The Miss-Education of an American Girl: The Damn Yankee from Virginia

True Story by Carolyn F. Chryst

The Family moved from Virginia to Oxford, MS, in the summer of 1967. This was well after the “ Battle of Oxford” race riots of 1962; but it was all the town folks could talk about. Dad bought a house nearly 20 years after William Faulkner’s “Intruder in the Dust” was filmed in it; yet it was all our neighbors talked about. A run down behemoth Victorian that belonged to a long lost era. The house even had a slave quarters listed as a selling point; which was all we Damn-Yankees from Virginia could talk about. To eleven year old me, we lived in the most famous house in town-1003 S. Lamar Blvd.

Neighbors arrived with gifts and calling cards, as was proper southern protocol. A very tall black man, wearing a cut-way tuxedo and white gloves, hand-carried form the house down the hill and across the street, a 4 feet long silver platter stacked two feet high with fried chicken, hush puppies and cole slaw. As the platter floated over my little brother’s and my head we gawked in astonishment, neither of us had ever seen a real black person. We discussed how rich he must be to own such fine clothes and carry such a magnificent and huge serving platter.

My older brothers teased us unmercifully because we didn’t know that the man was a “manservant” and not our neighbor. Seeing the platter Mom panicked, in her mid-western Methodist way she knew that one never returns a dish empty. “How in the world would am I going to fill up that platter?” (cream puffs is the answer to the question)

Throughout the summer lots of people “called” bringing lots of liquor and little cards. The beautiful pink-marbled table top in the foyer was covered with these calling cards. The last card arrived in late September, hand-carried by a maid in a gray uniform wearing a white cap and no gloves.

This card was from Mrs. J.W. T. Falkner, jr. of 706 South Lamar Blvd. Her note read , “Just wanted to let you all settle in a bit before calling.” Mom had responded to each card with a personal visit, as was demanded by southern social protocol. She decided I was going with her to call on 82 year old Nina Sue Harkins Falkner — William Faulkner’s Aunt. (the “u” was a typo added to the cover of his first book- so he kept it)

Mom made me wear my best dress, white lace gloves, and stockings — I only agreed because she gave-up and let me wear fishnet stockings. We walked the three blocks up South Lamar Blvd. to Mrs. Falkner’s house, another run down behemoth Victorian. Her maid showed us to Parlor A, reserved for only the finest guests, Mrs. Falkner had used her best china for tea sandwiches and lovely crystal glasses for lemonade. Mom had strict rules about visiting only 20 minutes. We were there for an hour and one half.

Miss Sue, as I was asked to call her was a captivating storyteller. My favorite was when she told the story of the influenza out-break of 1918 and what it did to the town of Oxford. She described herself as the girl with the most beautiful hair in town, it was three feet long, jet black, and glimmered in the sun like mica.

She smiled as she recalled how the boys all loved her hair and the girls all envied her. Then came the “Influenza” of 1918. Hundreds of people died in town. For Miss Sue, the tragedy was the illness caused all her hair to fall out, “…every last strand,” Miss Sue sighed. “My hair eventually grew back, but it was course and curly and an awful ash color.”

Her favorite beau stopped calling, she blamed her hair. She smiled at me and with glistening eyes said, “Child, don’t trust your heart to a man who loves your hair.” This magnificent 82-year-old talked of the importance of a woman learning to be self-reliant, and of the need for a woman to understand how money works. She looked around the first floor of her house, she cupped my chin in her hand and said, “Honey, you don’t ever want to be stuck living in half your house — ’cause you cain’t afford to heat the upstairs, or put in a chair lift. I haven’t been upstairs since J.W. died in 62.”

On that note, Mom, decided it was well past time to go. We said our good byes, made promises to call again, and took leave of William Faulkner’s Great Aunt Katherine “Nina” Sue, living with her fine things in her half-a- house.

In the fall of 1967, the visit with William Faulkner’s Aunt Sue lead to my first attempt at narrative research. I turned a homework assignment of a secondary source research paper on Faulkner into a primary source research project. The project in included an interview with William Faulkner’s Aunt, Sue Harkins Falkner. Turns out “Miss Sue” had little regard for her famous nephew, “Willie was nothin’ but a no count drunk! I don’t know why he won that big ole prize; all he did was tell stories on the folks around here. And he didn’t even do that good a job of it!”

For my 5th grade school project, I compared Mrs. Faulkner’s descriptions of the “folks” to those found in Faulkner’s short story, “A Rose for Emily” and several other stories. I determined his Aunt had a valid point. He had merely described the real-life characters that inhabited the square. The cover page included the quote as a title, “…a no count drunk!”

My parents were very proud of my paper and the effort I had put into it. My teacher was not equally impressed. I received an “F”.

My father marched into that 5th grade classroom, armed with a deep understanding of good pedagogy. He asked the young teacher how many other 11 year olds bothered to set up an interview, do original research, a literature review, and make valid conclusions? The teacher agreed to change my grade to a “C” for not following directions and spelling errors.

In the fall of 1968, I made another attempt at an original research project. Having learned my lesson in 5th grade about the hazards of subjective interpretation, for this project I reported “just the facts.” We were to go to the local cemetery and count the headstones of people from Oxford who died when General Sherman’s “death-machine” rolled through Mississippi.

Unfortunately, I noticed that more people were born nine months later than died. I felt duty bound to report the facts — General Sherman’s arm was not a death-machine it was a baby-making machine (I had dreams of being a journalist). My “facts” upset the teacher so much that she wanted me punished for thinking in an unlady-like way.

She called for a meeting with my parents and the principal. My father must have looked like General Sherman to these educators when he stormed into the school building. In heated and angry tones Dad gave the older, very southern, teacher a lesson on data collection. She gave me my first lesson in the power of “lady-like” passive-aggressive behavior. I received an “A” for the project, but when the report card came I had a “D-” for deportment. The principal gave me the name, “Damn Yankee from Virginia.”

In fall of 1969, Oxford Mississippi public schools were forced to comply with the federal desegregation laws. There was to be no more separate but vastly unequal school systems. All the junior high school aged children and their teachers were moved to the old black high school.

The local solution to this federal requirement of having all the school children under one roof was very literal. However, someone had the bright idea of putting all the white children and white teachers on the second floor while all the black children and black teachers were put on the basement-like first floor.

Being the Damn-Yankee from Virginia, I was put on the first floor with all the black children. My father, the paternal defender, had died from a sudden heart attack in September of 69 and could not defend me this time. I’m not sure he would have even tried as all my black teachers were skilled educators with masters’ degrees and Ph.D.s. I learned more in that 7th year of my public education than I had in the six years before or the five years after.