Ask most thoughtful South Carolinians what they think about Essie Mae Washington-Williams - Strom Thurmond's biracial daughter who publicly identified herself last week - and you'll most likely hear: "It's complicated."

Commentary doesn't get any more Southern than that. In the land of manners, you don't look directly at a thing. You avert your eyes from "unpleasantness." And you don't talk directly about people, which would cast doubt upon the quality of one's upbringing.

So when a 22-year-old white man named Thurmond takes a 16-year-old black girl named Carrie Butler to his bed, well, things happen. Or they used to. What today would be statutory rape was perfectly legal in 1925 when the black family maid gave birth to Thurmond's daughter.

And when a black girl gives birth to a baby whose daddy happens to be the son of her wealthy white employer, well, those things happen, too. And life goes on.

Life went on a very long time for Strom Thurmond, who died this year at 100. It didn't last so long for Carrie Butler, who died at age 38. Today, the baby girl is 78 and last week showed the nation what class is all about.

"My name is Essie Mae Washington-Williams," she told a crowd of some 400 who gathered to hear her speak. "My father's name was James Strom Thurmond."

Was the audience stunned? Riveted, maybe, but not surprised.

Not only had rumors circulated for decades, but also news stories and books had repeated the tale through the years. And Thurmond did little to hide his association with his daughter. She visited him at the governor's mansion when he was governor, albeit through the back door, and in his Washington, D.C., offices. Thurmond visited her when she was a student at S.C. State College, arriving in a black limo. Hardly the behavior of a man trying to hide something.

Officially, they were just friends. Unofficially, she was his little girl - the only child he had until he was 68 years old. What seems clear is that Thurmond cared about his daughter, even if he didn't publicly acknowledge her.

That omission today seems cruel and hypocritical. While Thurmond was running for president as a Dixiecrat segregationist, his own flesh and blood wasn't allowed to vote, and he was fighting to keep things that way. Yet he kept her in his life.

There are as many jokes about Strom Thurmond's legendary libido and stubborn longevity as there are stories about his generous constituent care and his metamorphosis from segregationist to inclusive benefactor.

All contribute to the justifiable wonder with which others view Thurmond's home state and lend credibility to the possibility that South Carolinians are indeed insane. If Strom Thurmond rose from the dead today voters probably would re-elect him to the Senate, sponsor a reunion for his biracial family and politely avert their eyes from the unpleasantness of his hypocrisy. Things happen in life and, goodness knows, life is complicated.