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THE SOUTH GOT SOMETHING TO SAY

@friedredclay / friedredclay.tumblr.com

Cousin Kira. Writer. Alabamian. Be my friend on IG: @friedredclay.
Let's talk about hood gothic. Young men scrubbing blood and brains off their white sneakers with old toothbrushes. The caterwauling of crackheads in the alley, punctuated by what you hope is only a car backfiring or a kid playing with firecrackers.
Windows blacked out with aluminum foil and bedsheets, windows boarded up with plywood, broken windows gaping like enucleated eyes.
Winos babbling in tongues outside the corner store, beseeching man, god, and the devil himself for just one more dollar, one more bottle.

The South has remained the region where the majority of African Americans live. And even with the declining population in the Blackest South, the Blackest Southerners remain. So the question I always ask is not why did Black folks leave, but why did they stay?

The answer is home. If everyone had departed, no one would have been left to tend the ancestors’ graves. When you walk past a plantation, even if not outfitted soberly or joyously in the history of slavery, you are forced to remember something. And it is a vile, bloody remembrance, but it is also one that should strike awe at the human mastery of existence that is evidenced in the blues, in the experience of the divine in the spirit-body, that keloid-covered, scarred Black body, that violated, hungry, sparely clothed body, the labor-flattened, thick-soled feet. Had these graves not been seen, daily, over generations, had we not been witnesses to them, I do not know how it would have been possible to sustain hope, or at least to pretend to.

American exceptionalism, that sense that we are somehow special and ordained as such, is a myth sedimented on Southern prosperity: oil, coal, and cotton. Every piece of evidence of our national distinction has relied upon this wealth of the nation. As you certainly have already gleaned, I do not think genocide, slavery, and exploitation were worth it. Nor do I believe they should be tidily set aside in moments of patriotic fervor or national piety like the Fourth of July or the following days: President’s, King’s, Labor, or Memorial. But even if you are a lover of the national romance, integrity requires that the stories be at least halfway honest. It is not enough to set aside a little time or attention here or there to grieve our national sins, then, soft as butter, turn back to proclamations of greatness. Because history is an instruction. And what you neglect to attend to from the past, you will surely ignore in the present. 

from Imani Perry, South to America: A Journey Below the Mason Dixon to Understand the Soul of a Nation (2021)