood, in her constant suffering, in the dramatic fabrications, she becomes one-dimensional, a woman defined by surfaces — a woman defined by men, reconstructing her life to suit their needs.
I had planned to take the show lightly, to remind myself it was made to be fun, a campy romp. I did not expect it to upset me. But it is a strange thing to see one’s family portrayed on television, to see a beloved grandparent dying again, to see facts changed, stories embellished, demeaning details added for the sake of entertainment. Babe comes off fairly well, at least compared with the other fictionalized swans. Her fame, her status as an icon of the era, is burnished by the show. I should not complain. Yet, as I watched each episode, as the inaccuracies and misrepresentations stacked up, I felt furious, in defense of her.
In real life, the grandmother I knew wasn’t a pill popper or prone to drinking to excess. She would never have been so shallow as to be placated by a piece of art or jewelry. She wouldn’t have worn a shift dress, a clip hat or baggy pants. She was not, as Capote tells us in the show, an “ugly duckling” before a car accident in her teens; as recounted to me by my mother, Amanda Burden, my grandmother lost only her teeth in that accident, not her cheekbones, and she was, by many accounts, quite beautiful before the event. My grandmother quit smoking the day she was diagnosed with lung cancer; in almost every episode of the show, Babe smokes, even after chemotherapy sessions. According to my mother, the birthday party featured in the fifth episode, in which Babe ends up drunk in a bathtub, never happened. The writers of the show have embellished the facts of my grandmother’s life. The viewing public, including close friends of mine, have accepted this portrayal as the truth.
My grandmother was far more complex than that. She was brilliant. She was funny. She was rarely at rest. She read constantly. She could lead a conversation on any topic. She was an artist, drawing in pencil and sculpting in clay, skills she kept hidden from most of the world. She was tall — 5-foot-9 — and her entry into any room was regal, commanding. She had a steely strength, not a weepy one, and a warm and playful charisma. Her famous style was born from those things: intelligence and artistry.