I love people, but sometimes we disappoint me. Which is also how I feel about the south.
I’m a southern writer. I don’t claim to be the voice of the south or anything. But this is my voice. And it is deeply steeped in the south.
The south has been the country’s scapegoat for a while, because it’s convenient to act like this is the only geographic location in the US that’s home to racist, misogynistic morons.
The south, I believe, is “the identified child” in the US family. This enables the rest of the country to distance itself from the systemic, institutionalized racism, sexism, and violence. It’s a neat and tidy way to point at someone else and say, You, out there! You are the problem.
This is easier for most of us than saying, We are the problem.
And much easier than saying, There doesn’t have to be a problem.
I reckon I’m weary of it… on the national level, and in my own dang heart (bless it,) … weary of all the bullshit spun as beauty and all the beauty beaten down.
Tard uvit. (Looks like Latin, but read it aloud.)
So here I am. Raising my twangy voice in praise of beauty and in protest of bullshit.
(Writing favorites include Dickinson, Montgomery, Dahl, Berry, Kingsolver, Coates, and Schaefer.)