My dad is visiting. He has a car.
Suddenly the wide, flat dinner table of the Delta is ours to explore – I
am temporarily an equal citizen of this Highway Kingdom.
We went to Sumner, a small
village nearby, where the murderers of Emmett Till, a 14-year old African American
visiting from Chicago, were tried. A
five- day trial that quickly ended in a verdict of ‘not guilty, was followed
within a month by magazine interviews in which the accused happily confess to
beating and drowning the boy. The
village square is leafy and green, quiet.
A granite confederate watches over all, unseeing. For a long time the town did not want to see,
either. The death of a young boy has
echoed loud through the years, even the courthouse chairs were re-arranged in
an effort to confuse memory. But some
locals have begun the difficult process of acknowledgment. A young man shows us through a collection of
exploded newspaper clippings (to think a boy could be referred to as ‘little
darkey’ just 60 years ago!) and explains how a local man chained the memorial plaque
to his pick-up in an attempt to uproot the truth – until he was asked to think
about his own 14-year old son.
We went to Rosedale – it rhymes
with ‘Beirut’. This quiet American town
looks like a warzone, populated with refugees – the few standing buildings are
a jumble of collapsed roof beams and bullet-scarred bricks, most windows are
smashed, everything is gutted, cars sit up on bricks and a handful of gnarled
amputees loiter outside a warped plywood shack with a hastily scrawled ‘beeer’
sign smeared over its door. One of them
waves warmly as we pass.
Only a few miles away, the
town of Cleveland MS. Five minutes’
drive and an entire world apart. Here is
a University, a neatly manicured town square flanked with quaint gift shoppes
and a swathe of lace-windowed little sandwich cafes. There’s even a place selling quilting fabric,
so that you can pull the blankets up and close your eyes.
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Actually Greenwood - photos of the towns discussed languish on a different camera. |
Such is the contrast of the
Deep South.

Dinner in a big old mansion,
a flag hangs listlessly beneath the ancient oak on the lawn, the wide porch is
screened-in and sports a wrought-iron bed and deep, lazy couches. Inside, a large staircase twists about
itself, the floors are covered in faded, glorious Oriental rugs, the walls are
covered in family portraits and prayers; everywhere, little statuettes and
keepsakes. From amongst the high-backed
brocade armchairs of the drawing room – the slowly-flowing drawl of conversation,
like the current of the river itself.
All are kin at some point, family trees are recounted with an intricacy
and an intimacy that bedazzles, the families are closely tied to the land –
they know what building stood where, who owned it and who lived there. Over all reigns the resident dowager, last
word of authority on any potentially confusing entwinement of family
branches. She sits relaxed with an
almond liqueur, her warm face smiling contentedly, her bright zebra-print
blouse electric-fresh against the faded flora of the wallpaper behind her.
My friend broke his hand in
a drunken punch up, his guitar-picking fingers swollen into grotesque sausages. Hours spent in the ER queue, only to be told
he doesn’t have insurance and to be sent home promptly, even though his hand is
folded in two and you can see the bones poking into his palm. No insurance, no service. Luckily, my friend is Native American and his
tribe has some form of civilized community health protection. Although that does mean he must hitch to faraway
Dakota with a thumb that doesn’t work.

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