Scorching Hot

In my never-ending quest to experience as much blues music as possible during my time in Mississippi, a few friends and I went to a blues club in Jackson on Thursday night. The 930 Blues Café, unlike other blues clubs, occupies an early twentieth-century residence featuring a quintessentially southern wrap-around porch. Once inside, it’s hard not to soak in the non-musical atmosphere: low lighting, the smell of smoke and an assortment of deep fried foods, and Budweiser bottles sweating in the heat of the night. The music starts and it all just works. One of the singers on the lineup for the night performed an amazing cover of Marvin Gaye’s "Let’s Get it On", the best I’ve heard since Jack Black delivered that ridiculously unexpected and oddly humorous rendition in High Fidelity. It was a fantastic time; the only downside is that the watered-down urinesque beverage most Americans consider to be beer has grown on me.

Last night, I witnessed something I had never thought I would: the burning of a piece of furniture in someone’s backyard. Burning doesn’t even do the situation justice, since what I really witnessed was the engulfing of an old recliner in a ravenous sea of flames. It’s important to recognize, however, that this primitive yet somewhat postmodern act was not a capricious one, but rather the planned climax of a co-worker’s party. After some of Jackson’s finest enjoyed some cold drinks, good music, and a silent showing of Jane Fonda’s Barbarella in the corner of the backyard, the pyrotechnics began. The host first proceeded to blow up a stuffed animal with a bottle rocket, which is fun for all ages! After piquing the interest of the crowd, he brought out the couch and placed it onto the fire (see pictures on right and left). What made it even more exciting is that the chair was stuffed full of fireworks, many of which went soaring out in assorted directions and landed in his oh-so-friendly (sarcasm) neighbors’ lawns. The chair didn’t last more than a few minutes in the blaze.

You may have two questions. First, who in their right mind wants to burn a chair? Well, I really enjoyed it and others did as well, so it was exciting and not to mention (somewhat) safe. Second, who in their right builds a huge fire in their backyard (with a pit) when its eighty degrees at night? The same guy who owns a potbelly pig for a pet. What an awesome night.

One by One

“Here’s the thing:” my boss said during my interview in February, “Jackson has one of almost everything.” He was absolutely right. Jackson has one Thai restaurant (although it doesn’t compare to Thai Cuisine in Ithaca), one Chinese restaurant (I won’t go anywhere near it for fear of getting a tapeworm), one idiot driving around in token Jersey plates (um…), one sports team (the Mississippi Braves), and only one mall—a real shock to those people who hail from the Garden State. There are some exceptions. Jackson has two or three sushi places, depending on which one is being renovated on any given week. And Barbeque. Oh Barbeque! At every turn there are little shacks claiming to have the best ribs in town, but I’m convinced that the best barbeque joints must have great proximity to the medical centers in order to give emergency angioplasties. Anyway, I’m really appreciating the one-of-everything situation. If I need something, I know exactly where to go and get it. I love it.

Is Mississippi Still Burning?

On June 21, 1964, James Earl Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner arrived in Philadelphia, Mississippi at Mt. Zion Methodist Church, a building that had been fire-bombed by the Ku Klux Klan because it was planned to be used as a CORE “Freedom School”. Freedom Schools sprung up throughout Mississippi during the summer of 1964 as part of CORE’s (Congress of Racial Equality) “Freedom Summer” project, which aimed to register as many African Americans to vote as possible. Each of these three workers came from different backgrounds. Chaney, a native of Meridian, Mississippi, had been involved in the struggle for civil rights from a young age and had been suspended from school for wearing an NCAAP badge. Goodman, a student at Queens College, had only been in Mississippi for one full day when he made the trip out to Mt. Zion. Schwerner, a recent graduate of Cornell, came to Mississippi with his wife hoping to “spend the rest of his life working for an integrated society.” After briefly investigating the fire bombing, the three CORE workers headed back to the project office in Meridian. On the way, the three men were arrested by Neshoba County police for an alleged traffic violation. Later that evening they were released from the county jail just only to be stopped again on a rural road by a small convoy of Ku Klux Klan members who shot them dead and buried them in an earthen dam. Chaney was twenty-one years old, Goodman was twenty years old, and Schwerner was twenty-four years old.

Yesterday, I and two staff members from the ISJL traveled down the same rural roads these three workers had forty three years earlier to Mt. Zion in Philadelphia, Mississippi for the annual memorial celebration. Social conditions probably haven’t changed much in those parts: dirt roads with ruddy ditches, simple shacks with decomposing siding and tin roofs, and rusted Buicks mired in the front yard’s mud. As we approached the church and entered the sanctuary, we noticed that we were some of the only white people there (we would learn of and meet the other white people after the ceremony, along with a film crew making a documentary and the local state senator). Most of the ceremony was fine (e.g. the music and the emcee); however, the message conveyed by most of the speakers was largely negative. For example: several speakers argued that while the number of African Americans who vote has plummeted in recent decades, more blame is to be placed on the establishment for the lack of black candidates and, in particular, black judges on the federal bench. Furthermore, there was no mention to the fact that Goodman and Schwerner were Jewish. Reference upon reference referred to these three martyr’s belief in Jesus and so forth. This is not to convey any sort of anti-Christian sentiment, but I think it’s important to recognize two of these three workers’ Jewish heritage, especially in lieu of the Goodman or Schwerner family’s attendance at the ceremony. Overall, I wish the message at the service had been more positive, one which encourages and facilitates better community relation (namely between blacks and whites) and also which assumes responsibility where and when needed.

In other news, I had the esteemed opportunity this weekend to go to the Bass Pro Shop. A sort of combination between Disney World and ESPN on early Saturday mornings, this store sells ATVs, boats, handguns, shotguns, bows, crossbows, fishing rods, camping gear, etc. The L.L. Bean store in Freeport, Maine pales in comparison; EMS isn’t even worthy of one. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that this place was GIGANTIC! What’s particularly strange is that among all of these weapons and hallmarks of the rural sporting experience is a Starbucks. Who’s going to purchase a .44 Magnum and then want to enjoy a chai latte? Anyway, in the parking lot I also saw my first Mississippi license plate from Jefferson Davis County. Did the county really need both his first and last name in the name? Isn’t it obvious enough exactly which Davis everyone’s referring to when you live in a state with the confederate flag as part of the state flag? Oh well.

Highway 61 Revisited

Perhaps the Mississippi Delta, which apparently isn’t really a delta at all, is best known for its diet of crawfish. And perhaps it’s best known for its dilapidated social condition amongst the most rich and fertile farmland in the country. Most of all, however, is the Delta recognized for its role in the development of what is considered “American” music. It was on the Delta, at the intersection of highways 49 and 61 where blues legend Robert Johnson famously sold his soul to the devil in a formidable trade for musical talent and the ability to play the blues. It’s quite appropriate then that last Saturday, a few friends and I ventured to Indianola, Mississippi out on the Delta for the B.B. King Homecoming Festival. We traveled hardly two hours from Jackson, but yet it felt like I had entered an area of the country which is to me just so foreign—and nevertheless quintessentially American. This picture says it all:


The concert turned out great! It was one of these very relaxed festivals, with families and blues fans coming from miles away. And despite the plague of bloodthirsty mosquitoes swarming in air so thick and humid that I thought I was at a fraternity party, there’s nothing like sitting back with a few friends in lawn chairs, listening to some great music, enjoying a couple cheap beers, and munching on some fried catfish. Yet another little sliver of Southern life!

Two days ago, a few of us went to Baton Rouge, Louisiana to do some research. For those of you who remember your state capitals, it’s up there with Pierre and Columbia as the most forgettable state capitals. Who names a city “Red Stick”? Anyway, the state archives turned out to be somewhat weak in content concerning Jews in Louisiana, so after a few hours in front of the microfilm reader we headed back to Jackson. Au revoir to Baton Rouge!

I just got back from a Mississippi Braves game. They’re the AA minor league team for the Atlanta Braves (duh!) and displayed some of the worst fielding I have ever seen. Still, the $1 beers (16 oz. Coors) were well worth the trip out to the park.

Shalom, Y'all

One week has come and gone since I arrived in Jackson and, to my surprise and perhaps yours, there’s actually quite a lot going on around here. Between work and after-work diversions, I’ve yet to be awake in my apartment for more than two hours at a time. And that’s a good thing, mainly because my apartment is nothing to write home about. While technically it’s a guest house, it bears an uncanny resemblance to a garden shack, except with the little things in life such as beds and chairs and a bathroom. Air conditioning has also been a plus, given that the temperature in Jackson has been crawling towards the one hundred degree mark. Internet is fairly weak out here, but that is not to imply that this place is void of all technology. In fact, I have at my disposal not one, not two, but three televisions along with tons of game consoles. Oh well. Space hasn’t been an issue thus far, but it’ll certain become one when my roommate moves in tomorrow.

The internship itself has been much better experience than I could have ever anticipated. Non-profit work has revealed to me a whole new side of the professional world: one (somewhat) void of intense competition and nightmarish bureaucracy and instead guided by a common desire to make a difference. I’m well aware how hackneyed that sounds, but it’s absolutely true. As a history intern, it’s my job to do research on Jewish communities in the South—both past and present—in order to preserve their legacy. The project I’m working on is called the Digital Archive Project and is essentially a gigantic compendium of short histories on significant individuals, communities, and congregations in the Institute’s target region. Mississippi and Arkansas have already been completed and just like easing a finger onto a spinning globe, the next state will be…Louisiana! Hey, it’s far more exciting than, say, Oklahoma or Kentucky. Starting with New Orleans would have been a little overambitious, so instead I chose a smaller town: St. Francisville. Lying halfway between Baton Rouge, Louisiana and Woodville, Mississippi, that means it’s truly in the middle of nowhere. Jews—mostly German immigrants—nevertheless settled there via New Orleans and came in droves. Today, no Jews live in St. Francisville and the only remnants of a once-vibrant Jewish community is a small and dilapidated cemetery on the edge of town.

But why should anyone care about these communities? Because right now these communities exist merely in the form of records: censuses, tax rolls, probate records, congregation minutes, membership lists, etc. The objective, however, is to construct a narrative that carefully weaves together the people, places, and events that make up what we call “history.” I should then strike a delicate balance between two conflicting elements. On one hand, there is certainly pertinent and revealing historical information and statistical data that elucidate broader social, economic, political, and even cultural features. On the other hand, however, I must be careful not to extrapolate too far from the original sources and avoid far-fetched conclusions and false generalizations. Keeping a slavish fidelity to what “really” happened and what is actually “on the page” fails to produce a narrative with retrospective cohesiveness. Instead reality needs to be modestly embroidered in order to fill in gaps in the historical record and help what really happened approach larger truths than that attested by mere facts. Thus my job is really about “informed storytelling”: the records at hand could not provide the level of detail I aim to narrate; however, the plausibility of the stories told and motives explicated offsets a certain lack of historicity.

So that's what I do. More to come on life in Jackson.

We're Halfway There...

"Your thoughts will soon be wandering, the way they always do
When your riding sixteen hours and there's nothing much to do
And you don't feel much like riding, you just wish the trip was through"

Since I’m too exhausted to write anything coherent, intelligent, or philosophical about my trip thus far, I’ve decided to pass off Bob Seger’s ruminations from "Turn the Page" as my own. Ten hours of driving and six states later, I’ve arrived here in Kingsport, Tennessee just to eat an inexpensive carry-out dinner from a local Italian family restaurant, get a few hours of sleep, and wake up early just to embark on yet another ten-hour voyage.

Two observations and a question:

• Arby’s. There are a lot of them and especially in Tennessee. In fact, my hotel room has an excellent view of an Arby’s pick up window.
  
• Trade-in shows: The best thing to pass the time is to surf the AM stations in Appalachia. If you're really lucky, you'll come across these fantastic radio shows where someone calls in with a dense southern accent looking to “trade my old Maytag washing machine for a pair of Michelin XE-9348A tires” or something like that. Hey, it’s far more entertaining than listening to Christian radio.
  
• Do people actually visit those ridiculous tourist traps advertised on billboards? I saw one today that informed me of “Magical Caverns” that lied only twenty miles off interstate. What does that even mean?

And I'm off to Jackson...