In winter 2018, I spent a month in Mexico City. My accommodations, originally a Friends (Quaker) guesthouse, gave its third floor over to some refugees from the second caravan coming north from Central America.
In the sala, I talked with Patricio (a pseudonym) from El Salvador. He had received troubling news: the government had informed his family that it would take their land unless they built a house on it by a certain date. There is an issue with documents and a signature that I don't understand.
How does one take care of such family business when one is a refugee? Patricio and his wife have a four-year old son. With luck, they will join Patricio in February.
Patricio shared with me a photo of his son, along with phone recordings from conversations between him and his little one.
Nightmares awaken Patricio.
~~~~~~~~
My Spanish isn't good enough to understand the specifics of Patricio's situation, but below are relevant issues, any one of which could touch on his family's predicament:
In winter 2018, I spent a month in Mexico City. My accommodations, originally a Friends (Quaker) guesthouse, gave its third floor over to some refugees from the second caravan coming north from Central America.
Some women and men deported from the US also passed through the guesthouse. I've given them pseudonyms.
Some new folks arrived today.
A married couple came up with the first caravan from Guatemala. They'd been deported from Austin, Texas. They believed it best for their two young children, ages three and five, to leave them in safe hands in Austin.
Another man, Juan, originally from Chiapas, arrived. He'd been living in Chicago for a number of years, working for a landscaping company. Deported just last week. Instead of returning to Chiapas, he plans to stay in Mexico City for now, as there are more opportunities here.
A third man, Guillermo, who'd lived in Nevada for more than 20 years, was visiting New York when tapped. He's lived in Mexico City for almost a year now, and plans to move to his own place here in January. Originally from Jalapa in Vera Cruz, he says, smiling: "Yo soy jalapeño." Chuckles.
An ad hoc poem I wrote in some time in some where? An exercise with the Tumblewords Project? No idea. But here it is, about a real-life experience at some dance function, in which I was trying to learn how to dance something. My guess is that it was a contra dance thing.
Two clothespins in his hair.
What am I to make of this?
An eccentricity?
A clever hack?
A genius' forgivable befuddlement?
I can't concentrate on the dance instructions
Which are befuddling enough, like a confounding algebraic word problem about orbiting, colliding bodies on a wooden floor.
I burst into laughter ...
... at the clothespins in that man's hair ... or the Alice-in-Wonderland instructions for the dance?
I don't know.
I wonder ... Can I escape?
Just leave the floor?
Abandon my dance partner? (What's his name again?)
In winter 2018, I spent a month in Mexico City. My accommodations, originally a Friends (Quaker) guesthouse, gave its third floor over to some refugees from the second caravan coming north from Central America.
One of the asylum-seekers became ill, and I wrote this:
So when you are vomiting blood and have no money, what do you do?
In the case of one of my housemates, you go to a pharmacy for a consult - in some pharmacies free and in others, for a nominal fee (but even this is inaccessible if you have no money, so one of your housemates pays the consulting fee for you - about 35 pesos).
The pharmacist takes your vitals (blood pressure, pulse, temperature, and throat check), but no blood, stool, or urine tests.
The pharmacist takes a history from you, considers the possibilities, rules some out, and recommends an endoscopy. Which, of course, is outside your financial reach.
The pharmacist suggests there is an irritation in your esophagus or at another milepost along the gastrointestinal boulevard, and to eat fruits and vegetables, and avoid spicy foods. If still producing blood in two days, do what you can to get that endoscopy.
What could be the cause?
The violent blows to your torso, delivered 10 days ago by fellow caravanners from a different country than yours, who maybe took umbrage at your membership in the caravan's LGBTQI group? Or the cocaine you ingested yesterday evening, even though you've never had such a reaction before? Or stress? Or malnutrition? Or an ulcer? Or a pulmonary issue? Deadly? Or a passing health incident, self-repairing?
Does an affliction care if you are kind and amiable, that you sometimes engage in risky behaviors, are poor, have left all that is familiar to you, and your access to food, shelter, and employment is insecure? No, it does not; it is impersonal.
Maybe there's a biological tipping-point algorithm at play: stress+malnutrition+uncertainty+a beating+cocaine+compromised immune system from the cold virus that's been visiting the house = a crocodile crack on a corporeal byway = vomiting blood.
Men of Vision, 2014 Holy Ghost Catholic Church Creole Festival, Opelousas, Louisiana
So. Halloween. Not being a trick-or-treater or wear-a-costume sort of
gal, my annual strategy is to get out of the house on Halloween and hide
out til the littles have completed their rounds.
In Lafayette, it being a party kind of place and Halloween being on a
Friday this year, you would surmise correctly if you thought that most
getaways included dressing up.
But then I saw the perfect place to go - the 22nd Annual Holy Ghost Catholic Church Creole Festival. The festival is the first weekend in November, beginning on Friday. Gospel music on Friday night.
Here's a video from St. Landry's Parish, focusing on Holy Ghost women making potato pies for the 2011 festival:
I got to hear different styles of gospel music at the church:
Rap
Jazz
Blues
and I guess what I'd call the traditional gospel style
Here's a gospel rap song called "Having a Holy Ghost Party," performed at the concert Friday night:
And one of the songs from the Mount Olive Baptist Church Men's Chorus:
And from three women whose group name I forget:
There was even a performance of liturgical dance by the youth, and at
first, I thought, aha, this is a new idea for me, but wait ....
liturgical dance is just a fancy way of talking about sacred dance,
which has been practiced in many cultures for eons.
2014 Holy Ghost Catholic Church Creole Festival, Opelousas, Louisiana
There are a number of reasons why the regularity of my blog posts has
faltered, and one of them is that even though I may have gone to a
kick-ass musical event, there's only so much one can say about music
events. Ditto for photos of musicians. Even the sublime becomes mundane
with too much talk about it.
So it is that instead of a photo or description of the eminently
entertaining Lil Kenny and the Heartbreakers at the October 3rd Market and Music event in Opelousas, I present to you a picture of a pretty girl at that event, Lorena.
Lorena, Opelousas, Louisiana. October 2014.
I saw Lorena and did a double-take - something about her reminded me of a
beautiful Vermeer painting. Lorena makes me smile just to look at her.
So thanks to Lorena and her mother - a fellow life adventuress, as I subsequently learned - for permission to share this photo.
I'm visiting Hanoi in November. I'll be there for a month.
Both boats and Vietnam are on my mind in recent days.
As an agnostic member of a couple of 12-step programs, I've had to fashion a higher power that works for me.
Many years ago, before I walked into the 12-step life, a quote by Thich Nhat Hanh spoke to me:
In Vietnam, there are many people, called boat people, who leave the country in small boats. Often the boats are caught in rough seas or storms, the people may panic, and the boats can sink. But if even one person aboard can remain calm, lucid, knowing what to do and what not to do, he or she can help the boat survive.
I envision my higher power as a sturdy little boat. (I aspire to being calm, lucid, and capable.) My sturdy little boat can't prevent, lessen the strength, or shorten the duration of inevitable storms, but its sturdiness imparts calm, confidence, and courage to me - as long as I trust in its seaworthiness.
For much of my life I looked to birds as inspiration - and even now, their song, beauty of flight, nest-building skills, and yes, their "bird's eye view" of things - speak to me.
But it's in the sturdy little boat where I can find calm and courage as family members, country, and the world convulse in painful spasms of confusion, helplessness, mistrust, horror, fear, loss, and grief.
I do not reduce Vietnam to static tropes of "boat people," the Vietnam War (aka the American War, as viewed by Vietnamese), or pho.
No, it's the juxtaposition of my series on migration this year, and my distress (and on some days, despair) over the shameful lashes of verbal and mental abuse on the backs of women, men, and children who are only doing what rational, courageous people do to rescue themselves from untenable circumstances in their homes.
Mere days ago, folks in the path of Hurricane Helene left their homes, household items held dear, neighborhoods, schools, houses of worship, vegetable gardens - not because of any frivolous reasons - but because they felt they had to leave. For their security. They were/are migrants themselves, even if only for a short time. If they are among the fortunate.
In re-visiting my original post, I reconfirmed the librarian thing in the American folklore, and then found this SNL piece, The Librarian, which plunged into hellfire. [Consider yourself warned].
Oh, how many times have I been asked that since I've lived in South Louisiana!
Strangers ask me this question, and it happened again just last night.
I respect teachers. And because South Louisiana must have more teachers
per square inch than perhaps anywhere else in the world, I've had the
pleasure of meeting many lovely representatives of the teaching
profession here.
I have discussed this "are you a teacher?" question at some length with a
local buddy, also a transplant from Not Around Here. He is of the
opinion that he can identify a teacher from afar. His claim has some
credibility because he used to be a teacher and had ample time to study
many females of the species in their natural habitat. Last night I asked
him to define exactly how one profiles a (woman) teacher, and here's
what he said --> A woman is possibly a teacher if she wears a:
Jean skirt;
Flow-y skirt;
Skirt that falls below the knees;
Sandals with wide straps;
Gabardine shirt;
Blouse that is worn over a skirt (i.e. not tucked in);
Blouse or dress with a bold print; or
Shirt that covers her ass.
He suggested I could probably go online and find websites devoted to
what teachers wear. I said I would definitely do this, because based on
my experience in South Louisiana, maybe my very own photo is on those
websites as a Sample Teacher.
Here are the results of my search on what teachers wear. You be the judge of my buddy's analysis:
Again, I love teachers. But it's got to be said that teachers don't have
the same panache as, say, librarians.With librarians you never know
what they're going to do, like pull off their glasses, let down their
hair from that tight bun, and you know, become very un-librarianlike
while maintaining their presumed intellect. Librarians are
unpredictable, thus a little dangerous. But not teachers. Nope, teachers
go to prison for doing what librarians do.
This morning I shared my experience with several women, all of whom are
native South Louisianans. I wondered if such queries might even be a
local culture thing - maybe other people are approached with conjectures
about their profession. Maybe it's just a conversation starter.
The jury's still out on all that, but we considered a couple of new responses to the question:
"Yes! I teach pole dancing! How could you tell?"
Flash a fake badge and say, "No, I'm with the FBI on an undercover operation, and things are about to pop. Move away or you might get hurt."
One of the woman said, "Well, what profession do you want people to think you have?"
Good question. I don't want them to have an assumption about my
profession. If anyone is going to say anything, I'd like them to say to
me what a stranger said to me in Bernalillo, New Mexico: "You are really having fun, aren't you?" and the answer would be yes.
Note: The fact that I am a teacher is beside the point.
In December 2012, when I was in New Mexico, my mother came to visit. I wrote this post: We Stop for Carcasses.
Still do, and the number of photos has increased to the point of warranting a slide show:
Not sure why I mark these remains of what used to be life. Perhaps it's
that taking a photo and sharing that photo is a conscious noticing of them.
The original post:
"We Stop for Carcasses."
My mother, Carol, who is visiting me from Missouri, and I were driving
at a speedy clip down Highway 117, I think, when I saw chicken-sized
ravens making merry on the remains of a large mammal. I wondered if I
should stop to take a look, but passed on.
I commented to Carol, "Did you see that animal the ravens were eating"?
"No," she said.
I asked, "Do you want me to turn around"?
"Yes. We stop for carcasses," she replied.
So I turned around.
Dead elk, Highway 117, New Mexico. December 2012.
Earlier in Carol's visit, we'd stopped for this fallen elk on Highway 70 between Tularosa and Mescalero.
Dead elk, Highway 70, New Mexico. December 2012.
As Carol was framing her shot, a car pulled up behind us. A man emerged
and walked toward us. What? Ah, he was a tourist from Nebraska. He had
his camera out, too.
A few years ago, on another trip to New Mexico with my mother, I stopped
for a wilderpee along Highway 152, only to almost stumble on this dead
dog.
Dead dog, Highway 152, New Mexico. March 2003.
Speaking of almost stumbling on carrion while finding a good place to
relieve oneself, here's a shot of a dead deer in Carson National Forest,
also in New Mexico, on yet another past trip. I got all artistic on
this shot.
Dead deer, Carson National Forest, New Mexico. November 2008.
There has been no lack of carrion in Missouri, either:
Dead armadillo, Highway 21, Missouri. October 2009.
I've had several so-called smart phones (do we still need to call them that?) since my original adoption in 2014. All androids. I've liked all of them except my current, which I bought in 2023. It's my first Samsung. I actually kind of hate it. Samsung's purported superior camera tore me away from going with a Google Pixel.
I mightily regret:
The indecent amount of bloatware on the Samsung
Saving money by going with only one port (for charging and for wired earbuds), which I've paid plenty for in annoyance
Its larger size - and with the added investment for a phone case - heavier mass
Fortunately, in just a few short years, I'll be able to move on.
Here's a throwback phone to the one issued to me in Caucasus Georgia. It wasn't all that smart, but it was smart enough.
No, I haven't got a real puppy. But I have acquired something like a puppy. I've got to learn its ways, train it, and be trained by it.
I've got to keep track of it, so it doesn't get lost or stolen. I can handle it playfully, but not roughly.
It's not really a phone, but it's called a phone
It's a smart phone, my first. Only to call it a smartphone is a misnomer. It is a mini computer with a phone application.
This is not just semantics. How I view my new puppy affects how I socialize it with the world.
With my soon-to-be-old "dumb phone" - let's say my pet "turtle" - I could:
Make and receive phone calls;
Laboriously write texts and check email; and
Make limited forays onto the internet.
I had little concern about privacy boundaries or theft or malware
because the dumb phone itself was like a turtle. A built-in shell for
protection, by dint of its limited features, and thus easily monitored
or caught if it meandered off, too humble to attract unwanted attention
from strangers.
It's an entirely different story with my mini-computer.
Why did I get this puppy?
Being rootless, why would I want to be tied down with a puppy? Sheesh,
now I've got to worry about dropping the damn thing or the glass will
crack. It's cute and sweet and thereby attractive to strangers who might
like to adopt it for themselves, so I've got to always have my radar on
to make sure I know where it is. And it requires so much training - for
the little one and me - to become true pals.
There are several reasons why I went this route:
My turtle phone was on its last legs - that reliable, albeit
limited, $30 phone I've had for years, with the cute little teeth marks
on the top left-hand corner.
My laptop is getting on in years and it could go belly up at any
time, and I need a sophisticated, on-the-spot back-up to turn to for my
work.
I'll be headed out of the country again soon and I want an unlocked mini-computer that can run by wifi or a data plan.
An invisible fence
When I bought my little puppy, I was still thinking of it as a phone. A
phone with a lot of very cool enhancements. Consequently, I was startled
by the decisions I had to make right away. Such as:
What personal bits about myself - my data exhaust - did I want to have on this device?
What apps did I want to download - and what information was I willing to share in order to get these apps?
How could I enjoy all the benefits of a mini-computer without leaving a trail of personal me everywhere I went?
How many ads - if any - can I tolerate in exchange for a "free" app?
What data am I willing to lose if my mini-computer falls into the hands of strangers?
Like a puppy, I'm not willing to let my little device sit in a hot
car for hours while I'm off canoeing or swimming or doing something else
that puts it at risk. So do I change my habits and just leave it at
home for such activities?
Some decisions I've made (and it might make sense here to note that I've bought an Android device):
Thank God, I have more than one email address (hehehe),
so I chose one of my little-used accounts to be the email account on my
device. I can put some distance between this account and me-central.
Do I really need to download a free game that requires access to my contact list? Hell, no! No games for you, little puppy!
Do I need to download Kindle to my mini-computer? No, I've got a
kindle e-reader, and I don't want to connect my Amazon account to my
device. If I want to read, that's what my e-reader is for. Or an actual
book.
Do I want to stay signed in to my Skype account on my device? No;
I've only got it on there as a back-up, and I don't ever want to make
another mistake call to a work-related client.Whoops. (The lil' puppy is
so eager to please, it tries to anticipate what you want by going to
fetch somebody else's paper. Bad girl.)
I'm trying to find the right balance between security and maximum fun + utility.
Breaux Bridge Crawfish Festival 2014, Breaux Bridge, Louisiana
It's always the first weekend of May, and in 2014, the town celebrated its 54th festival.
Breaux Bridge Crawfish Festival 2014, Breaux Bridge, Louisiana
Bags checked at gate - not even a bottle of water allowed in.
Breaux Bridge Crawfish Festival 2014, Breaux Bridge, Louisiana
Fabulous music. Fabulous. Six months ago, I didn't know these people
existed, but today, I can tell you it is very satisfying to see
venerable musicians such as Ray Abshire and D.L. Menard in person.
Ray Abshire and company, Breaux Bridge Crawfish Festival 2014, Breaux Bridge, Louisiana
I filmed Mr. Menard's performance (with the band Jambalaya) of his famous song, Back Door, here.
How I love this song! I'm not wild about the quality of my video,
though, so I invite you to watch the superior video below, which someone
filmed at the 2009 Breaux Bridge Crawfish Festival:
It was also fun to see people I "knew" from having watched videos before I went to the festival.
Like this good-lookin', good-dancin' couple below:
Breaux Bridge Crawfish Festival 2014, Breaux Bridge, Louisiana
I first "met" them in the much-viewed video below from the 2009 festival:
Now look at that still photo again (above the video). See the slender
guy on the right? In the flappy-eared hat? Well, that's Leon of Cafe des
Amis renown, and you can watch him dance in the video here, taken by a
visitor to that cafe:
Note: Leon's dance partner is doing a damn fine job herself.
It's pretty hot and sunny in BB, Louisiana, and as I have learned from
watching southern Louisianans with parades, they know how to attend a
festival. It's first come-first serve at the Breaux Bridge Crawfish
Festival, but you can bring your own shade tent and set it up in
permissible areas. This is a life-saver when you're at the festival for
the long haul.
Breaux Bridge Crawfish Festival 2014, Breaux Bridge, Louisiana
Of course, everyone has a chair.
Breaux Bridge Crawfish Festival 2014, Breaux Bridge, Louisiana
If I were staying longer, I'd definitely invest in one of those folding
chairs with its own awning. Below, you can see one or two of these
awning-chairs, but otherwise, you'll see a variety of umbrellas:
Breaux Bridge Crawfish Festival 2014, Breaux Bridge, Louisiana
I never tire of watching people dance, especially zydeco. It's fun to
see the same people at the different venues. You get to know their
styles, their signature moves.
Breaux Bridge Crawfish Festival 2014, Breaux Bridge, Louisiana
(Between you and me, though, I've learned that a lot of people dance
whatever the hell they want to zydeco music, especially the jitterbug,
the two-step, some form of swing, or just whatever the spirit moves them
to do.)
As my dance teacher said, as long as you're moving to the beat, it really doesn't matter.
DL Menard with Jambalaya, Breaux Bridge Crawfish Festival 2014, Breaux Bridge, Louisiana
Nescafe Gold Espresso. Jefferson City, Missouri. Photo: Mzuriana.
I have a new instant coffee love. Its tagline is velvety crema. And it is velvety, in flavor, mouthfeel, and visual presentation in the jar. Nescafe Gold Espresso. Subtitle: Intense.
I typically only drink instant coffee when I'm on the road, especially camping. But my coffee maker expired one day, and while I dithered over whether and how to replace it, I pulled out my instant coffee cache pending my eventual decision.
As it happened, a friend was moving, and he didn't intend to take his coffee maker with him. I asked if I might adopt it, and he generously agreed.
So I'm back with my usual brew routine, but with summer here, I've also taken a liking to iced coffee made with instant.
These recent developments have me reminiscing on past coffee-related posts:
Kettle corn at Longmont Farmer and Craft Fair, Colorado. June 2023.
Being always on the lookout for good kettle corn, I've felt bereft in mid-Missouri, as my very favorite Missouri kettle corn dealer - A1 Kettle Corn - at the Truxton Exit on Interstate 70 - is kinda far away for a casual drug run, and when I have gone by since my arrival, they haven't been at their usual place outside the Pilot / Flying J truck stop. I have learned that they've closed, due to one of the owner's illness. Je suis triste, both for the owners and for me, selfish person that I am.
My hunt for a replacement ensued.
First I tried other local kettlepreneurs to replace my A1.
Ready Popped Popcorn in Jefferson City: B
Pricey
at $10 per middle-size bag. It's a high-quality bag, which probably
accounts for some of the cost (in addition to having to pay rent for its
storefront, which is the only supply point I'm familiar with). Both the
mouthfeel and flavor are fresh. Flavor is nice, as in nice, like the
nice-lady-next-door kinda nice.
GoPo in Fulton: C
Also
pricey, also in a fancy bag, also of middle size. They call it
"butter kettle" corn, using Kerry Gold butter. So the result is more
high-end movie popcorn rather than kettle corn. Also, it had a stale
taste and mouthfeel. Please do not gentrify my kettle corn. I'm a little mad at this so-called
kettle corn.
Chelle's in Jefferson City:C
Eight
bucks for a loosely-loaded mid-size bag. Who doesn't pack the popcorn
tightly in their bags?! Although the vendor told me she made the popcorn
fresh the morning I bought it, its taste and mouthfeel were stale.
After the above uninspiring experiences, I thought to try commercial kettle corn. I put the best first:
Boom Chicka Pop kettle corn. April 2024. Jefferson City, Missouri.
Boom Chicka Pop: B+
Damn
good. I could go with Boom Chicka Pop and feel entirely satisfied.
Crunchy. Fresh. Excellent balance of sweet and salty. The seasoning is almost not-quite-enough, which keeps my grade at a B+ instead of an A, but overall, I'll say it again: it's damn good.
Great Value kettle corn. April 2024. Jefferson City, Missouri.
Great Value kettle corn:C+
I
toyed with giving this a B-, but really, it's a good C+. Its popcorn essence comes through clearly, not overwhelmed by
other components. It's crunchy and fresh. However, it doesn't have quite
enough salt; not quite enough sweet. I would choose the Great Value
over the Smartfood without hesitation.
Smartfood kettle corn. April 2024. Jefferson City, Missouri.
Smartfood kettle corn:C
Crunchier and fresher than GoPo and Chelle's. And only four bucks. However, the sweetness smothers the salty, so it's not a product I'd buy again.
Indiana kettle corn. April 2024. Jefferson City, Missouri.
Popcorn Indiana: C-
Unremarkable.
An itinerant character:
On my road trip to Las Cruces in the spring, I picked up a bag of Pappy's kettle corn in Vaughn, New Mexico, at a c-store. I weren't happy wit' Pappy.
Pappy's kettle corn. April 2024. Vaughn, New Mexico.
You went with me to innumerable festivals, and to Ethiopia, to Mexico,
to Caucasus Georgia, to Dubai, to Istanbul, to Armenia, to New Mexico,
and finally, to Louisiana.
We were such a perfect fit. I liked resting my hand on your shoulder,
and to have your arm draped across mine. You protected my valuables. You
carried my books. My water. My camera. You never complained.
Who could have predicted all of the adventures we'd share when we first met at that second-hand store?
I'll never forget you.
Yes, even though I must replace you, know that you will always be my true love.
Wikihow proposes 3 Ways to Urinate When On An Automobile Trip. I'm guessing the author(s) giggled while writing this primer because it is so straight-facedly basic. And also, the sample woman always seems to drink out of a plastic bottle immediately after peeing. Which, if I were a preteen (not now, of course, because I am an adult), I would, of course, wonder what exactly was in the bottle? Really?
The assurance that all of the information in the instructional was fact-checked makes it all the more amusing.
Ah, you're wondering why I'm talking about pee when the title is about Goodwill. Well, read on.
Monday, April 7, 2014
Louisiana: Broussard's Happenin' Goodwill
Borjomi, Caucasus Georgia - Mineral Spring Park - Wilderpee calling. April 2012. Credit: Mzuriana.
The need to empty one's bladder can lead to unexpected encounters.
Sometimes it's a dead animal.
If I didn't already have to go, this disintegrating dog would have scared the pee out of me! Credit: Mzuriana.
Or a descanso.
An altar on the other side of a wilderpee, Carson National Forest, New Mexico. November 2008. Credit: Mzuriana.
Yesterday, on my way to the Dragon Races in New Iberia, on Highway 182
in Broussard, I noted that I had to go to the bathroom. Hmm, wait til I
get to New Iberia - find a McDonald's - or ..... oh, look there's a
Goodwill Store, and I need a skillet.
I pulled into the parking spot in front of the entrance and saw a woman
taking a photo of a man there. Then a photo of the man and a woman. Then
I think the 2nd woman clicked a photo of the man with the 1st woman and
the man. Cognitive dissonance. Taking pics in front of a Goodwill? Why?
New marketing campaign? Some famous person who shops at Goodwill? Both
seemed unlikely.
Walked into the store and asked a man within, "Who is that guy?" - referring to the subject of the 1st woman's photos. He said: "Oh, that's a guy on .... what's that pawn show?"
I suggested, "Swamp Pawn?"
"No, that other one ...."
I suggested, "Oh! Pawn Stars?"
"No .... "
And a woman shopper offered, helpfully, "Cajun Swamp Pawn."
"Yeah, that's the one," the man said. "He's the guy who comes in with crazy stuff to sell. He's the one who makes that show fun."
This man with the answers is no slouch himself - he's a five-time winner of a local
pepper-eating contest. He also plays fiddle at a weekend jam in Breaux
Bridge.
I love my job as a tourist-in-residence.
I even found a skillet, and used the restroom, of course.
Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, Jean Blackwell Hutson Research and Reference Division,
The New York Public Library. "A negro family just arrived in Chicago from the rural South."
The New York Public Library Digital Collections.
1922.
The post I wrote back in 2011 fits perfectly in this year's word of the year series. I haven't yet read Ms. Wilkerson's newer book, Caste, but it rests beside me as I type.
Summary from Publisher's Weekly: "... Pulitzer Prize–winning
journalist Wilkerson's ... study of the "great migration," the
exodus of six million black Southerners out of the terror of Jim Crow
to an "uncertain existence" in the North and Midwest."
I thought I "knew" what it was like to be black in the American South
before institutionalized segregation ended. I "knew" it was bad.
But as I moved through the book, I realized:
Even though I had never articulated it to myself, I must have held
the untested belief that black Americans had somehow acclimated to the
reality of Jim Crow repression in the South.
As much as I thought I "knew" of atrocities such as lynching, mortal
beatings, and being dragged behind vehicles til dead, there were even
worse monstrosities.
I knew nothing about the aggressive actions southern states took to keep black Americans from leaving.
Ms. Wilkerson tells the story of the Great Migration through the voices
of three people who migrated north in three separate decades. Reading
their stories, it really hit home that one never gets acclimated to
daily humiliations, whether petty or grand. There is anger, bitterness,
frustration, fear, despair - most of which could not be expressed during
the Jim Crow years because the consequences of doing so might mean
terrorism, brutalization, or death, for even the slightest infraction of
the "rules."
I like how Ms. Wilkerson framed the Great Migration in the context of
other migrations, such as the Eastern Europeans to the U.S. She made a
good case for identifying the South as the Old Country and the North as
the New World, noting differences in speech, customs, food, education,
etc.
The author made the matter-of-fact and consistent choice of the word
"escape" to describe what motivated, in full or in part, the immigrants'
journey from the South. This kept the profundity of the Great Migration
in front of me throughout the book.
She also used the phrase "caste system" to describe the realities in the
South (and the North, as well). I found this helpful, too, because it
made the point that even though the Great Migration was a story about
black Americans, it wasn't "just" about race. The Great Migration was a
universal story of people who fled from oppression and caste assignment
and who sought better lives for themselves and their children.
I liked, too, that Ms. Wilkerson didn't sanctify or otherwise glamorize
the three people she chose to tell their stories. They were ordinary,
flawed individuals.
The Great Migration ended circa 1970. That is only yesterday, sociologically, and its effects continue to unfold.
