FundamentallySound Blog

Pastoral scene of the gentle south. Scent of magnolia clean and fresh. Then the sudden smell of burning flesh. - Nina Simone, Strange Fruit

I'm writing this now, flying somewhere over Alabama from Mississippi, going to change planes in Atlanta. I've been trying to think of words that point to the feeling of this place, that give some sort of reference to the frailty, slowness, and fatigue of the American deep south. I think the key word is fatigue: this is an area that only 150 years ago was completely ravaged in the bloodiest war America ever fought, the Civil War, one of the first wars fought on the grounds of human rights. 150 years, that's two (nearly three maybe?) generations, really not that long ago. The losers of that war are still tired I guess.

I'm thinking of James Purdy and his stories of the south, his renderings of the kinds of strange lives people live down here, full of pathos, tragedy, and absurdity. These people are living lives that aren't quiet, they screech, crash, and bump and require choirs of amens, yelps of salvation, and hallelujahs. It's due to the weather, maybe, the insanely hot summers that are a struggle to live through. How anyone is able to make it until fall is a mystery to me.

Bea Lenoir, the physical embodiment of all that is love, acceptance, mercy, and goodness in this world, gave me a piece of lemon cake today on my way to catch the plane. Her grandparents were slaves, according to local legend. Her parents lived through the aftermath, I can't imagine the stories she would tell. But instead of telling stories, she just looks at me and laughs when she answers her door, and the first words out of her mouth are, "Ain't he still 'purty! He was such a sweet boy an' he still 'purty. I'm gonna send up a 'lil prayer up for you tonight baby, you so 'purty you got things you need to look out for." I hear this and I can't believe that I really do come from this place, these people. I cry a little on this flight.