Sweet Release

Mosquitoes usually love my blood, but I don’t think I’ve ever had this many bites in my life. I have to refrain in public from itching just below my butt and along my inner-thigh where those blasted insects preyed upon me while I sat outside late into the evening in my little black dress. Damn! It’s uncomfortable. Layered over my bites–– which extend to my ankles and neck–– is a light pink sunburn from a road trip to Yazoo City with JoAnne Sunday. I stupidly forgot to wear sunscreen under the blazing 100* rays.

Week four of my Southern summer adventures begins. I’m making no money, have minimal belongings here, accidentally give my neighbors to the left a peep show by periodically forgetting to close my curtains, creep on some pounds from beer and lack of rigorous exercise, and look like a wet, pouffy dog whenever I stay outside and move around for prolonged periods of time.

It’s been a fantastic summer, and I wouldn’t change a thing.

Thursday I attended my first JFP “lounge” at the Sal & Mookie’s bar. I have always thought of a salon as a hairstylist’s terrain, but after Donna mentioned it in passing, I did a Wikipedia check and realized the more common, overarching definition for it is “a gathering of men and women to participate in formal and informal discussion centered around a specific topic. A salonnière, the woman who ran the salon, decided upon its central preoccupation which may include politics, literature, art, fashion or business.”

A Jackson Free Press lounge is basically a monthly, less formal salon at a local restaurant with complimentary food and cocktails for penniless, hard-working interns (and staff). Besides enjoying the lounge, one other experience last week lingered with me–– in an unsettling way.

To mix things up on either Wednesday or Thursday, I pulled out my new snazzy red heels and wore them with a funky black and white patterned skirt. I go through phases of dressing fabulously (in my mind) with a hint of allure and looking like a schmuck. Right now, I’m somewhere in the middle.

I went to run errands that day in that outfit and a white man gave me the up-down and a whistle. I scowled and thought, “What a meathead asshole!” Just a few minutes later, though, when black man said “Hey baby!” with the same animalistic eye gesture, I smiled awkwardly. I felt dumbfounded that I couldn’t muster even a frown.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve tried to be overly nice to black people as an apology for our ugly history. Sadly, I don't have many black friends, nor the opportunity to encounter black people much at all back home. When that black man said “Hey baby,” all I could think about was the Emmett Till case–– how a black boy was murdered for innocently flirting with a white woman, calling her “baby” in the 1950s. And so, I didn’t feel entitled to get pissed at him--the black man who checked me out. At the same time, my feminist spirit raged with frustration that I couldn’t express my dissatisfaction with someone for degrading me as a woman.

There are not many black people in Oregon. Let’s face it: there’s not much racial diversity at all. I used to say that race did not define diversity–– that it was enough that the University of Oregon had students who spanned the spectrum of religious, philosophical and political leanings. But, it’s decidedly not, as I've learned living in the South.

In RA class during the spring of ’06, I naively agreed with those who said that we are all Ducks and we can all live harmoniously and find common ground between various racial identities easily. That’s Pollyanna thinking. At that time, I had never felt what it’s like to be the only white person in a room of black people.

It takes a lot more work than “counting yourself in” as a part of the universal humanity to transcend the unspoken chasms between racial groups and come to true understanding and mutual respect. Racial and ethnic idiosyncrasies are complicated and potentially divisive. Living in Mississippi has forced me to think about race on a daily basis and often feeling in the minority humbles me. When I return to Eugene, I think I'll be able to add more voice to conversations surrounding race. I vow to be a more active participant in these conversations.

On an aside, I dreamed Thursday night that I spent the afternoon with Obama strolling through Central Park :) I was crushed to wake up late Friday, covered in a layer of sticky sweat with Spotty hanging over my face.

Which leads me to an article I'm writing about an incredibly woman who is awed to see Barack Obama as our future President.

I interviewed a Freedom Rider named Helen Singleton in the afternoon and felt inspired the rest of the day, as I feel inspired by Obama every time I hear him speak. The only black women on her ride, Mrs. Singleton was separated from the others and listened to a rat trying to break through the pipes into her trash-ladden cell her first night in prison. She risked her life with her husband, Bob, to ignite racial integration in public transportation.

As I sat in that night to do some self introspection and watched the film “Freedom Writers” about inner-city kids infiltrated with violence who transform when a passionate teacher ignites their hunger for learning, I felt further uplifted from my afternoon interview. I continue to unravel what I’ve learned and realized here as I go. And, I’ve gotten a good taste of Jackson by learning these things here.

Saturday, world-class dancers visited for an International Ballet Competition Reunion Gala. A very generous man whom I interviewed gave me two fifth row seats to the performance and I took JoAnne as my date. We both donned our little black dresses and colorful accessories to the fancy affair at the Thalia Mara Hall. As usual, we arrived late–– we have similar habits that way––and had to make our way down the expansive hall just as the lights dimmed.

“Oh I think I remember him! He was good!” JoAnne excitedly announced in a loud whisper during the second performance. She reminded me of some family members (cough, DAD, cough) who play by their own social rules and don’t inhibit their natural curiosity even in more sophisticated, proper settings. I was especially amused when she tried to sneak a Coke behind a program into the auditorium at intermission and the usher caught her and told her she wasn’t allowed to have beverages in there.

Brooklyn Mack was the dancer JoAnne remembered. He fuses ballet with hip-hop and the results are spectacular. I enjoy classical ballet just fine, although some of the pieces like “Giselle” with the tutu-ed ballerina princesses put me in the first act head bob lull. The contemporary pieces captivated me and JoAnne, especially “I’m your Man” and “Bumpin’ me Against the Wall.” You see these sculpted bodies moving in such artful, lyrical ways and you wish you could move as beautifully, gracefully and magically.

A gorgeous, young couple with exquisite physical chemistry danced “I’m your Man.” Adrienne Canterna wore this bright red risqué number and her husband, Rasta Thomas, looked studly in a tight black T-shirt, black slacks and a fedora lined with a silk red scarf. The duo had a baby together just within the past year, but Adrienne looks incredibly svelte. They masterfully combined ballet with night club pizzaz and a touch of sexiness. Their piece reminded me of “Dirty Dancing.”

JoAnne and I spent more time together Sunday when we road tripped. On our way, we stopped at Poore’s plants for some flowers to place on Willie’s grave at the Yazoo City cemetery. A skinny old man with leathered tan skin and chicken stick legs greeted us. “Aftanoon, ladies,” he said, revealing a toothless grin under his fisherman’s hat. Bob or Bill or whatever his name was, remembered JoAnne as Willie’s girl and got chatty with us. “I needta be careful out heah. I got heat stroke last year and lost 40 pounds.”

Mr. Poore gave JoAnne a deal on four Lazy Susans and let us use his hair-covered bathroom (what kind of hair, I do not wish to know) in his nasty little shed house- work space. Before we left, Mr. Poore admitted to voting for Bush twice and wished us well. JoAnne’s eyes widened and she smirked at me as we pulled out onto the gravel road and headed toward one of her and Willie’s favorite, intriguing places. Mr. Poore told me I was a pretty little girl, and I laughed to myself.

Yazoo City looked just as I’d imagined it while reading “North Toward Home.” I looked to the left on the drive in JoAnne’s gray Camry and saw the old curvey highway lined with kudzu. The town hearkens to the 1950s to me and has a quaint Southern charm like the places you see in movies. I could see why JoAnne wanted to write a book about Yazoo back in the 1970s as a Humanities teacher at the high school. She delved into every archive she could get her hands on and with her friend Harriet, exhausted every word they could pump out about Yazoo’s history before they ran out of time and had to cut off the years they were able to cover. My butt stuck to the seat of JoAnne’s car and as she told these wonderful stories, I felt terrible that I drown in and out of the conversation, lulled by the drive and by staying up until 4a.m. the night before.

The cemetery where Willie rests combines old graves and new, black graves and white, Protestant graves and Catholic, rich graves and poor. It’s a serene, calming place filled with folklore and spirit. Under the beating sun, sweltering, we wandered to the Witch’s grave and paced 13 steps to Willie’s beautiful tombstone made out of a special, sparkling rock that lies under Manhattan. Bright orange flowers abounded from the root of his stone and we looked forward to brightening it up even more.

“I forgot my shovel!” JoAnne said with a hint of disappointment but determination to plant those Lazy Susans. We trudged to a disheveled shed and flower dumping ground where we found a shovel missing half its stick and goudered hoses with red ant hills underneath.

On our way back to plant, a kind man named Charlie called out to us and offered some assistance. I thought he was a cemetery maintenance man, but as it turned out, he was just out visiting his dad who had died four years earlier. He graduated from Yazoo High around the time JoAnne taught and they tossed names back and forth. Charlie attended high school in the early 70s just as the schools integrated there.

The ratty hoses and disabled shovel worked well. We splattered ourselves with water, muddied our hands and drank from the hose to rehydrate.

After spending a solid two or so hours in the cemetery, JoAnne traipsed me through the "delta land," hoping to show me cotton fields. We saw none. Instead, soy beans and corn grew for miles. Still, we drove through swamp land where grayish moss mysteriously hangs from trees and you can imagine alligators lurking.

We took a detour onto an old , rural road and seven miles later ran into a potbellied man wearing a short T-shirt that showed part of his tummy and tight fitting pants. “What’re y’all lookin’ for out here?” he asked, laughing deeply. Fugitives would love the area where this man lives. Abandoned shotgun-ish houses serve as the perfect refuge for those on the run.

In Bentonia, we stopped at the Blues Front Cafe. I was disappointed to hear that 930 Blues isn’t quite the entire, real deal blues joint. It “caters to white people’s money” and isn’t quite as folksy as the Bentonia place. There we met Duck, a dark black man who wears a Jesus shirt while interchangeably chain smoking and strumming freestyle blues ballads on his “geetar.” We sat outside at a dirty plastic white table in metal chairs, drinking Budweisers, eating fritos and “shootin the shit.” Flies swarmed around us and I felt like an overheated, lazy dog.

For dinner, we ate at a strange place with a tee pee attached to a log building called Big D’s BBQ. A nerdy man with circular glasses and a deep Southern accent prepared JoAnne and me sandwiches. “You ladeez haave yo-self a goood night!” he said with a quirkly smile.

In Jackson, seeing Medgar Evers ‘mint green ranch style house gave me the chills. I saw where Byron De La Beckwith hid before and after the assassination and was reminded that he was not brought to justice until 30 years after the crime. When Rob Reiner directed Ghosts of Mississippi, he reconstructed the story’s scenes with poignant and eery accuracy, even showing Evers' murder. Willie chronicled the movie's filming with "Ghost of Medgar Evers: A Tale of Race, Murder, Mississippi and Hollywood."

It’s 2a.m. Wednesday morning, and I’ve managed, in typical Lisa form, to procrastinate on two projects by getting caught up in other things, such as chronicling my week in blog. I can say, though, that after three weeks of interning and being an honorary Mississippian, I’m learning to release my fears and inhibitions while living in Jackson and it’s incredibly freeing. I no longer have any hesitations about picking up the phone, even to call the coroner’s office or incredible civil rights leaders, and feel enlivened every time I step out of my comfort zone or thumb through JoAnne’s home library books. One woman at the Eudora Welty Library told me this week that some people come here to Mississippi intending to stay temporarily and end up staying for years. “There’s this spirit and heart that draws them in,” she said. I can understand why.

But Oregon, I think you hold my heart, still.