Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for July, 2015

Popeye the Sailor man Fan Art by Avantika Srinstava http://avantikasrivastava.blogspot.com/2011/08/popeye-sailor-man.html

Popeye the Sailor man Fan Art by Avantika Srinstava http://avantikasrivastava.blogspot.com/2011/08/popeye-sailor-man.html

My first friend was a Mexican. It was early in a long life, so it was well before I learned that this detail should matter. Before I was informed that “they” are not “us.” Johnny Hernandez, or Juan, if I were to speak more precisely, was a few years my senior and befriended me, the skinny one, “El Flaco,” during my days in the Birdville housing projects. I recall very few images of his face, the memories of early childhood corroded by decades. Only the back of his head and neck are vivid. They remain a vision of a fine round shape studded with the short black stubble of a crew cut and topped by a blazingly white, perpetual navy seaman’s cap, its upturned cuff of a brim carefully pulled into an oval and worn slightly canted to the right. When I think on it, it brings to mind the cap worn by Popeye the Sailor Man of the cartoons. But Johnny was more than a cartoon.

I say that Johnny was a “Mexican,” although I really never knew on which side of the border he was born, whether in Alabama or some other US state or in one of the states of Mexico like Coahuila, Chihuahua, or Sonora. It never occurred to me to ask, so we never spoke of it. It would not have mattered anyway since I had no concept of a state or a country then, nor of the significance of the information.

Johnny was just my big friend who looked after me in the communal meadow where the neighbor kids climbed and swung from the ancient oaks, played chase and ball and roamed. I was his “Swinn-fendered” friend too who rode on the back of his bike up and down Flamingo Drive, my legs outstretched to avoid entanglement in the spokes or sprocket and chain. It was he who picked me up when I lacerated by calf on a broken bottle in the commons and who carried me bleeding on his back, nearly soiling his pristine cap in the process of my rescue. I still bear a white line of a scar with four pair of pale dots as outriders where the staples went through the skin to effect a closure of the muscle and other tissue. It is a constant reminder that my memory of the experience is real and of the reality of Johnny’s kindness and friendship.

Maracas Phot credit: ruskin.mysdhc.org

Maracas Photo credit: ruskin.mysdhc.org

The truth is that Johnny is a friend from the dawn of memory when all things that I still retain are mist-covered and rose-hued; he was part of the days before I went off to school and learned the cruelties of the playground, the will to power that is the feckless desire of nations. Thus, only later did I conclude the country of origin of Johnny’s family from reconstructed evidence: the souvenir maracas that always rested on the telephone table by the stairs that exulted in colorful painted and fluid script, “Mexico!”; the strange way Johnny said the word, “Meheeko” when I asked about them; the sweet but indecipherable speech he used when he spoke to Senora ‘Ernandez; the exotic aromas of onion, garlic and cumin that wafted like a halo around her as she stood in the doorway of her cocina next to the hand-tinted print of Jesus of the sacred heart that hung above the dinning table. She was a short, very tan lady who reminded me of a younger version of my beloved grandmother. She never said a word to me, only smiled when I came calling on Johnny.

Señor Hernandez I saw only on the weekend and always in a cotton-ribbed undershirt and khaki twill pants. Often he held a newspaper in his hand when he greeted me at the door, his smile barely visible through a black moustache peppered with graying hairs. “Hello, Sammy. Johnny will be down in a minute,” he would say. Then turning to the stairs he would shout across the maracas something that I could not understand that could have sounded like “¡Oye, Juanito! Ven aquí! Tu amiguito esté aquí.” Then he ignored me as he returned to his newspaper. In a few minutes I would see the white seaman’s cap sail down the staircase with my friend suspended underneath.

Despite his friendly demeanor, Johnny’s father frightened me a little, as did all of the unfamiliar Dads in the neighborhood. His mother I did not know at all since she never spoke to me. Thus, I was never invited to sample any of the dishes she always seemed to be preparing in the back room of the apartment. Not until I had moved on from Birdville and out to the swamps on the Bay and had deserted my Spanish-speaking friend did I even taste “Mexican food.”

My first taste of Mexico came from Mrs. Adams, known behind her back as “Mrs. Atom Bomb” for her volatile temperament, who was my desperate sixth grade teacher at South Brookley Elementary School, and who was the unlikely source of my initiation into Latino cuisine. She opened a small tin can of tamales and warmed them in an electric skillet she had set up next to the cloakroom door during an otherwise forgettable social studies unit on Central America. It was my first and only taste of Mexico for many years. Her culinary experiment unfortunately missed the mark as I and my classmates were put off by the nondescript taste of the greasy pork blobs held together with translucent corn husks and masa glue. I looked at the faces of my peers and saw there the same repulsion that I felt. Nevertheless, I knew better than to hold my nose as I had done to impress Mary Louise Thompson of the long platinum hair when Mrs. Adams had read the story of Lazarus in our morning Bible reading a few weeks earlier. “Sammy Mat’son, meet me in the cloakroom!” She had demanded. My penance: to stand alone, banished for an hour after a severe chastisement for irreverence.  I was unimpressed by the food, not only by its taste but also by its unhappy association with the nearby closet.

On the other hand I was very much impressed by the appliance she had brought to school for the occasion. I had never seen such a device before nor had Juan, I suspected. I wished he were there to see it. The skillet was manufactured by General Electric whose motto—“Progress is our most important product”—was emblazoned just below the trademark. From the demonstration I concluded that if tamales were all a Mexican chiquito had to eat, it was no wonder why he was starving. It was also clear to me why he surely and earnestly longed to emigrate northward across the river to find real food such as I enjoyed.

For a long time afterward I thought of Johnny’s nameless cousins whenever I was admonished by Mother to eat everything on my plate. “Remember all of the starving children who are going to bed hungry tonight while you throw away food.” Thus, I internalized the lesson of nonsensical consumption on behalf of the huddled and hungry masses of the world. I learned to feel a sense of global obligation whenever I sat at table, one I discharged faithfully with “Please pass the mashed potatoes and the gravy” and by manfully cleaning my plate.

It would be necessary for me to abandon the South and migrate west before I could really taste the flavor of “Tex Mex” and fall in love with chili peppers. During my college years, however, I subsisted on Tuesday night enchiladas at El Chico Mexican Restaurant. What is more, summers—while I was in college—were spent in Texas, too, where I received basic training in extreme “southern” cooking, that is, cuisine that came from south of the Rio Grande. The city of San Antonio was where my palate acquired its affinity (at five for a dollar) for the crisp, delicious melded flavors of meat, corn tortilla and greenery. I crunched contentedly and  I audibly blessed the unknown genius who invented the taco. I thanked God for my good fortune to happen on the crispy Mexican sandwich at last. In the Alamo City one can not escape the scent of Latin spice, but in Mobile in my youth we did not know of such “ethnic” or “immigrant” cuisine, Mexican, Chinese or even Italian.

I have reflected on the oft-asked question: what does it mean to say “I am an American?”   Almost all of the people I meet are either immigrants themselves or the children of immigrants. Only some have come to North America earlier than others; only some under more affluent or respectable circumstances than others.

The “Mexicans” and other Spanish-speaking Mesoamericans, as well as Middle Eastern speakers of Arabic or Farsi surged to our republic at the end of the twentieth century. In the nineteenth century it was merely different peoples: the Irish, and the Italians, and other Middle Europeans. A century earlier the British and the Spanish and the French came to the “New World”—and Africans. Some immigrants came willingly; some were compelled. From the first European colonization of North American until the trade in human life was outlawed in the United States in 1802, twelve and a half million persons were forced to immigrate to this continent as slaves, 10.7 million surviving the journey.

“El Flacho” a.k.a Sammy, Johnny’s amigo. Family photo ca.1953

By whatever means we came or whenever was the day, none found a welcome from the “others” who had preceded him. I have read of the resentment of the Irish Catholics who dared to settle in Protestant New England.   I have heard of the scorn of freed men in the hearts of their former masters during the “Reconstruction” of the South. The first inhabitants of America who had themselves immigrated here ten to twenty thousand years earlier did not welcome the avaricious “white” men and apparently for good reason. Inevitably it seems we resent those who come late to the party. We congregate with “our kind” and divide the world into “us” and “them” and in the process miss out on so much, I fear. The thought saddens me and I wish for all, the same innocent friendship I knew in Johnny, joyfully ignorant of our irrelevant respective and divergent patrimonies.

In the succeeding post next week I will examine why the human compulsion to tribe is both natural and immoral. Until then, I offer this sweet comradeship that many would disdain: my first friend was, most likely, an alien but also a most kind human child, who befriended me without condition.

The intangible gift received by the skinny kid (pictured above), now a man grown old, he will forever treasure just as surely as if he still held his friend’s hat in his very hands.

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

Proud Sammy, the Fisher boy, ca. 1954. Family photo, via Cindy Matteson King

Proud Sammy, the Fisher boy, ca. 1954. Family photo, via Cindy Matteson King

Today, I am an indifferent fisherman. I suspect knowledge of that fact would be a small disappointment to my grandparents, were they alive today to acknowledge it. Pa Moates and Ma Bertie were themselves gifted and serious anglers, who more than subsisted on the bounty of the creeks and rivers of lower Alabama. Although, I think of the two, Ma was a trace better at outwitting the fish, judging from the photos of her holding gargantuan bass.

Fishing is best when the sun is just up, or so Pa claimed. So they often stayed in the plain cabins under the pines at the Fish Camp. The little two-room-with-a-bath boxes were paneled inside with Masonite, had cold water and a hot plate kitchen and were located less than a hundred yards from the river. Bertie’s sister, my great Aunt Kittie, was the proprietress and manager of the camp and its small diner. Fisherman would bring their catch to her, gutted, the scales and heads removed, of course, and Kittie would fry it up along with her famous hush puppies. Served with iced tea it was a banquet. Aunt Kittie seemed to me to resemble the proverbial “horse that was rode hard and put up wet.” Her face was a pale gathering of wrinkles resting in a nest of gray hair. But her dark eyes twinkled with an impish delight as if she were thinking on a secret or a joke that the rest of the world did not know.

Kittie’s Fried Fish and Hushpuppies

One afternoon I helped her serve in her diner when a pair of fishin’ bubbas brought in their catch for her to cook. They smelled of beer and looked a little unsteady on their feet. I became convinced of their inebriation when they began to flirt with Aunt Kittie, fifteen years senior of the eldest bill-capped angler and so unattractive to my more sober eyes. I concluded that their befuddled vision and questionable judgment was not a total lost, however, when one of the scraggly bearded diners, after he had finished his fish and corn bread, hooked his head twice to me, leaned to his left reaching into his jeans pocket and slapped a silver dollar down on the oil cloth of the table. “He deserves a tip, Kittie.” Then he winked at Aunt Kittie, who smiled a crooked smile and nodded to me to pick it up. Fishing was a gentle sport, I reasoned, that seemed to bring out the best in most people, sober or not.

Pa took me fishing a few times; even fewer of those times it was just the two of us. We stepped into the boat sending waves out across the river. I shivered as I saw the stream darken in a slithering burst of water moccasins that had been resting in the shade of the gunnels. I pointed at them but Pa only chuckled at my goose flesh and wide eyes. They were only part of the nature of the place. It was no matter, Pa did not swim where he fished.

The motor at the square end of the john boat cleared its throat with the first two pulls on the rope Pa made, then began to sing with a puff of pale blue smoke smelling of burnt oil that rose from the tea brown water at the stern. Pa skillfully revved the little Evenrude and turned the bow of the boat toward the center line of the river. The water parted before us in a sharp “vee” than went out softly and lapped against the shore where we had passed.   Soon the motor’s monotonous “aaah” lulled me into a quiet reverie. I watched the palmetto plants under the Spanish moss-hung cypress trees slip past us. On the knees and snags that stuck up from the still water an occasional box turtle lolled in the sun or a snake bird perched; the strange bird was silhouetted like a crooked cross as it dried its wings in the sun. I looked down into the water and could see the white sandy bottom and occasionally thought I saw a fish. I wondered if the word had got around the fish gossip-line that the fisherman was out.

Soon we were at one of Pa’s favorite fishing holes. I watched Pa bait his hook. I was amazed that he did not hook his big hands; they shook so with “the palsy.” I hooked my earthworm as he had, with steadier but more fumbling fingers. We cast the lines a few yards from the boat. I watched the red and white bobber float idly on the surface. I was tempted to lift it from the water and cast again, but I knew that Pa would chide my impatience with “You can’t catch a fish with your hook out of the water.” So I sat quietly and gazed at the ripples on the water and watched the sun play at decorating the side of the boat. I could see the line beneath the cork going down and then vanishing in the glare.

The Ones That Got Away

Pa did not speak much. He rarely spoke at all and almost never when fishing. Back at the camp he enjoyed a good joke, however, preferably a fishing joke. “The warden suspected a fellow of using dynamite when he fished, so he arranged to go out with him one day. Sure enough, the fellow picks up a stick of dynamite. Lights it and throws it into the lake. The warden shouts, ‘You can’t do that!’ Then the fellow lights another stick and tosses it to the warden, ‘You gonna fish or talk?’” I can still hear Pa’s laughter, slow, deep, like the sound of thunder from heat lightning over the horizon. I loved telling Pa a new joke; if he had heard it before, he still laughed, whether out of courtesy to me or for the pure pleasure at the humor of it all.

My line went taut and then began to write “s” on the surface of the placid stream. My heart jumped and I reeled in the line. I felt the tension of the fish pulling hard to get away. I reeled and pulled; then I jerked the line and heard a disappointing “snap!” The line hung limp.

“You lost him when you jerked your line.” Pa said in a slow drawl.

“He was a bigg’n wasn’t he, Pa?” I jabbered.

“Sure. The biggest are the hardest to land. Don’t fret none. I’ve lost a few myself. There are more fish to catch out there. . . . But you’re gonna need a hook. Let me see your line a minute.”

We fished all morning and into the afternoon. We caught a mess of stupid perch and crappie but did not boat any of the wily bass. They are still in the lake, I suppose.

In Appreciation of Fishermen

I appreciate the taste of a well caught fish. I know that somewhere some fisherman has exploited all of his guile in a metaphor for all the rest of life to wrest a living and sustenance from the bounty of the sea, the river, or the lakes of this world. It comforts me both that we, humans, are near the top of the food chain, but also that there are many fish that get away. Often they are the biggest and the most desirable.

Fishing is surely a sanctified preoccupation, seeing how the apostles, Peter, James and John, were fishermen who lived by angling. I imagine the lakes of heaven calm and peaceful like that day on the Fish Camp river, with a strange threesome—Pa and Ma and Saint Peter, the Big Fisherman—sitting serenely in the Jesus boat wetting their hooks, angling eternally and joyfully for the biggest fish that ever got away.

Bertie MOates, Sammy's grandmother. Now there was a fisherwoman and a grandmother. Family photo 1858, courtesy Cindy Matteson King.

Bertie Moates, Sammy’s grandmother. Now there was a fisherwoman and a grandmother! Family photo 1958, courtesy Cindy Matteson King.

Read Full Post »

A Reply to Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou (1928-2014)  Photo credit: www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/maya-angelou

Maya Angelou (1928-2014) Photo credit: http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/maya-angelou

Eleven years ago I attended, with my wife, a speech by Maya Angelou at the University of North Texas. It was an inspiring ninety minutes that included a slam poet Joaquin Zihuatanejo, a personal friend and a powerful voice for La Raza and the Chicano experience. Much was made of words, little swords of truth, even to the point of encouraging the listener to write their own works.

The message was not lost on me. I was inspired to compose a poem in response to Maya’s challenge. Of course, one does not write a poem or prose to be read in your closet, speaking only to the walls. Therefore, I sent the poem to the university sponsor of the event. She insisted (to my embarrassment) that we send a framed copy to Maya Angelou herself, which we did. I do not know what Dr. Angelou thought of my work, but no matter, it was a positive response to what she proposed we (read I) do. Last year she died. Thus, I will never know.

Given the events in our nation in the last few weeks and my post last week that reveal how far we have come in race relations (not far it seems), I offer this poem for your reflection and your inspiration. Write your verse and share it however you may.

On Hearing Maya Angelou

I would live a large and unabridged life,
Not a quiet, small, condensed, digested
Version, read so safe, content, and cowardly,

A life as large as black mommas singing
Gospel hymns and William C. Handy tunes,
The poesy of black humanity’s pain.

Think not that Angelou could sing the blues
With such wide mirth and clarion voice unless
She first had bound it—to speak at last for us.

Think not that you alone stand soaked with rain
And search in vain for Noah’s sign above,
A lost rainbow-hope in clouds of dark struggle.

Think not that Christ the hope of Easter morn
Secured without its price of Thursday’s long
Night of olivine doubt and Good Friday’s cross.

Rainbows come only when our own sun winks
Through the storm and back refracts its wan light
To show to us gossamer spectra within.

I would live a large and unabridged life
Where pain and joy together teach me what
A human is: black, brown, white, bold, joy-filled, large…free.

Joaquin Zihuatanejo, slam poet. Photo creddit: /twitter.com/thepoetjz

Joaquin Zihuatanejo, slam poet. Photo credit: https://twitter.com/thepoetjz

Read Full Post »

In the heart of Mobile's Bienville Square stands an ornate wrought iron fountain. Photo credit:Karen Warren; www.thisgirltravels.dreamhosters.com

In the heart of Mobile’s Bienville Square stands an ornate wrought iron fountain. Photo credit:Karen Warren; http://www.thisgirltravels.dreamhosters.com

Empathy lies at the root of all morality; so I have heard and so have I observed. I heard it first in stories about the Rabbi Jesus in Sunday School. He said it plainly: “Love your neighbor as yourself,” and “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” I recall, my Dad, the teacher of three rowdy boys, kneeling backward in the front seat of our automobile while Steve Garner, Dean Cooper and I squirmed in the backseat, more or less captive for the thirty minute lesson. He would be surprised to learn that I also remember what he had to say: how a bystander in the story that Jesus told squirmed, too, and defensively inquired, “Who is my neighbor?” when the interlocutor was confronted by such an uncompromising imperative from the itinerant preacher from Nazareth. But it is not only from hearing that I have become convinced; I have found that my recognizing or overlooking my humanity reflected in another—whether neighbor, stranger or enemy—is the key or the lock to how moral will be my actions toward them.

There are aspects of the Alabama home of my youth of which I am proud. There are many recollections of the 1950s and 60s that bring me joy. There are memories of the ancestral South that warm my heart. The polite and genteel manner of folk toward each other, their passion for spirituality, our respect for a precious legacy as stewards of the land, the comfortable and languid speech that savors the delicious taste of words even as you utter them. One image shames me, however; one that is an indelible picture will forever pain me. I close my eyes and still see painted there on the floor of the city bus a filth-besmirched pale green line. You see, I was not permitted behind that line, nor were the others allowed to sit at the front.

A Magical Bus Ride

Once, when I was a fledgling flitting from one playmate’s nest to another on Flamingo Drive among the gray clapboard-sided duplexes of the “Birdville” projects, I rode wide-eyed with Mother downtown on the city bus. It was an awe-filling adventure to hear the “whoosh” of the brakes and the “whack” of the door opening near the smiling driver clad in a white short-sleeved shirt with black tie and smart blue cap, to smell the clouds of black diesel smoke leaving an atmospheric, nearly invisible trail behind us. We disembarked at Bienville Square, it dark and cool with deep refreshing green shade—really almost black in contrast to the blazing morning sun—with darkness spilled out in irregular puddles under the ancient oaks that were planted well before the War Between the States, or the “Civil War,” as Yankees like to call that same conflict of a century before. We ate at Woolworth’s lunch counter seeing only pale faces—like mine—reflecting back from the mirror behind the waitress. I glanced up from my sandwich just in time to see a chocolate face under a white paper cap peer out from the kitchen. He looked at me, then crooked his head out the slot to sing, “Order up! Miss Betty!” wiping a diadem of sweat drops from his forehead. “How does that Hersey-bar man keep from melting?” I mused silently.

We crossed the square past the fountain to buy some salted peanuts at the Planters Store then moved to a park bench between the wrought iron fence next to the azaleas and the ancient and ornate fountain that splashed noisily and blue. I saw a woman with skin the color of cocoa hurry by in a starched gray uniform. “Maid,” I thought, then turned again to the greedy squirrels. When we had exhausted all the peanuts, the riot of tails that surrounded us dispersed to reassemble around another benefactor, and we gathered ourselves with our packages and walked back across the street. At the corner we circumnavigated a knot of people that gathered around a slightly frightening creature with a bushy head.

He was jet black: black skin, almost gun-barrel blue-black, black hair, black clothes. His hair was electrified, here tangled, there matted, everywhere standing up and out. His eyes rolled in a wide voodoo evil eye, flashing maniacal conjunctivae the color of café au lait. His clothes were worn shiny and black with bus diesel smut and street grime. He gripped an ancient banjo that he strummed while he danced a bare-foot shuffle on the pavement with a soft whisper slide and a clap of the sole.   I was surprised to glimpse the pink of his palms and the inside of his mouth when he placed a light bulb in his mouth and crunched down just before Mother dragged me around the corner and out of sight the degrading spectacle.

“Momma, who was that man?” I asked.

“He is nobody. You don’t need to concern yourself none, honey,” she replied, distracted.

Our World Was Separate

Ours was a separate world, I remind myself. We did not concern ourselves with what the dark-skinned cooks did in the kitchen or where the maids were going, since we had no maid or cook—black or white. I glanced sidewise out the corner of my eye—it is rude to stare I was taught—at the black man in the red uniform who operated the elevator at Gayfer’s Department Store. He wore white gloves, a red cap and a deferential attitude. “Mornin’ Ma’am. . . . How are y’all young man? . . . Third floor . . . shoes, suitcases and housewares . . . . watch your step.” We did not trouble ourselves over where he went at night or what he thought. He was just there to serve us. Nor did we did trouble ourselves with the concerns of the black stevedores on the docks of Mobile Bay whose backs glistened in the sunshine like proud muscular horses as they unloaded boxes and crates from ships laden with the goods of the world. They were not our people nor were their concerns ours. We had our own concerns.

1943 Colored Waiting Room sign Photo credit: americanhistory.si.edu

1943 Colored Waiting Room sign Photo credit: americanhistory.si.edu

Yet, I was fascinated by the forbidden fountains that advertised “colored” water. However, I was doomed to disappointment, since the water that shot up arched only in a clear parabola before it splashed against the porcelain, just like the “white” water.   The people who came and went from the “Colored” bathroom, on the other hand, were indeed colored: cinnamon, cocoa, chocolate, coal, tar, toasted, caramelized and burned dark; young men and old and boys with dark curly hair; black, brown and gray. I wanted to rub my thumb against their arms to see if the color would rub off, like charcoal or chalk. I watched intently. But I saw none among them who I reckoned to look like me: pale, fair with white-blond hair or green eyes. “Pink and green are colors, too, aren’t they?” I thought.

I rode on the bus and looked back at the little brown boy just my age who sat in the wide seat at the rear of the bus on the other side of the pale green line. I secretly wanted to ride there and look out of the rear window, watching where we had gone. But then I began to wonder if he ever wanted to ride up front by the driver and see where we were going? I began to feel sorry for us both.

But I was frightened at the difference and distance between us. As I grew to be a teenager, I became even more frightened at the demands I heard them make, and the men who shouted them in the streets. I was frightened and frustrated because I suspected that their banners listed just demands, that I was on the wrong side of the line, and that I had no real voice to answer or any real courage to speak up or the wisdom to understand what was happening.   Dr. Martin Luther King was in Birmingham leading the protest. He was arrested. He must have been doing something illegal, I thought, because law-abiding citizens don’t get arrested. He wrote a letter answering the criticism of some prominent clergymen, as well as my tacit indictment. But I did not read his “Letter from Birmingham Jail” until forty years later. Yet in it he writes of me as if we had been corresponding. In his letter he speaks with sadness, “I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate,” he wrote of me, “who is more devoted to ‘order’ than to justice. . . . Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is more bewildering than outright rejection.”

I See Myself Reflected

I am a moral person, I protest. Often these days I don’t even notice the color of a person’s skin, I treat everybody with respect, and I am relieved not to live in a world with official but unjust walls of discrimination. But, too, I am shamed still that I stood by with lukewarm acceptance and thus defended an immoral status quo by my inertia and by my fears. I finally see myself reflected in the eyes of those I once feared.

There are many things that I remember proudly from my youth. But that line I wish I could forget. But I cannot. I meet it again and again even today in subtle and ugly ways, in others and in myself. And then I see in my imagination myself sitting in the back of the bus, looking were we—the brown boy and I—have been. We are sitting together on the same bus, sitting on the same seat, sitting behind the pale green line, and looking out the same window, together. Like a pair of sons of the South, brothers really—what we actually are.

Family photo of Sammy's mother, Audrey, at about age five with unidentified friend in Dothan, Alabama.

Family photo of Sammy’s mother, Audrey, at about age five with unidentified friend in Dothan, Alabama.

Read Full Post »