COLUMN: Travelling in the strange south

From Malik Wilson's, "RosZ," Fall '99 From Malik Wilson's, "RosZ," Fall '99It was Tuesday evening when I made the decision to go. I called my mother to ask if she would book the ticket. "You want to go this Thursday," she asked me, "as in two days?" I said yes. She sighed. I told her I would pay her back. She sighed again. She put my father on the phone. I sighed. He was silent for a long time. He told me to have a good time and drink plenty of alcohol. I laughed out loud. My father laughed too. This was going to be a great trip. "To get there, all we have to do is drive through Mississippi and Alabama?" My smile fell off my face. I decided I needed a drink, too. Those two states, more than any others, have come to symbolize hatred, oppression and violence to many black people. I knew it was irrational to dislike an entire state, but emotionally I worried about what could happen to five black men driving through the bowels of Mississippi at 3 a.m. What if we got lost going down the wrong country road? What if our car broke down? What if we were stopped by the police? I poured myself another drink before we left for the airport. We arrived in Atlanta with little fanfare. We picked up Saleem's friends, rented a six-seat mini-van and sped through Georgia as darkness fell. Ahead of us, Alabama and Mississippi stretched out like two sleeping giants guarding the doors to Mardi Gras. Hours later, I opened my eyes and asked Saleem where we were. Mississippi stared back at me through the cracked window. I rolled down the window and breathed in the air. The unfamiliar trees stood abruptly out of the ground, forming black silhouettes against the sky. The moonlight fell across the highway and trickled into the car. "M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i", I said slowly. "Mississippi." There was a frightful, startling beauty about the land. I closed my eyes and tried to fall back to sleep. We arrived in New Orleans fatigued but unscathed. Ten minutes later, Saleem pulled up in front of his friend's house. More relieved than excited, we greeted our host and within 15 minutes, everyone was asleep on their appointed beds and couches. Everyone except for me, Saleem, and our host, Fetch. A tall, soft-spoken young man, Fetch had recently graduated from George Washington University with a degree in Chemistry. In between our bouts of drunkenness and lascivious revelry, Fetch and I became friends. We would indulge ourself in conversations about a range of topics. One subject we always returned to was the difference between life in the north and the south. Fetch had lived on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. He just smiled as I told him about a small gas station in Mississippi where middle-aged country-looking white men opened the door for me when I walked out. He already knew that Cajuns ask how you are and stay around to hear the answer. But for someone who is used to sitting alone on Amtrak, regardless of how crowded the train is, I was somewhat taken aback. Indeed, during my time in the South, I was frequently surprised. Surprised at how easily people spoke to me, surprised at how long people spoke to me, surprised at the type of people who spoke to me. I realized how the cold indifference of the north affects you profoundly. Whether in New York, Philadelphia, Chicago or D.C., I frequently feel invisible. There is comfort in this invisibility, in the complete assurance that no one is looking and no one cares. Over time, it made me believe that a white man in a suit could never possibly have anything to say to me. That a well-dressed white woman would automatically perceive me as a threat. But standing on Bourbon Street among the thronging crowds, that white man and woman stopped and said "Hello." Southern racism is of a different breed. Down south, you know who the racists are because they have a "I voted for Jefferson Davis" sticker on their license plate or because their clothes come emblazoned with the Confederate flag across them. The racism of the South is an older racism, displayed in all of gnarled, primitive grotesqueness. It shocks us for its naked brutality, for its unsophisticated violence. But there are just as many racists in the North as there are in the South. Just because someone wears a suit and teaches at an Ivy League school doesn't mean they're not racist. Just because someone uses science and sociology to convince you of your inferiority instead of burning crosses and hurling slurs doesn't mean they're any less racist. The redneck who calls you "nigger" and the professor who calls you "biologically disadvantaged" are cut from the same cloth. When I returned home from the breasts, beer and beads of Mardi Gras, I told my father about my impressions of the South. He chuckled when I told him how nice people were and reminded me that manners and mindsets are not the same thing. He's right, of course. The south, like the north, is not perfect. But for what it's worth, it's nice to have someone hold the door open for you.