The Night I Threw Robert E. Lee's Great-Granddaughter's Beer in a Dumpster: Confessions of a Straight Edge Vigilante

 

Self-Righteous and Impossibly Bored

Back in 1988, at the height of my straight edge period, I ran with a select crowd of teenagers and Taylor Steele, who was twenty-one years old but acted like seventeen. Taylor was the lead singer of Four Walls Falling, a popular hardcore band in Richmond. I would later go on to play bass for them and debut on their first 7-inch record.

Almost all of our elite crowd of friends were straight edge as well—or at least feigned the discipline to keep up appearances. It seemed many of the straight edge guys had girlfriends who occasionally drank wine coolers or secretly smoked cigarettes. I had a couple of those during my time in service as a drug-free youth in the mid-to-late eighties. A genuine straight edge girl was extremely hard to find.

We would go out on weekends, and since we didn't drink or do drugs, we were impossibly bored. Terminally bored. Boredom was our constant enemy, and we combated it the way self-righteous teenagers do—with pranks and practical jokes that ranged from harmless to genuinely problematic.

The Pranks That Defined Us

One night, we followed a guy home from downtown all the way out to the rural areas of the neighboring county because he had a unique personalized license plate. They weren't that common back then. I still recall the plate: "HENERGY."

For years after, we talked about that night and would randomly ask each other, "Where's Henergy?" It all seems so juvenile now, but we were kids, and we were straight edge. The absurdity was the point.

Another night, we stole traffic cones from a construction site and blocked off a major road, creating a detour into the circular drive of a residential home. Some poor homeowner woke up to find dozens of confused drivers turning around in their driveway at two in the morning.

We pulled up shrubs from a friend's parents' front lawn and placed them in the seats of their fancy cars parked safely in the garage while they were away on vacation. The image of them opening their Mercedes to find a rhododendron in the driver's seat still makes me laugh, though I'm not proud of it.

We stole golf carts from a prestigious country club and drove them all over the greens before abandoning them once the batteries died in the middle of the night. The groundskeepers probably wanted to murder us.

We did things I won't share here because the things I've already shared are embarrassing enough. Let's just say that straight edge teenagers with too much time and too much moral certainty are a dangerous combination.

Enter Elizabeth Lee

One particular night, the target of our righteous indignation was a friend named Elizabeth Lee. I don't think I'd made the connection when I first met her, but soon after, I was told that she was the great-great-granddaughter of General Robert E. Lee of the Confederate Army.

I was a Civil War nut. As a kid, I'd even dressed in a homemade Confederate uniform and written a report on Robert E. Lee for school. To my young mind, he was a fascinating historical figure—a general whose military tactics I'd studied extensively. And now I knew his descendant.

Elizabeth hosted a party for her non-straight edge friends. At this time, I cannot recall if she abstained from alcohol, but I don't think she shared our zealotry if she did. She had a small apartment in the West End of Richmond, and word got out to our crew.

There were at least a half dozen or more of us there, mingling with the drinkers and smokers. It was all relatively innocuous at first—we were just hanging out, being our sober, judgmental selves in a room full of people having actual fun.

And then we got bored. Because we were straight edge.

The Raid

Someone had the brilliant idea to raid the fridge and hide the beer and alcohol. I can't claim that particular stroke of genius. I had the even more brilliant idea to outright steal it from her apartment, smuggle it out the door, and toss it all in the apartment complex's dumpster.

Stupid idea is more like it.

But the excitement of the initiative swept a few of us up like a tornado. We moved with the coordinated efficiency of a military operation—grabbing Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers, Coors Light cans, a bottle of gin. Our hands were marked with X's in permanent marker, the universal symbol of straight edge commitment, now clutching contraband like we were conducting a righteous raid.

We ran as fast as we could out the front door, arms full of alcohol destined for destruction.

The Sound of Breaking Glass

The sound of breaking glass as the contraband hit the sides of the big steel dumpster resonated throughout the apartment complex. Bottles shattered. Cans exploded on impact. Beer and gin mixed with garbage in a cocktail of wasted booze and wasted youth.

We thought nothing of the reckless act in the moment. We were heroes. We were sobriety vigilantes. We had struck a blow against underage drinking and saved our peers from themselves.

We were just assholes.

The party-goers who'd been enjoying those illicit beverages were, understandably, pissed. Elizabeth was furious. In our minds, we'd done the righteous thing since the drinkers were all underage. We'd probably saved lives, prevented drunk driving accidents, protected livers and brain cells.

Really, we'd just ruined a perfectly good party and disrespected someone's hospitality in the name of our own moral superiority.

The Aftermath

We wore out our welcome at Elizabeth's home pretty quickly and went somewhere else to wreak havoc. But later that night, as the adrenaline wore off and reality set in, I felt bad.

I still think on that night with sadness and shame for being a jerk to the descendant of one of the greatest figures in American history. That's how I thought of it then—not that I'd been rude to Elizabeth as a person, but that I'd disrespected the great-great-granddaughter of Robert E. Lee.

Looking back now, my shame is more nuanced. Yes, I'd been a jerk to Elizabeth Lee, but not because of who her ancestor was. I'd been a jerk to another human being, someone who'd opened her home to us, because I'd valued my ideology over basic respect and kindness.

The irony is thick: I claimed moral superiority while behaving immorally. I proclaimed the virtues of straight edge—discipline, respect, positive living—while disrespecting someone's property and autonomy. I wanted to save people from themselves without recognizing that salvation imposed isn't salvation at all.

Growing Up (Eventually)

I would later go on to meet direct descendants of JEB Stuart and Stonewall Jackson, but thank God I had grown up by then. I'd learned that being right—or thinking you're right—doesn't give you license to be an asshole. I'd learned that moral certainty in teenagers is often just immaturity wearing a disguise.

I often wonder what happened to Elizabeth Lee. Did she stay in Richmond? Did she ever think about that night when a bunch of straight edge kids stole her beer? Does she tell the story at parties now, laughing about the time militant sober teenagers raided her fridge?

I wish I could apologize to her for the sins of my youth. Not just for the beer—beer is replaceable. But for the disrespect, the self-righteousness, the assumption that my beliefs gave me the right to impose them on others through theft and destruction.

The Lesson

Straight edge taught me discipline, commitment, and the value of living according to principles. But that night at Elizabeth Lee's apartment taught me something else: that principles without compassion are just tyranny in miniature. That being sober doesn't make you superior. That conviction without humility is just self-righteousness waiting to hurt someone.

I'm grateful for my straight edge years—they shaped who I became in important ways. But I'm also grateful I eventually learned to separate commitment to personal values from judgment of others' choices.

Elizabeth Lee, wherever you are: I'm sorry I threw your beer in a dumpster. You deserved better from someone who claimed to be living a "positive" lifestyle. I was young, stupid, and convinced of my own righteousness—a dangerous combination.

And to Robert E. Lee's great-great-granddaughter: your ancestor probably would have handled those punk kids with more grace and dignity than they showed you that night.

I certainly hope he would have.