In Search of Charles Pinckney

As you know, I teach the US Constitution every year, but nobody ever really talks too much about Charles Pinckney.  In fact, he is known as the "Forgotten Founder" for a few reasons.  First of all, some people think he is an unreliable source about his own participation in the Convention in Philadelphia.  Pinckney was born in 1757, so would have been 30 years old (or 29 actually since his birthday is in October) during the summer of 1787, and thus NOT the youngest person there.  He always bragged he was the youngest person, that he was only 23 or 24, when he wasn't.  Secondly, there is something called "The Pinckney Draft," which he "lost" by the time John Quincy Adams was compiling all the notes together.  He claimed that he had invented a lot of the ideas that were adopted by the committee members, but the draft was not actually introduced into the convention; instead, they worked from the more well-known "Virginia Plan."  But Pinckney and his supporters said that he had a bunch of ideas at first, like the President being the commander in chief of the armed forces (Pinckney wanted a 7 year term, however), a bicameral legislature (he had both houses with the number of representatives from each state being chosen by population) and other things.  I became a bit of a fan of Pinckney early on because I heard he was the one who inserted the "no religious test" clause in Article 6.  When I mentioned this, some people poo-pooed the idea that Pinckney was the originator of the no religious test idea, and that Jefferson wanted it, of course.  But Jefferson wasn't even there! I insisted.  Yes, I was told, but those southern guys were all friends, and they all knew about it.  I have no evidence of this, and I stand by Pinckney as the originator of this famous and important part of the document.

Pinckney's grave in Charleston

Of course, Pinckney was also a southern slaveholder.  In fact, his father-in-law, Henry Laurens, was one of the wealthiest slave traders in the south (Charleston was the wealthiest place in the colonies at this point, because it was the era of indigo and rice, rather than King Cotton) and a very interesting fellow in his own right (he was captured by the British and held in the Tower of London for a while, then ended up being released and signing the Treaty of Paris in 1783).  Pinckney is credited by some with coming up with (or being a huge supporter of) the whole "three fifths clause" that made enslaved people count as 3/5 of a person for taxation and representation purposes.  Also, later in his career, he was a member of the US Congress (this is after he had been elected Governor of South Carolina like three times, AND been a US Senator) when the Missouri Compromise was being debated in 1820, and he was WAY against it, since he didn't think the Federal Government had the right to tell states whether or not they could have slaves.  He kept using the term "States' Rights," which of course has been used by everyone (including the woman at the B and B in Birmingham who just wearied the crap out of me) and his brother to mean Jim Crow and segretation and all that stuff.  So no, we don't want to forget all that southern gentleman stuff about Pinckney, either.  Nevertheless, I like the Founding Fathers, and stories about them, and it was exciting to go see his grave in Charleston and to stay in a B and B called "Plantation Oaks" which was right on property that used to be owned by Charles Pinckney.

Here is the room in the Customs House where Pinckney made a famous speech in favor of ratification of the Constitution.

It was, of course, kind of weird the way all of Pinckney's stuff was destroyed.  For example, all of his papers, including any kind of "Pinckney Draft" which he said he had lost, was burned up in 1861 in a big fire in Charleston, when his former house was also destroyed.  His original house, Snee Farm, where President Washington came to have breakfast in 1791 was also burned down, or destroyed by a hurricane, in 1820.  So are there no real "Pinckney structures" anywhere to visit, just land he used to own and of course the Custom House where he made a famouse speech in favor of ratification.  He was a huge supporter and friend of Thomas Jefferson, so much so that when his cousin ran against Jefferson, he supported Jefferson and his family didn't speak to him for a while.  Jefferson appointed him ambassador to Spain, and he went off there for a few years, also visiting with the French (who had taken over Spain around that time, if you remember), and allegedly laying the groundwork for the Louisiana Purchase.  What a guy.  

So that was Pinckney.  Charleston was fun, with such delicious seafood that we kept having to eat oysters, scallops, fresh fish and crab at every meal.  Seared, fried, boiled, raw, whatever.  With grits and hushpuppies.  Low Country cuisine at its best.  Beaches here are really great, too, from the "beachy" atmosphere of Folly Beach with its Spring Break partiers to the Nicholas Sparks la-de-dah atmosphere of Isle of Palms, where people all wear boat shoes.  In addition to the obligatory seafood, there is the obligatory Pirate Stuff, tales of Blackbeard and Ann Bonney and "The Gentleman Pirate" Stede Bonnet.  Lots of fun, lots of lovely huge homes, built by ritzy plantation owners and now mostly up for sale by their descendants who can't afford the flood insurance and property taxes any longer.

This lovely home can be yours for only 1.7 million.  But I think the property taxes are like 50,000 dollars a year.  Truly a gracious way of life!

Visions of Georgia

So as you know if you read my last post, I was very burnt out, especially with Civil War and Civil Rights.  Fortunately, we were driving to Georgia, so I could imagine myself as General Sherman cutting a path of devastation right through the middle on my march to the sea.  I know that's terrible to say to a southerner, and luckily because of the lovely four days of relative rest and relaxation we've just had, I feel much less vindictive about the south and ready to continue my adventure.

First stop was Atlanta, where my sister, Rachel, met us for a couple of days.  We stayed on an urban farm with goats, turkeys, chickens and cats and spent most of the time sitting around and catching up, since we hadn't seen each other since Christmas.  We did, of course, spend one afternoon touring the Jimmy Carter Presidential Museum.  He is absolutely my favorite president ever, and although I have been to his museum before, I loved going back and taking Matt and Rachel with me.  My favorite quotation was right at the beginning of the museum, just as you enter.  It's from Walter Mondale:  "We told the truth.  We obeyed the law.  We kept the peace."  Can any American president since Carter claim all three of those statements?  Just sayin'.  He will always be my hero, and when I learn about what the Carter Center is doing today, I am so proud of him.  I've read most of his books, except for his Civil War novel, which I just can't get into.  Did you know he took up painting when he was 70?  Some of his paintings are pretty good.  It gives me hope that maybe I can try it, too.

Of course, we also visited Martin Luther King's grave, at the MLK National Historic Site.

By that time, we were on the way out of town, and I was eager to visit the farm where Flannery O'Connor lived for the last 14 years of her life, writing and raising 50+ peafowl, her favorite birds.  

It has become increasingly difficult to teach Flannery O'Connor to students, because they just don't get most of the religious references.  For instance, one of my favorite stories, "A Temple of the Holy Ghost," has all these references to Church of God vs. Catholic hymns, as well as a whole thing about the adoration of the Blessed Sacrament, and how it's the real presence of God.  When I've tried to teach these stories, I spend most of the time just going through and explaining all the references.  It's too bad, because they are just so fantastic.  We read a couple out loud as we were driving to Milledgeville and then to Savannah.  I guess the most accessible story is probably "A Good Man is Hard to Find," but even reading that a lot of people have no clue.  There are so many references to the dirt roads and rutted paths and woods and little shacks in those stories that it was nice to be driving through the areas where you definitely could see all those things.  I'm pretty obsessed with Flannery O'Connor, now that I really think about it, so much so that I selected our B and B in Savannah because it's right next to her childhood home, and I selected the room we're staying in because you can see her house from the window.

 
We met this guy that lives on the top floor of her house and gives tours to people in the afternoons, but we were on the way to the beach so we just chatted for a while and asked which characters we most identified with, and talked about our favorite parts in the stories and novels.  It was really fun, more fun that touring around another home with a guide, which is starting to get tiring even for a history buff life me.

Speaking of touring, we did go visit the old Colonial Park cemetery, because I wanted to see the grave of one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, who is buried there.  His name is Button Gwinnett, and he's pretty obscure.  He was born in England and came over here in the 1730s.  He was kind of unsuccessful in a lot of things, although I guess he did support the Revolution.  Unfortunately, his political rival, Lachlan McIntosh, killed him in a duel in 1777, after McIntosh called him a "scoundrel and a lying rascal" or something like that and then of course Button challenged him.  Although they both shot each other in the leg, I guess Button was shot in a femoral artery, so he didn't live to see actual independence, although he did serve as governor of Georgia for a short time after the governor died, but he was not re-elected.  Lachlan, on the other hand, was able to fight in the Revolutionary War, return to Savannah, and help host President George Washington when he came down here on a visit in 1791.

The best thing about Button Gwinnett that I learned today is that he is a character in Fallout 3, a video game!  You have to get the Declaration of Independence after some sort of nuclear holocaust, and Button is the robot who is guarding the document.  Check it out. Watch the part of Fallout 3 where Button Gwinnett appears.

We spent the rest of the day on Tybee Island, on the beach, because it was 80 degrees.  There's a lot of history associated with this island, as it was strategically important during the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, and the Civil War.  But today, I just cared about lying on the sand and relaxing, reading about pirates. 

Lots of pirates came and went through Savannah in the early days, and we had dinner at the oldest and most famous restaurant (very touristy of course) in Savannah, The Pirate's House, which was a tavern where they would get men drunk and then kidnap them and force them to work aboard the ships, just like in Billy Budd.  Or Treasure Island, which we were reading while sitting down by the river.  Arr!

Burnt Out In Birmingham

I was tired of hearing about fire hoses and bombings and attack dogs even before we got to Birmingham the other day.  I was tired of standing at historic sites where children or mothers and fathers had been killed.  I was tired of crying, tired of historical plaques marking the deaths of black people who spoke up too strongly, or said the wrong thing, or became too successful, or tried to vote or use a restroom or a drinking fountain.  Most of all, I was tired of the people I met who said the reports of the abuse were exaggerated, or the woman staying at our Bed and Breakfast in Birmingham who told me it was “about states’ rights.”  Right to do what?  I wanted to ask her, but I was too burnt out.  The guy from San Diego who had moved down here, telling us that living in the south was the “best kept secret” and he loved going to the Civil War re-enactments, or – ha ha – the “War of Northern Aggression,” isn’t that quaint?  Aren’t they charming with their sweet tea?  I felt like I was being served a piece of rotten meat smothered in syrup.  “My family never owned slaves,” this woman told me.  “I never saw anything wrong growing up.”  I asked her if she had grown up with segregation.  She said yes, now that I mentioned it, they did have a gas station with white and colored restrooms and drinking fountains, but “nothing really ever happened that was a problem.”  I couldn’t resist saying, “But if you had white and colored drinking fountains, surely that was a problem, wasn’t it?”  She looked at me blankly.  When she said she hadn’t noticed anything wrong, she meant that she, personally, had not been frightened or  experienced (or even witnessed) any violence herself.  I was going to point out that was because she was white, but never mind. She was already so defensive I knew it wouldn’t do any good. I just wished her a good day and went off to see the 16^th Street Baptist Church, where four little girls were blown up. (As you might expect if you have been learning about the Civil Rights Movement from my blog, the killer was acquitted at his original trial, and not convicted until 2002, after it came out that a bunch of evidence had been suppressed.)

Click here to read some great historical articles about the bombing.

The Church is now across the street from the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute, but we arrived early in the morning, before either place opened, and spent some time walking up 6^th Avenue by Kelly Ingram Park.  This is where the marches took place, where "Bull" Connor ordered the dogs and fire hoses so famously shown in the photos and video footage that changed the nation’s opinions.  The great hero of Birmingham’s Civil Rights Movement is Rev. Fred Shuttlesworth, who invited Dr. King to Birmingham, who marched across the bridge from Selma to Montgomery, who was beaten up while trying to enroll his children in an all-white school, whose house was bombed, and who never gave up.  “No man can make us hate, and no man can make us afraid,” was my favorite Shuttlesworth saying.  The Birmingham airport is now named after him, and when Clinton was president, this incredible photo was taken at the Edmund Pettus Bridge, where people re-unite and re-enact the crossing every year.  Now THAT’S a historical re-enactment I’d like to attend!

Senator Obama and President Clinton with Reverend Fred

The displays at the institute were really great, and talking to some of the people who worked there was even more fun.  The older security guard (hard to understand, but I’m getting better) told me that his daughter is an 8^th grade teacher at “Reverend Fred’s” school (the school named after him), and that Reverend Fred was his hero.  He’s mine, too, after what I learned in Birmingham and elsewhere.

me and Reverend Fred

Why was Birmingham the “most racially divided” city in the south?  I’ll tell you my theory.  Because it was industrialized.  It had coal mines and steel mills, unlike most places down here.  As you know, the Union won the war for many reasons, but a main reason was its superior manufacturing capability.  Birmingham’s factory and mine owners paid the most rock-bottom wages for the most backbreaking work.  I think the song, “I owe my soul to the company store” was written about Birmingham.  At some point, convicts did the work in the mines.  The mill workers and miners attempted to unionize, and we all know how the man breaks up unions, don’t we?  By sowing the seeds of strife within the group.  And what is the best way to do that?  By sowing the seeds of racism.  Hey, you white workers!  Why would you want to band together with those n---s?  You’re better than they are.  Separate the schools, the churches, the places the workers live.  It was against the law even to play checkers with someone of a different race! If you get them to hate each other, that they never talk about the real oppressor, the bourgeois factory owners.  The same thing happened up in Chicago, if you remember.  It’s still happening now, with all the talk about foreigners stealing American jobs now that NAFTA and the WTO have taken over.  (Yeah, yeah, I know.  Workers of the world unite.  Blah blah blah.)

This divisive propaganda works incredibly well, and it makes sense why Birmingham was the most racially divided city in the South.  Fortunately, after the incredible work of the people who marched, conducted sit-ins and boycotts, things have changed a lot down here.  Thanks to “The Birmingham Pledge,” which the protestors signed, miracles have occurred.   Here is the pledge as used 50 years ago:

I hereby pledge myself — my person and body — to the nonviolent movement. Therefore I will keep the following 10 commandments:

1. Meditate daily on the teachings and life of Jesus.
2. Remember always that the nonviolent movement seeks justice and reconciliation, not victory.
3. Walk and talk in the manner of love, for God is love.
4. Pray daily to be used by God in order that all men and women might be free.
5. Sacrifice personal wishes in order that all men and women might be free.
6. Observe with both friend and foe the ordinary rules of courtesy.
7. Seek to perform regular service for others and for the world.
8. Refain from the violence of fist, tongue, or heart.
9. Strive to be in good spiritual and bodily health.
10. Follow the directions of the movement.

A nice article in the National Catholic Reporter about the legacy of the pledge of nonviolence. 

In 1997 a new Birmingham Pledge was written, a pledge which is inscribed on the city walls:

• ·         I believe that every person has worth as an individual
• ·         I believe that every person is entitled to dignity and respect, regardless of race or color
• ·         I believe that every thought and every act of racial prejudice is harmful; if it is my thought or act, it is harmful to me as well as to others
• ·         Therefore, from this day forward I will strive daily to eliminate racial prejudice from my thoughts and actions
• ·         I will discourage racial prejudice by others at every opportunity
• ·         I will treat all people with dignity and respect; and I will strive daily to honor this pledge, knowing that the world will be a better place because of my efforts.
• Read about the lawyer who wrote the new Birmingham Pledge 

In 2002, President Bush signed a resolution naming the week of September 15^th as Birmingham Pledge Week.  September 15^th is the anniversary of the deaths of the four little girls at the 16^th Street Baptist Church.

The four girls – Addie Mae Collins, Cynthia Wesley, Carole Robertson and Denise McNair – are memorialized in a beautiful new statue called “Four Spirits” that stands in Kelly Ingram park. 

Can you see the little shoes on the ground?

One girl is reading a book, another feeding the birds.  There’s a bronze pair of shoes lying alongside the bench, part of the statue, that correspond to the shoes of Denise McNair, displayed inside the Civil Rights Institute, along with her Ten Commandments bracelet, a little book she was carrying, and a chunk of brick that was embedded in her skull.  After seeing that, I couldn’t visit the church itself.  We both just  stood there, crying.  "I felt pretty sad that day, walkin' around," recalls Matt.
Here's a nice CNN article about the families today.

We drove to Atlanta, to spend two days on an urban farm with goats, turkeys, chickens, and my sister, Rachel, who flew up from Miami so she could be “part of the story.”  I’ll tell you about that in my next blog.

The Wonders of Modern Technology on the Alabama Civil Rights Trail

I know that modern technology can be a drag sometimes, but as far as following the Alabama Civil Rights Trail over the past 24 hours or so, it has been amazing.  In so many ways, it has enhanced and deepened our experiences.  Of course, meeting and talking to actual people is still irreplaceable, and we have had some very interesting interactions.  But back to the technology.

First of all, I have to tell you about this app.  The Alabama Civil Rights App.  You can download it onto your smart phone and it will be your guide to the people, the places, and the events of the struggle for equality in Alabama.  It is THE best free tourism app I have ever seen, and let me tell you I have tried out a lot of them.  It's fast, easy to use, and has maps, timelines, photos, and biographies of the important people.  I used it in Montgomery, Selma and Birmingham and it has been just great.  I followed the app to the Alabama State Capital,

where Dr. King gave his famous, "How Long?  Not Long!" speech, with one of my favorite quotes ever, that I use all the time:  "the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice."  We got in the mood to see the capital by going to YouTube on my phone (Matt was driving towards Montgomery from the "Redneck Riviera" as they call the Alabama/Mississippi coastline down there) and plugging the phone into the car stereo.  We got to hear Dr. King's actual voice, speaking the words.  You can too:
Click here to watch Dr. King!

I used my app to find the Rosa Parks Museum and Library, our first stop on the Alabama Civil Rights pilgrimage.  We had already seen so many civil rights sites and interactive museums that I wondered if I would get burnt out, but it was incredibly well done.  The guide offered us a chance to experience the children's exhibit, where a robot "Mr. Rivets" bus driver takes you through the history of slavery, the Civil War, Reconstruction and beyond, but we just went through the grownups exhibition, which was masterful.  Using very clever video footage and a real bus, they showed us what it might have looked like in December 1955 when she refused to give up her seat.  We learned all about the bus boycott, as well as the history of the amazing carpool system they set up and the white housewives who helped by driving their housekeepers and nannies back and forth to work for a year, despite the threatening phone calls they received from the Klan.  The museum also did a great job talking about Martin Luther King's famous epiphany in his kitchen at midnight, where he heard a voice from deep down inside his soul, the voice of his Higher Power, telling him that he would never be alone, never be abandoned, that he could keep standing up and speaking out for truth, for justice, and God would be at his side forever.  It's a moment that has inspired so many people over the years, and it was awesome to learn about it again in this great museum.

Matt with Rosa

Following our friendly smartphone again, we walked up a few blocks to the Greyhound Bus station, where a new Freedom Riders memorial uses technology smashingly.  In addition to the photos and words of the kids themselves, they have these QR codes set up, that you can scan with your phone and they will play you a narrative of the events that took place when the 21 kids stepped off the bus and were beaten mercilessly by a mob of more than 200, while the police did NOTHING.  The oldest kid was 22, the same age as my daughter.  Jim Zwerg, a young white kid, was beaten with his own suitcase, kicked in the head repeatedly, and probably would have died if a black man, who was just passing by, had not told the crowd to "stop beating that kid.  If you want to beat someone, beat me."  And they did.  Zwerg was in the hospital unconscious for two days.  He said he had seen the chains, the bats, the clubs, and a powerful presence had been with him, enabling him not to fight back, comforting him, helping him to pray that God would forgive the men who beat him.

I was sharing that story at breakfast the next day with our landlady at the B and B.  I thought she would appreciate the God part of the story, since her walls were covered with religious plaques, quotations from the Psalms, crosses, a picture of George Washington praying at Valley Forge (the last time I saw that print was on the wall of the American Heritage School in Utah, if you remember that place), and in our room we had Bibles as well as a copy of the original meditation book My Utmost for His Highest.  I told her the story of Jim Zwerg praying for his attackers.  "Well," she said, "a lot of those stories about the attacks are exaggerated."  I asked her what she meant.  "Those fire hoses?" she went on, "Those were used just to cool people down.  The marchers were hot, and they actually appreciated the hoses."  Oh my Lord, I guess I just met someone from Alabama.  I asked her if she had ever seen any of the photos or film clips of the marches and the violence.  She said that she had not.  I told her that if you actually look at the photos of German Shepherds attacking people, attacking children, the films of fire hoses turned full force onto people, you would not be able to deny the truth.  I was sort of shaking and decided to change the subject.  "Aren't these eggs special?" I asked, modifying a line from Deliverance.  She was undeterred, and started telling us that all those reports of the abuses of slavery were really just about a few bad apples, and that many of the slave owners, probably the majority, had treated their slaves very well.  I know my Dad would probably say, "This is real!" at a time like this.  Like, this is authentic, even though it is unpleasant.  Matt took over, and said well, whether they were treated well or not, the point is they were not considered to be human beings.  She did agree with that, as did the tanned well-to-do couple from Rhode Island eating breakfast with us.

I really never believed that people were in that kind of denial.  But it's true.  They really don't know, and don't want to know, what happened.  I related this story to Barry Marks, a Birmingham attorney who took us out for delicious barbecue this evening, and he said he had heard people say that many times.  He gave me a book written by a friend of his about growing up white during the Civil Rights movement in Birmingham, and told me that placid denial was actually worse than active hate, because you could change the latter but not the former.  I asked if he thought it would do any good to send her some video footage, and he said no, she would just have to try harder to stay in her little world of denial.

To cheer ourselves up, we turned to Morris Dees, the controversial lawyer who founded the Southern Poverty Law Center and is, in my opinion, pretty much responsible for the beautiful Civil Rights Memorial designed by Maya Lin. I have seen photos of it, of course, but nothing compared to the feeling when I put my hand in the water, running my fingers along the names that were like scars as the healing waters washed over the letters.  You can't go to that memorial without touching it.  It invites you to touch it, to feel the water flowing over your hand.

 I imagined Rosa Parks standing there touching her own name, Mamie Till standing there touching the letters of her son's name, Martin Luther King III and Sally Liuzzo touching their parents names, standing together at the memorial, feeling those healing waters on their fingers.  We went inside and saw a lovely exhibit and spoke with a young man from Detroit who had come here for college and stayed to work at the SPLC.  I met one of the media editors of the magazine that I love to read, the "Hate Report," even though it makes me paranoid with all the listings of hate crimes.   I know he has faced criticism, but I, for one, am a Morris Dees fan.  Especially after visiting the center today.  He shut down the Klan, he shut down the Neo-Nazi compound in Hayden Lake, and I think he's great.  Along with GLSEN, I think the SPLC does a great job helping teachers like me stay aware of the latest human right issues and help us teach effectively.

The Dexter Avenue Baptist Church was next on our list.  We were guided around by one of the pastors, Reverend Smith from New York, who now lives down here.  He sat us down in the very seats in the basement where they sat to organize the Montgomery Bus Boycott.  He showed us the fancy mural (we weren't allowed to take any pictures) which included a really cool panel of Dr. King ascending into Heaven.  He took us upstairs and gave us a little sermon about carrying on the work, teaching the next generation, and keeping the faith.  He was pretty cool.

Rev. Smith talks to us

We went to the parsonage where Dr. King was living during this entire time, where he had his epiphany in the kitchen and three days later they threw a bomb onto his porch.  My favorite part of this historic site was the way they had the house set up like an everyday home, complete with Martin's shirts hanging up on the line in the backyard.

Driving to Montgomery, we were on the lookout for the memorial to Viola Liuzzo, a mother of five from Detroit who had driven down here to help during the Selma-Montgomery march, shot by the Klan while on highway 80.  Most of the markers are not really very well marked, and it was up to the app and our eagle eyes to find them.  Again, with the wonders of modern technology, we listened to a short NPR piece about Viola's daughter. If you want to listen, follow the link below.
NPR interview with Sally Luizzo  The worst thing about this story was the way J. Edgar Hoover smeared her.  But what do I expect?  It's like the woman at the B and B.  Oh, a conservative white southerner minimizing the civil rights movement; what a surprise.  Oh, J. Edgar Hoover being creepy; what a surprise!

In Selma, we walked across the Edmund Pettus Bridge.  There really is a big difference between learning about something from afar and going to the place the events actually occurred, standing and walking in the footsteps of the people, honoring them and listening to their message in a new way.  I feel such a new, personal affection for and connection with people like Ralph Abernathy and Fred Shuttlesworth, and of course Congressman John Lewis.

We ended up in Birmingham, for Alabama Civil Rights part two, starting tomorrow!

Visions of Louisiana: Allons Danser!

I haven’t written for a few days because I have been too busy dancing and eating.  I have also learned a lot about Louisiana history, its peope and culture, some of which I would like to share with you.

Cajun v. Zydeco music.  This is a sore point for me, because when I invited a friend of mine (who shall be nameless) to my Zydeco birthday party last October, he told me that it was the music of David Duke and he refused to go.  Until I came down here, I didn’t know the difference between Cajun and Zydeco, either.  I thought they were the same thing. Then, the other night , I was talking to a woman at a Cajun restaurant and dance club and told her I loved Zydeco music, thinking that was what we were listening and dancing to.  She made a face.  “This isn’t Zydeco,” she said.  “This is Cajun.  I don’t like Zydeco.  It’s too…jungle sounding.”  Hm.  I always thought they were the same, and in Seattle there are plenty of bands that bill themselves as both Zydeco  and Cajun.  But no.  Down here they are different. 

The word “Cajun” comes from “Adacian,” the name for the French/Canadian settlers who were forced to leave Canada during the French and Indian Wars of the 18^th century. There had been about 18,000 of these people living in Nova Scotia.  The land kept changing hands from French to English, English to French, for several hundred years.  The Acadians lived as farmers up there, and I guess they mingled with both the exiled Scots and the Micmac Indians who lived up there.  Their legends tell of an idyllic life, in their little cottages with thatched roofs and their wooden shoes.  However, when they refused to sign a loyalty oath to the British after the British had won the Seven Years’ War (that lasted for nine years from 1754-63), they were forced to leave their homes, rounded up onto ships and sent far away.  We had to endure the worst historical film I have ever seen, telling this story.  I would rather have listened to someone reading Longfellow’s Evangeline that see this movie which billed itself as “a tale of wonder and of woe.”  I can’t even explain how bad it was.  It featured a low-voiced woman as the “voice of Acadia” telling the story of the exiles during what they call Le Derangement, the removal and journey down the east coast of North America, in tiny boats.  Very few communities even allowed them to come ashore because they were poor, French Speaking and worst of all) Catholic.  Thousands of them actually died of disease and starvation while they were still on board the ships.

Finally, they found refuge on the southern coast of Louisiana, where the French and Spanish had been for a while. 

a simple Acadian cottage

They modified their farming and fishing methods, and learned to plant corn, red beans and rice and to catch shrimp, crawfish and catfish.  “Acadian” became “Cajun.”   Their music was a hybrid of their own French folk songs with Scots fiddles and German accordions thrown in.  The first night we were in Breaux Bridge, we drove over to Lafayette, one of the oldest Acadian settlements dating back to the 1770s, to listen to some Cajun music and eat some crawfish.

crawfish boil

  Live Cajun music follows a pretty predictable pattern: first they play a two-step, then they play a waltz, then they play a two-step, then they play a waltz, and so on.  Cajuns are white Catholics with French Canadian ancestry.  They speak French with a weird Louisiana accent, or throw French words into their English conversation, which is very charming.  They are generally pretty poor; they keep cattle in their “vacheries” and fish for crawfish in the ditches by the side of the highways.  Most of their culture revolves around food, music and fishing, but they also LOVE the Longfellow poem, Evangeline.


"Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!

Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October

Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o’er the ocean.

Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré."

Click here to read the whole poem  

The name of the fabled land the Cajuns came from, according to Longfellow (who never visited either place) is called "Acadie," and the village of Grand-Pre is now a pilgrimage spot for people of Acadian ancestry.  The impact of this poem has been sort of like the impact of Owen Wister's The Virginian on people in the Western US.  After their histories and myths were invented for them, they went back and tried to live it.  Longfelloow tells the story of a mythical Acadian woman who is separated from her fiance on their wedding day because of the Derangement and only finds him later, down in Louisiana, just as he is about to die.  But of course she remains faithful to him during that entire time.  Okay, I admit I didn't actually read the whole poem so I don't know what all happens, but I did visit the famous "Evangeline Oak Tree"

The forest primeval in Louisiana

that's in the Longfellow State Park, and my grandmother's middle name was Evangeline, after the poem, so I will probably read it as soon as I finish writing this blog.  There are also at least two silent film versions of the story, apparently, so I should probably try to learn more.

The next day, we went to Breaux Bridge to the famous “Zydeco Breakfast.”  Zydeco is a music that evolved from a combination of Cajun music and the music of slaves and free blacks living down here.  Some of it sounds Cajun, some sounds like Mississippi delta blues, some like a combination of the above.  It’s way more fun and interesting than just plain Cajun.  You never know what the band is going to play.  Instead of just white people dancing, there are all races, all ages just going crazy together on the dance floor.  Cajun is predictable and charming; Zydeco is a wild party!  I’m not saying I don’t like Cajun, but once you’ve heard Zydeco, Cajun music can seem boring and sedate (hence the comment from the old whilte woman that she thought Zydeco was too “jungle.”  Of course, that does sound racist as well.  But what do you expect in Louisiana? 

I was amazed at the scene at the Zydeco breakfast.  They even made a documentary about it, which I plan to purchase and show to my students as a true Vision of America.  There were old white grannies dancing wildly with young African American men with long dredlocks, young blond women dancing with old grizzled farmers, a guy who looked exactly like Cesar Chavez dancing with anyone he could get his hands on.  So many people had indeterminate ethnicities that it was clear that their ancestors hadn’t been interested in “keeping the races separate” in any way.  It was awesome.  Matt’s favorite song, “I think I need a Boosta,” was a modern Zydeco tune written by Leroy Thomas, the band leader, all about the miracles of modern medicine, with lines like, “She gave me a Viagra! Abracadabra!” and “goin’ down to Dallas’/ had to take a Cialis.”  The radio stations in Louisiana are great; you don’t have to listen to that  mainstream overproduced stuff they call “country” at all.  We listened to old timey 70’s country, Western Swing, Cajun, Zydeco, Blues, Dixieland Jazz and even some world music like Jack Carrick plays in his weekly show, “On the Road with Jack Carrick.” 

Cajun vs. Creole, probably an even more important distinction than the musical distinction, is not about music, but about ethnicities, national origins, and (most crucial) food.  You already know what Cajuns are, but what are Creoles?  Well, in the New World, "Creoles" or "criollos" in Latin America, were people with European parents who were born over here.  This meant they were "white," but were sort of looked down on by the "peninsulares" who were born over there.  Most of the big name Latin American revolutionaries of the 19th century were criollos, and they didn't necessarily want equality with the other types of people living there; they just wanted self-determination and independence from Europe.  But I digress.  In Louisiana, a lot of times those people were called "French Creoles," and there were rich and ritzy.  They cooked richer food with the same ingredients the Cajuns used, but it would be like buttery crawfish or crab bisque, instead of a gumbo with a dark roux.  This is because the Creoles had way more money than the Cajuns.  A lot of them had big plantations, growing rice and (worst crop of all), sugar.  We visited an old sugar plantation down here, by the name of Oak Alley.  It was one of these creepy 

historical reenactment things, with a somewhat idiotic tour guide.  Sugar plantations were the most brutal on slaves, with a life expectancy of maybe 7 years at most for a field worker. For many years, these tours of Oak Alley didn't include any mention of enslaved people there.  Now, can you guess when the slave cabins at Oak Alley were rebuilt and an exhibit about slavery added?  My guess was 10 years ago; Matt's guess was two.  It was actually within the past year.  And the exhibit was pretty weak, let me tell you.  I can't even joke around about "the gracious way of lahf" any more.  It's just getting old how much slavery is glossed over and ignored down here.  

But back to the Cajun v. Creole thing.  So the plantation owners were wealthy French Creoles.  That is my point.  But then there were other Creoles, who were partially of European ancestry and partially African.  For example, many of the slaves at Oak Alley were children of the ritzy Creole owner and one or the other of his female slaves.  A lot of them ended up getting their freedom after the death of their father, or even during his lifetime, and moving to New Orleans, where there was a HUGE free black population, lots of biracial or multiracial people, and a lot more rights being enjoyed by everyone.  It actually wasn't until after (you guessed it) Reconstruction was over that black people in New Orleans were treated almost as badly as black people all over the South.  

Finally, of course, we went all over the city of New Orleans on Easter, visting the Cathedral and watching all the parades that wound their way through the old streets.  New Orleans is exactly the way they say it is in all those books and shows.  We got to go out to a Jazz/Blues club, witness hundreds of drunk people, and have dozens of beads thrown at us from the floats.  It's a very diverse city, a very gay city, and a very fun city. We visited some of the oldest Catholic Churches in the country, including the oldest African American Catholic Church, where we celebrated Easter in New Orleans.  Not only was there a saxophone player rocking out, but the priest, at the end of his homily, started singing the old hymn, "Because He Lives," backed by the choir.  At the end of the service, he grabbed a tambourine and was dancing around!  I told him I wished all priests could be like him, and he said, "So do I!"  

spot the priest shaking the tambourine over on the left there

 

Natchez: "It's What You Love About the South!"

I woke up this morning determined to bite the bullet and visit some of the gracious, stately homes of which Natchez is so proud.  Huge, incredible Greek Revival mansions with names like "Melrose" and "Dunleith" dominate the town here.  Longwood, the largest octagonal house in America, with its Byzantine-Moorish dome, or Magnolia Hall, with a Union cannonball still embedded in its kitchen, are filled with lovely antiques, original Italian marble fireplaces, still-working gas lamps, and magnificent gardens full of magnolia and live oak trees.  Natchez before the war had more millionaires per capita than any city in the US.  Many were northern bankers and merchants who came down here when cotton was king, bought plantations and slaves they never saw (they were usually purchased and supervised by overseers), and built amazingly ornate houses where they entertained the cotton buyers and held grand parties.  They had slaves, but they were called "house servants," and were supposedly treated relatively well.  Their "gracious way of life" was supported by the misery and oppression of thousands of other human beings, most of whom they never saw.  Still, I thought, it's part of history, so I should go look at some of these architectural masterpieces.  Sigh.

Dunleith, built in 1856.  A gracious mansion.

Natchez was named for the Natchez Indians, who lived here along the Mississippi for at least 1200 years before encountering French trappers and traders.  The French and the Natchez lived side by side for a number of years, apparently peacefully, but one day, for some unknown reason, the Indians decided to "revolt."  Isn't it interesting the way history is told?  We have a lot of written records from the French, but of course, none from the native peoples.  Why, do you think, they would just one day, after living with a relationship, decide it was time to make war on the French for no reason?  Hm.  We were, of course, joking around in these French accents: "I do not know, ze Indians, just one day, for no reazon, zey just revolted.  I would think zey would be happ-ey, we give zem ze little beads, and zey give us all ze furs..."  But it's really a lesson in who is telling the story, and what is omitted.  You have to think about that extra hard when you're down here in the South.  The French built a fort, defeated the Natchez, and they fled, never to return to their homes (although they left these big mounds that you can visit, one of which is the second largest pre-Columbian mound of its kind in the US).

For a long time, the story of these stately homes was told through "Confederate Pageants" and the "Pilgrimage," which started during the Depression, even before Gone With the Wind came out.  The ladies who lived in these houses, many of whom were descendants of the original owners (but who were now pretty destitute) were looking for ways to make an extra buck without going out to work (which of course would be horrible), so they started inviting tourists to come into their homes.  Right now it costs 12 bucks a person to tour most of these homes.  If you think I am going to pay any money to see places that were built from slave labor, unless they are something in ancient Greece or Rome, you are crazy.  We got into Dunleith for free because we had a free breakfast ticket at the restaurant there and a tour comes with the breakfast.  Later, we went to Melrose, which is part of the National Parks Service, so we didn't have to pay for that one, either.

Melrose, 1845-47

The ladies of the mansions created this entire big show for tourists, completely romanticizing and mythologizing the Old South.  I am inserting a link for you to watch a little bit of a show about the Pilgrimage, as they call it.  Click here to be nauseated beyond belief.  You may notice that there are only white people in this pageant.  You may wonder why anyone in his or her right mind would want to pay money to see something like this.  And of course, you would be correct.  The whole Pilgrimage thing is dying out; the old grande dames of the pageant today were the little granddaughters of the pageant's founders in the 1930s.  Attendance is way down; while there used to be four or five busloads of tourists a day, swarming through the streets on their way to these homes, there now might be one.  Nobody really wants to hear people tell a bunch of lies any more, or a whitewashed version of history, especially with real historians of African-American history starting to show up down here.  People have access to their smart phones, and can quickly fact check anything the tour guides tell them, a phenomenon that has apparently started to occur (and really offend the gracious ladies in their hoop skirts, let me tell you).

We suffered through part of the tour of Dunleith, in which the leering grandfatherly silver haired gentleman kept telling the blond 14 year old girl that she should really come back here and have a spectacular wedding in ten years, while he ignored us completely.  I did see the autobiography of John Roy Lynch, a man who had been born a slave into the house and become the first black member of the US Congress, on a side table, which helped me to get through a couple of rooms, but frankly we pretty much fled after about 15 minutes of the guy talking about the craftsmen who had built it, the Italian marble, the furniture that had been reinforced so that obese white tourists could sit and sip a mint julep "no matter what their size" (I kid you not).  After that, we decided to try Melrose, since it was right up the road, and was free to get in with the NPS pass we had purchased in Utah, and which has come in very handy, from Hovenweep to the Grand Canyon to Vicksburg.  The ranger told us that the house tour was an extra ten dollars, even for NPS card holders.  What a rip off.  But, he added, the slave exhibit is included.  Great!  I have been waiting to hear about slavery here in Natchez, place where they still display souvenirs like this in a restaurant shaped like a giant Mammy.

 We ate there, to my daughter's dismay, and I must report that "Mammy's Chicken Salad Sandwich" was unremarkable, served on less-than-fresh bread.  But in any case, we trudged over the grass (I am now scared of red ants because of Matt's warning) to the little slave outbuilding, to learn about the lives of these enslaved people, about 25 of them, who were owned by the McMurrans, who had several plantations in the delta and were some of the richest people in wealthy Natchez.  
The modest slave quarters had a pretty good exhibit, with some writings by the mistress of the house about the lives of the slaves, as well as some stories of rebellions and runaways.  They also directed us to the site known as "Forks of the Road," the second

largest slave market in the US.  After the international slave trade was supposedly banned in 1808 (although lots of people were smuggled in, especially by the pirate, Jean Lafitte), and after tobacco started becoming less lucrative in places like Virginia, planters started selling their slaves "down the river," sending them either by boat from Alexandria or in coffles across the land from Richmond, to Charleston (the largest) and Natchez (the second largest), the centers of the slave trade.  We went to check out the site of this market, but nothing was there except a sign and some very brief little interpretive plaques.  Now we were really hungry for more African American history, and pretty much at this point left the stately homes in the dust.  I mean, all those "magnificent original furnishings and decorative objects," the "poignant reminder of past glories," the "intricate moldings and graceful staircases" just run together after about five minues anyway, don't they?  And the bitter undertaste of all of them, that was the story I wanted to uncover and hear.  Luckily, the second part of the Natchez National Park site is the home of William Johnson, also known as "the Barber of Natchez," a free black who lived in Natchez from the 1830s until his death in 1851 and kept a daily diary that entire time.  It's over 2000 pages long and details, more than any other written document, daily life for blacks and whites, free and slave, during that time in the city.  Click here to read more about the Barber of Natchez. 

At this point, we were just so relieved to get away from the gracious way o' life

While in the visitor center, we met this guy who was the ranger there.  I started talking to him, first about William Johnson, and then about his own life, growing up in Natchez.  I told him my impressions of the two separate societies, and he pretty much confirmed what I said.  He told me he did not go to school with one white person, until he went to college at Alcorn State University, which is the first public land-grant institution in the US, the second oldest state-sponsored higher education college in the state of Mississippi, and was set up during - you guessed it - Reconstruction, for the education of freed black people.  Click here to visit Alcorn State University website. Maybe you can apply there!  This ranger, born in 1970, got a BA in History and an MA in History Education, and let me tell you he knew a lot!  He gave me some "Civil War to Civil Rights" trading cards (I knew they existed), although they were out of John Roy Lynch and Fannie Lou Hamer, my two favorite players (I guess they were a lot of people's favorites, which is why they were out).  He told me about his dad, who was a Civil Rights activist and NAACP chapter president. He said they used to get death threat phone calls from the Klan on a regular basis at his house, and we talked a little bit about the history of the "Silver Dollar Gang" in Mississippi.  If you don't know about the Silver Dollar Gang, or all the various killings that took place in Mississippi, read about them HERE!  I could have talked to him for hours but he had to go to lunch, so he sent us over to the African American History museum, where his dad's picture hangs on the wall.  We were met outside by the director, Darrell White, who asked us what we wanted.  We told him we wanted to know about black history in Natchez, to which he replied, "How much time have you got?"  We then proceeded to have a two hour conversation with him, in which I asked him a ton of questions about his personal life (I'm not shy about these things), and he showed us an unbelievable promotional video from the 1930s about the Pilgrimage, which features happy darkies dancing around in the slave cabins, and old "Aunt Jane," a former slave herself, telling the cinematic audience about "how much happier we wuz in those days."  I am not joking.

There was only one other visitor there, an older African American lady who said she had just come in to see the photo of her brother, the first black firefighter battalion chief in Natchez.  She said she didn't really have to listen to the history lessons because she had been there.  She then said something about "marching across that bridge" in Selma in 1965 and, as they say in the south, I like to fell out.  I wish I could have talked to her more, but once again, it's so hard for me to understand people down here!  Matt did a better job of having a conversation with her. We also met the other museum staff, including David Dreyer, who looked like the love child of Paul Raymond and Allen Ginsberg (you can see his photo in the Al Jazeera article at the end of this incredibly long blog entry), and took us around the various exhibits, including the "Richard Wright room."  We then went back to the William Johnson house and talked to the ranger again about modern day slavery, college parties, Reconstruction, and teaching.  It was so awesome.  What a day.  I was jazzed.  

You know, the real story of Natchez is that during the era of Reconstruction, the first black members of congress were elected.

These guys include John Roy Lynch and Hiram Revels, the first black US Senator, who then became president of Alcorn College, now Alcorn State University, where our tour guide went to school.  Many other schools were established for formerly enslaved people, who enjoyed the right to vote.  It was only after the disastrous Tilden-Hayes compromise that these rights were again denied, and the entire Civil Rights movement had to happen, with so much violence and so many deaths.  It was really moving to learn (well, re-learn and listen to) their history, the real history that is being uncovered slowly, one story at a time, one voice at a time, and people actually want to hear the true stories.   Maybe the tourist industry can be salvaged if the Pilgrimage becomes a true pilgrimage, where Americans can learn some of this amazingly brave and exciting history.  Natchez - I found what I do love about the South.  (Besides the food)

  Check out this article that I found - from just last week! - about the transformation of the Pilgrimage.

Vicksburg and Roadside Beauty in Mississippi

My last post was full of tormented self-doubt, recollections of terrible crimes, and worry about the state.  Yesterday I had to relax and enjoy the drive down Highway 61 from Greenville to Natchez, with some very interesting stops along the way.

First of all, we went to Vicksburg.  It was on the way here, while driving down a random side street trying to find the friends of Bill W, that I saw this very odd and beautiful piece of folk art.

My favorite slogan was "God have no white church and he don't have no black church."  There were others, but many were fading and I couldn't read them.  It turns out this was a "theological park," much like the Garden of Eden in Kansas or Salvation Mountain in southern California.  It was built by Rev. Dennis, who passed away in 2012, but you can read more about him and "Margaret's Grocery," as it's called, read about Margaret's grocery here if you are interested.

The countryside was incredibly lush, green, and very low.  We were driving at sea level, through rice fields and cotton fields, just starting to sprout.  

We arrived in Vicksburg after a torrential rain, with more forecast to come, so I was worried we wouldn't be able to visit the site of one of the most important battles of the Civil War, one which changed the course of the war for good, putting "the key" to unlocking the victory in Abe Lincoln's pocket.  But we were in luck; the weather broke and we had a couple of hours of sunbreaks before another downpour, in which we visited the battlefield at Vicksburg and learned about the siege, the Union victory, and the aftermath.  A little stop in the gift shop was enough to remember where we were.

 Souvenirs, anyone?

The battle of Vicksburg actually was a huge series of battles that took place over many months.  Vicksburg was like a fortress, perched high above the Mississippi, the last place the Union needed to take in order to cut off Confederate supply lines and basically split the Confederacy in half.  Grant came up with a daring plan to march his troops around behind (I thought this was interesting because it was Van Dorn's strategy at Pea Ridge, but in a more massive way), while trying to get supply ships through the blockade at the town.  He succeeded at both of these, and his Union troops got closer and closer.  They made it all the way to Jackson, and then from Jackson came back west, crushing the Confederate armies in a couple of battles along that road.  Coming from the west were a whole bunch of other Union troops, led by General Sherman, the famous one who later marched across the South to the sea.  With him was a regiment of African-American soldiers from Massachusetts, the first one to ever see combat.  They joined a handful of Iowans and successfully held off the enemy at the little-known battle of Milliken's Bend, which is a bend on the Mississppi river kind of north of Vicksburg.  They were so successful that Lincoln realized they should recruit a ton more black soldiers.  After Vicksburg was taken by the Union, over 30,000 more African American troops joined the Union army; many were slaves who had been liberated at Vicksburg and other places, or enslaved people who fled to Vicksburg immediately after the victory.

There was one period when, after repeated attempts to take the city, Grant just waited for 47 days, while the Confederate army and people in the city sat there starving or getting dysentery, dodging the artillery that they shot in on a regular basis.  After a few more assaults, the main Confederate general, Pemberton, surrendered.  I guess he knew it was pointless, and that they were bound for defeat, and in surrendering he actually saved the lives of probably thousands of his soldiers, but he had to retire in disgrace nonetheless.  The surrender took place on July 4th, 1863, which meant that for African Americans in Vicksburg, July 4th had a very special significance, while white citizens of Vicksburg didn't celebrate Independence day for quite a long time.  

The North used Vicksburg as its headquarters on the Mississippi after that.  Sherman used it to gather everything he needed for his crushing march to the sea, destroying everything in his path (according to legend).  It was governed by 3000 black military police.  White citizens had curfews and other restrictions, while African Americans, formerly enslaved, had schools, professional training, and other opportunities they had never enjoyed.  The city of Vicksburg was one of the model cities for Reconstruction, and until 1877 when the federal troops were removed, it was amazingly different.  Of course, white southerners generally didn't think it was that great.  There are over 1300 separate monuments on the Vicksburg battlefield.  But guess when the monument to the African American regiments was erected?  Okay, there was one there initially, but it was melted down during World War II, as were some other monuments, but of course those were rebuilt as soon as possible.  Did you guess?  2004 was when it was dedicated.  The old film they used to show in the NPS visitor center didn't even mention the really important role that these black soldiers played. The new one, however, does a great job, and they even have a life-sized diorama (you know how much I love those) in the museum area.

There were so many monuments/memorials to so many people and regiments that after a while, driving the 16 mile path, they all blended together.  Of course, Matt liked the big Michigan one, and I noticed how many Iowa monuments there were,but this one, which was for Illinois, was by far the grandest and most impressive.  It was like a mini version of the Jefferson memorial, with a perfect dome and oculus, the beautiful Greek temple style facade, the noble symmetry...very lovely.  The battlefield itself still had some of the earthen trenches dug by the Union soldiers as well as the old berms (Matt had to teach me that word) that the Vicksburg defenders dug.

After Vicksburg, we drove down the river road again, and saw some really cool architecture in a little town called Port Gibson.  Legend has it that Grant deemed the town "Too beautiful to burn," and that's what it says on the sign as you come in. But you know when people say "Legend has it" or "It is said that" it usually means they made it up for fun or tourist interest.

Still, this is the synagogue in the town.  It is called Gemiluth Chassed, and is a sort of Romanesque-Byzantine style, built in the 1890s.  So that was after Grant.  This is a story for my next post, but after Reconstruction, when a lot of the old ritzy southern plantation owners lost their homes, Jews came in and made a killing, often actually saving the buildings, the businesses and the towns themselves.  And of course they built beautiful Synagogues that still stand today.  I really wanted to go inside but there was nobody there and by this time the rain had started again.  We then drove down a little back way and found these mysterious and beautiful ruins.  They are called the ruins of Windsor, which was the largest plantation home ever, but burned down in 1890 AFTER the war, when (according to legend) a careless smoker left a cigar burning and the entire place was gone in a jiffy, except for these columns and some wrought-iron railings.  The clearing is very silent and mysterious (there is a scene from some Liz Taylor movie that was filmed here), and haunting.

For you teachers and students, here's a link to a handout about the ruins that you can print and give to you class:

ruins of Windsor handout.  

So for today, anyway, we were just rambling down little backroads, making our way to Natchez, finding odd and beautiful places by the side of the highway.  This vision of Mississippi was pretty captivating.