Rising South

Mighty Mississippi, even more glorious at sunset. It's so wide in parts, it seems like a sea.

Some may call me an African-American, because of where my Dad is from (though they might also be jealously referring to his gorilla-esque bounty of hair). Now this is a bit confusing for a relatively pink and freckly mongrel like me. But three years ago I looked myself in the mirror and admitted it, "Damn boy, you white!" And with a map in hand, I knew that the remedy was called Mississippi. Still today, nearly two centuries after the end of slavery, this state still has highest percentage of people of African descent and sadly is the poorest. Although the region was graced by the likes of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., its people are still struggling. I knew all I had was stats, and I wanted desperately to see what the place was really like.

The road took me through East Texas, across upper Louisiana and into the bayou. I hit Natchez, Mississippi at sunset, the river's girth splayed out like a placid bay. As the moon rose, I rushed to domed Temple B'nai Israel where I learn that Jews had been in Natchez since the late 1700's. My feelings were mixed though, when I read that some members of the community easily joined the ranks of superfluous and hierarchical white Southern society. In the Jewish community, in every place, there always seem to be leaders struggling for political goals at both ends of society. Before I pitched my tent, I insisted on a cleansing dip in the mighty river, but it turned out to be slimier than I could take and I bustled off to the campsite in the dark of night.

When I woke the next morning, I might have been in a jungle. Green light filtered through the leaves onto my tent screen, where a hand-sized spider was perched. Lord have mercy! Where water flows, life grows and boy had this creeper grown! Before I became its breakfast, I hustled onto the road in search of a local lunch. My car rolled between a cascade of white magnolia blooms, flourescent teal butterflies, and the radio's endless supply of heavenly gospel music. Jackson, MS, the state capital, impressed me with its handsome moulded architecture. And since it was Sunday, I was just in time for an endless soul food buffet brunch at Two Sisters. Okra, creamed corn, buns, sweet tea, fricasseed chicken, chicken fried steak, fried fried fried, sugar sugar sugar. Damn, it was good! I got to talking with a local bruncher, Brenda Mathis, whose best friend was an elderly Jacksonite and a Belgian Jew. She was enthralled with her life and her wisdom and filled my ears as much as I had filled my stomach. I promised that if in Belgium, I would greet her friend's loved ones.

Satisfied in belly and soul, I sped over to the next state capital, Montgomery. I have to say I have a thing for dark women, what with their sunblock-free superpowers, and I found myself hitting on a receptionist at the motel. It just hurt me to know that I might be the only one swimming at the pool, because I was the only one who could! I desperately tried to persuade her that I would give her a lesson, but she was scarred like so many are from a near-drowning experience of a loved one. No degree of humor could convince her that what she knew as such a dangerous place could actually be relaxing. In the morning I strolled around the city. For a place I had heard to be racist, it was easy to get along with people regardless of color. I was even impressed to find a self-guided sidewalk tour of Dr. King's marches. This educational homage to the great man convinced me further that in a segregated city, the segregated parts are the racist parts, but people always find a place to mix.

I had to run some errands, like going to prison. It was the only place where I could get my fingerprints stamped to become a true African-American, a South African Passport holder. I passed through some bars, sat on a metal stool and had an awkwardly tender moment with a gruff giant holding my hand, wrestling the ink onto the page. Across more bars another man sat, jailed. I'd never seen it before, and I grimaced at the deflated look on his face. It was back to the street for me, and I turned on the radio to be soothed and caressed by the cool voice of radio host. After he was done honeying up us listeners, he switched on THE TUNES WERE B^@$H F&$%ING S*@% loud. Praises! That hip hop was real. Good beats too.

Ahead lay a night in the Great Smoky Mountains with its chuckling crystal streams and belligerent touristy billboards. The road North.