One weekend this spring, I took a trip home to North Carolina. I flew into the Raleigh-Durham airport at about midnight on Thursday night, where my mother and 60 percent humidity greeted me with open arms. We then drove about an hour east to Lumberton, a small town in a small county entirely surrounded by farmland, where we would spend the night before seeing my grandparents the next day.
More specifically, we went to see my 88-year-old grandpa, Murphy Grady McKenzie Junior, affectionately known as “Grandaddy.” Grandaddy lives in a retirement home. His hearing is so degenerated you have to yell in a really Southern accent into his right ear so he can understand you. And even then, only a tiny percentage of what we say gets through to him.
We’ve learned the best way to interact is to ask him questions: “Grandaddy, whatcha been up to? Are you keepin’ everybody straight around here? Grandaddy, what was your childhood like? Can we look at the scrapbook from your RV trip again?”
We ask him questions because, in addition to his hearing loss, Grandaddy also suffers from dementia. He can’t remember what he’s done from day to day, he doesn’t realize he’s showed me his North Carolina State class ring twice already this visit, and he can’t leave his retirement home, because he can’t remember where he is or what’s going on.
But we ask him questions because he still remembers his life. He can still talk about the box kite he made growing up in the Great Depression. He explains to me that when you don’t have the money to buy new toys, you run over to check out what the neighbor has and then make your own version. He can still tell me about his little bulldog Snip, and the time he spent trekking around the country in an RV with his best friend and partner-in-crime Mary Lou. He can still describe his time in the United States Air Force, though he also mentions that he and his good friend President George W. Bush flew planes together (we attribute that one to the dementia).
(Left to right) The Great Smoky Mountains in North Carolina; Bourbon Street in New Orleans; Children playing in the fountains at Atlanta’s Centennial Olympic Park.
So as my grandfather has gotten older, my perspective of him has changed a lot. When we could still take him to his favorite restaurant, CiCi’s Pizza, he would feel the need to make disparaging comments about the biracial couple in town and their son, reminding me of the racism that’s colored his lifetime. When he could still follow the news, he would slander President Obama, reminding me that there are still people who subscribe to hate in their political discourse.
But as these things have become impossible for Grandaddy, our interactions are limited. They’re now limited to him telling me to look out the window at the blue jays flying by, or to talking about his black friend, King, whose paintings hang in his retirement home: a man he describes as being one of the most talented people he’s ever met. Our interactions are limited to him bursting with pride every time he asks me how Harvard is, still incredulous that he could be related to someone who goes there.
My grandfather is a farmer, a military veteran, a devout Christian. He tells me to “look over there yonder” and laughs about getting fat from too many biscuits and cornbread. But he’s also a vestige of a conservative past. He has traces of racism and sexism, legacies of bigotry.
Grandaddy is therefore in many ways symbolic of the South. Beyond the labels and rough history, he’s kind. He has a big heart and just wants the best for his family. He’s brilliant. He built the toys his family couldn’t afford to buy, dabbled in the stock market, and supported my mother so that she could attend a prestigious conservatory to study piano.
Across the Harvard campus and around the progressive Northeast, we’re quick to bemoan the conservatives, the narrow-minded, the bible-thumpers, and the “dumb South.” And it’s hard to blame us; I myself spent the better part of my formative years complaining about the South’s shortcomings.
(Left to Right) Centenary Memorial United Methodist Church in rural North Carolina; Oak trees in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina; City Hall in Savannah, Georgia.
But the problem with dismissing the South as dumb is that the South is not a singular concept. The South is not just its traces of the Civil War, nor its propensity towards poor funding for social programs. It’s not just an abundance of cheap land and a proliferation of mobile homes. When you dig deeper, past the superficial stereotypes and ignominious historical figures, you find a rich culture of resilience and transformation.
Because though the South gave way to governors like George Wallace, it also gave way to those like Jim Hunt, a national champion of education who revolutionized early childhood schooling programs.
Though we still have people like my grandfather, we also have those like my mother, who at age 18 was the only person in her county to vote for Shirley Chisholm, the first African-American presidential candidate in a major party and the first woman to run for a Democratic presidential nomination. People like my mother grew up in the same rural Southern environment, but they knew better than to adhere to intolerance.
The turning point for my grandfather to finally overcome his prejudice occurred when he moved into his retirement home. As his memory failed, so did his ability to remember the prejudices he was taught as a boy. Because when he finally lived with people of color, had them as his next-door neighbors, said hello to them every morning, and ate dinner with them every night, he soon realized people of color were just that: people.
So those of us up here in the North, the West, and the Midwest have a choice. We can choose to ask questions and look deeper into the South’s culture, its history and traditions. Or we can choose to dismiss Southern culture as a stereotype, and adhere to our preconceived notions. But to choose the latter is also to be guilty of prejudice that the South still struggles to overcome. To say our classmate from Alabama with a thick Southern accent doesn’t sound smart is to be responsible for much of the same narrow-mindedness the many in the South still try to rise above.
(Left to right) Sunset on a beach in South Carolina; Charlotte’s skyline at night; Great Smoky Mountains National Park in North Carolina.
And why make that choice? At the end of the day, don’t we all just want a country that’s better off? Don’t we all just want the best for our family, the best from our government and the best opportunities to get ahead? Don’t we all just want one nation with Liberty and Justice for All?
The South is combination of many states, but it’s still part of the United States. It still represents people bonded together to help form a more perfect Union. People who want security, tranquility, and a guarantee of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
So next time you’re pondering where to vacation, or where to take your next adventure, I urge you to consider the South. Y’all are certainly more than welcome.
Image Sources: Gerry Dincher/Flickr, Mary Anne Baker/Flickr, Kevin Byram/Flickr, Robert Neff/Flickr, Gerry Dincher/Flickr, Ginny/Flickr, Ron Cogswell/Flickr, Anthony/Flickr, James Willamor/Flickr, Miguel Vieira/Flickr