Look Away, Dixie Land
January 20, 2009
In honor of Barack Obama, a change I’d like to call for is the removal of those Confederate mega-flags along I-75. Yes, I know they’re on private property, considered acts of free speech, and all that. But a girl can dream, can’t she?
The Sons of Confederate Veterans who put them up say they represent “heritage,” not “hate.” But whose heritage? Not mine! I’m as Southern as you get. My family goes back as long as there were white people in Florida, and before that they were in Georgia. (Before that, I don’t know, probably fleeing something they ought not to have done in the British Isles.) When I see that flag, here’s what comes to mind:
A conspiracy of rich white planters who enslaved African Americans and sent my people to war in order to preserve someone else’s “way of life.” When the going got tough, they retreated to their town houses and black market goods while poor country people starved.
The same conspiracy pitted poor whites against African Americans after the war to keep power dynamics in check. When the Sons of Confederate Veterans celebrate the Civil War hero’s bravery, they conveniently leave out the history of Jim Crow’s jihad against blacks. The flag flew over both those terrorist groups.
Again, rich whites used poor ones to do their dirty work during the key moments of the civil rights struggle. One sees it in pictures again and again. Courageous black people integrating schools and lunch counters, behind yahoos wielding Confederate flags and weapons, looking like evil incarnate.
So when I see that flag, I don’t just see hate. I see my ancestors being played for fools. Over and over again. Doing violence against black people. Doing violence against their country. Just so rich white people could hold on to power. Sucker punched in the name of heritage. Over and over again.
“Here, Cletus, I got a job for you.” And poor dumb broke Cletus, who’s willing to carry the gun, hold the rope, swing the bat, but not smart enough to think about the implications of his actions, takes all the blame.
I’m not arguing that Cletus doesn’t deserve some of it. The hit man needs to do time, but so does the person who put out the contract. I’m just saying those Confederate mega-flags insult everyone, even the people who put them up. Bless their hearts, they’re too dumb to know it.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Motherless Child
Motherless Child
January 5, 2009
My mother died again over the holidays. Not physically this time. No death is ever permanent in our ancestor-haunted family. This one, a mental fall over a metaphorical cliff from which she will never recover, has been officially diagnosed by a man she calls “The Judge” as late-onset bipolar disorder and early-stage dementia.
By some folks’ testimony, Mother was normal on Thanksgiving: smoking, gossiping, cutting up, foregoing vegetables for sweet potato pie, and begging rides to the corner store for scratch-off lottery tickets. By Christmas, she was in the geriatric psych ward.
During “good” times, this is a marvelous garden, where she picks imaginary strawberries and tomatoes off vines that grow before her. It’s a circus (well, that much is true), with clowns and funny animals prancing about. It is home, where my grandmother, dead over a decade, tries on fanciful hats.
During “bad” times, she’s in jail, held prisoner against her will, forced to be a prostitute, beaten, and raped. I’m colluding with The Judge to keep her there because I’m a terrible daughter, always have been, she tells me over and over again. She bites and hits the nurses. She bangs against her geri-chair, a metal recliner with locking tray that keeps patients considered “flight risks” confined.
Part of me admires her volatile moments. Who among us – if we believed ourselves unjustly held prisoner – would not similarly rail against The Judge, bite his minions’ hands, and rattle the bars of our cages? “Attica! Attica!” I want to chant along with her. But this is my mother, not a movie.
If her last few years were filmed as montage, she would be shuffling toward that cliff on her walker, her body bent almost double and twisted with scoliosis. Granny and other dead relatives have been socializing with her for years. She supplements her retirement income with scratch-offs and cash advances from whatever credit cards come in the mail. She lives off sugar: diet drinks, cookies, and cereal. (Internet searches taught me that delusions, out-of-control financial judgment, and excessive sweet tooth are hallmarks of her disease.) She has a rock star’s drug resume: including Paxil and Xanax for mental health, and a variety of muscle relaxers and Oxycontin – “hillbilly heroin” – for the back pain. If the drugs didn’t do her in, her past would have caught up with her one day. My mother has already died many times before.
The first time happened when I was about ten. Ovarian cancer. I don’t remember much. People speaking in hushed tones around me. A mommy who went away and came back, much later, with the hair missing from all over her body. Then, a miracle! No one defeated ovarian cancer back then, but my mother was apparently tougher than anyone suspected. She went on to live through breast cancer, colon disease, high blood pressure, scoliosis, and multiple nervous breakdowns. Illness took some of the fight out of her. Still, she survived.
Only to face death disguised as a man. Grendel, high school friends and I called him, after the monster in Beowulf. Grendel did a lot of drinking, name-calling, hitting, and breaking. The worst time was when he busted down our front door, dead-bolt lock and all, and pointed a loaded pistol at my mother’s face. While I stood there, butcher knife twitching in my hand, weighing the pros and cons of stabbing Grendel, he clicked the gun slowly, multiple times before I realized it wasn’t loaded. He just wanted to prove a point. He was angry that my mom had borrowed money from the judge she worked for and accused her of sleeping with him.
Ironic how the people we call crazy often speak a twisted truth. There my mother sits, confined to her geri-chair, imprisoned by her past, searching for what bell hooks calls “homeplace.” Beside her, a helpless, hapless Beo-Woolf stands with pen in hand instead of butcher knife. I take notes furiously as The Judge fires terms at me like “Baker Act” and “state mental hospital” if Mother doesn’t stop biting and hitting. I, too, want to bit and hit, but whom? To what end?
January 5, 2009
My mother died again over the holidays. Not physically this time. No death is ever permanent in our ancestor-haunted family. This one, a mental fall over a metaphorical cliff from which she will never recover, has been officially diagnosed by a man she calls “The Judge” as late-onset bipolar disorder and early-stage dementia.
By some folks’ testimony, Mother was normal on Thanksgiving: smoking, gossiping, cutting up, foregoing vegetables for sweet potato pie, and begging rides to the corner store for scratch-off lottery tickets. By Christmas, she was in the geriatric psych ward.
During “good” times, this is a marvelous garden, where she picks imaginary strawberries and tomatoes off vines that grow before her. It’s a circus (well, that much is true), with clowns and funny animals prancing about. It is home, where my grandmother, dead over a decade, tries on fanciful hats.
During “bad” times, she’s in jail, held prisoner against her will, forced to be a prostitute, beaten, and raped. I’m colluding with The Judge to keep her there because I’m a terrible daughter, always have been, she tells me over and over again. She bites and hits the nurses. She bangs against her geri-chair, a metal recliner with locking tray that keeps patients considered “flight risks” confined.
Part of me admires her volatile moments. Who among us – if we believed ourselves unjustly held prisoner – would not similarly rail against The Judge, bite his minions’ hands, and rattle the bars of our cages? “Attica! Attica!” I want to chant along with her. But this is my mother, not a movie.
If her last few years were filmed as montage, she would be shuffling toward that cliff on her walker, her body bent almost double and twisted with scoliosis. Granny and other dead relatives have been socializing with her for years. She supplements her retirement income with scratch-offs and cash advances from whatever credit cards come in the mail. She lives off sugar: diet drinks, cookies, and cereal. (Internet searches taught me that delusions, out-of-control financial judgment, and excessive sweet tooth are hallmarks of her disease.) She has a rock star’s drug resume: including Paxil and Xanax for mental health, and a variety of muscle relaxers and Oxycontin – “hillbilly heroin” – for the back pain. If the drugs didn’t do her in, her past would have caught up with her one day. My mother has already died many times before.
The first time happened when I was about ten. Ovarian cancer. I don’t remember much. People speaking in hushed tones around me. A mommy who went away and came back, much later, with the hair missing from all over her body. Then, a miracle! No one defeated ovarian cancer back then, but my mother was apparently tougher than anyone suspected. She went on to live through breast cancer, colon disease, high blood pressure, scoliosis, and multiple nervous breakdowns. Illness took some of the fight out of her. Still, she survived.
Only to face death disguised as a man. Grendel, high school friends and I called him, after the monster in Beowulf. Grendel did a lot of drinking, name-calling, hitting, and breaking. The worst time was when he busted down our front door, dead-bolt lock and all, and pointed a loaded pistol at my mother’s face. While I stood there, butcher knife twitching in my hand, weighing the pros and cons of stabbing Grendel, he clicked the gun slowly, multiple times before I realized it wasn’t loaded. He just wanted to prove a point. He was angry that my mom had borrowed money from the judge she worked for and accused her of sleeping with him.
Ironic how the people we call crazy often speak a twisted truth. There my mother sits, confined to her geri-chair, imprisoned by her past, searching for what bell hooks calls “homeplace.” Beside her, a helpless, hapless Beo-Woolf stands with pen in hand instead of butcher knife. I take notes furiously as The Judge fires terms at me like “Baker Act” and “state mental hospital” if Mother doesn’t stop biting and hitting. I, too, want to bit and hit, but whom? To what end?
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