This Is Us
My South May Not Be What You Think It Is
For starters, it’s Blacker and gayer than you could ever imagine
My South is singing to Dolly Parton through a mouthful of elotes and trap music at a Low Country boil.
My South is weedy grass growing up through the curb, a “We Buy Houses” sign stapled to a telephone pole, collard greens grown in empty lots, and a grandpa whose story is going to take all day.
My South is the mangonada truck parked at the top of the riverbank, children emptying the change out of their pockets, tamarind sticky fingers, shoes left tangled in the roots of the trees, and a rope swing plunging them into the muddy water.
My South is B-boys outside a Mississippi gas station, dropping cardboard on the pavement, ’seng patches in West Virginia hollers, church hats on Sunday, micheladas on a tailgate, canoes in the swamp, clam diggers in the marshes, Scotch bonnets spinning in the surf on Hatteras, and tattoos fading in the sun.
My South is samosas in the Queen City, Ramadan in Arkansas, Freedom’s Eve in Gullah Geechee, creasy greens in Charlie West, Soul Veg in Hotlanta, mariachi from the corner store, and rims spinning and Puerto Rican flags on Robert E. Lee Street.
My South is pholourie and macaroni and cheese, Trinidadian moonshine in mason jars, my neighbor seeing me into my house safely and putting me to bed, and Jimmy Cliff singing out her windows and into mine: “Freedom and prosperity for all / Equal opportunity stalk all / But words without deeds / Is like a garden full of weeds / So you better take heed.”
My South is the white grandmother on her riding mower singing Tanya Tucker to her Black granddaughter, who rides on the seat behind her, ear pressed into Granny’s back to feel the vibration of the words.
My South is a squat in Montgomery, small between high-rises, like a secret garden filled with iron skillets stained with garlic, bookshelves made from cinder blocks, water from a cistern, piss in a bottle, kids holding onto visions of futures we know can and will come true.
My South is Blacker and gayer than you can ever imagine. My South is boys in rolled jean shorts and high-tops shaking their way up the cracked sidewalk and Mz. Giselle, 10 feet tall and regal, yellow gauze flowing around her in the club lights, hands big, thighs thick, eyebrows arched, men falling to their knees.
My South is mosquito hawks flying themselves into the bare light bulb, the smell of the pine barrens, tire swings in magnolias, and queers making sweet tea.
My South is Bree pulling down the flag, Barber’s voice ringing out through the streets, teachers organizing in their living rooms, Silent Sam’s face in the mud, Toney, Vicente Fernandez, Zac Brown, 2 Chainz on the radio. My South is Charlotte uprising, Lowndes organizing, and an understanding that Selma taught us everything we need to know.
My South is where Keith Lamont Scott picks up his children from school and where Ahmaud Arbery always makes it home.