The Mythology of The South: A history that will not be erased

So, over the last couple of years, I have been thinking about racism a lot, and even more so since last November. I thought about racism before, but it never felt so much like a rabid dog standing outside our door as much as it has in the last couple of years. Frankly, I know why I thought it wasn't outside my own door--it's because I'm white. 

With the exception of my childhood history, and occasional brushes with misogyny as a woman, I have led a very comfortable life. When I've been pulled over for speeding, I've never feared for my life. No one goes to lock their door when they see me walk down the street. I worry about things my child might face, because I know rape culture is real, and I know I can't protect her at every moment. But I'm not worried that she will be mistaken for a criminal just because she's walking along the sidewalk in her own skin.

A lot of people say that we fought the war over racism over 100 years ago. Some say we fought it about 50 years ago. The reality? The war has never ended, especially in the minds of those who still feel that it wasn't slavery, but their way of life that was under attack. Sadly, slavery and their "way of life" were one in the same. If you cannot let go of one, you cannot deny the other. 

Up until the last four years, the concept of "The South" was about as real to me as any other moment in history. It was in a book, in a movie, in a documentary, at a roadside van selling cheap tapestries. And even when I first moved to Northwest Arkansas, I believed I was living in "The South Lite." 

It wasn't until a night out with my husband a little over a year ago that we actually looked at the statue in the middle of a nearby town square, as we walked through, that I realized where I live. I had never been face to stone with a statue honoring the Confederacy. 

I immediately felt "out of place." I immediately heard an inner voice saying 'Oh my god, how can I live here?' And yet, I do. The discomfort and shock I felt in that moment was real. But I still don't want to believe it. I felt these things, and I am white. 

When I say that, I'm not asking for some kind of badge or reward for caring. I am acknowledging that if I felt those things, I cannot even begin to imagine what people of color feel when they see it. 

I understand that lives were lost those many years ago, and that people loved those who were lost on both sides. But that doesn't make the motives behind both sides equivalently just. It also doesn't mean there weren't wrongs on both sides. At the same time, the reality is that if these monuments had been erected immediately following the Civil War, they may not be met with the feelings that so many have about them. 

The South lost the Civil War. They lost the state's right to continue owning other human beings. But even to this day, plenty of Southerners and sympathizers believe they were in the right. The narrative of the Southern culture and tradition has been romanticized, and reworked. Two things that haven't changed are the sincere, and passionate feelings of superiority and righteousness that allow many to shun outsiders, or those who see the cracks in the narrative, and as before--people of color. 

It's easy to fall into the Antebellum trap. Growing up, I remember watching "The North and the South" miniseries. I swooned over Patrick Swayze as Orry Main. I also watched "The Blue and the Grey." I was in love with the femininity of the fashion, the gentility of the menfolk, and the deep sense of honor portrayed in these television snapshots of the South. 

Of course, these "snapshots" didn't bring the true horrors of the era to light. But they weren't intended to. And that's one thing that these romanticized versions of the Southern reality have in common with the true Southern reality. Those who perpetuate the mythology of the honorable South never seem to embrace the truth about the horrors of slavery, and racism. They never acknowledge the dehumanization that allowed millions of people to be stolen from their homelands, bought and sold away from their families, denied the right to practice their own cultures and beliefs, beaten, tortured, raped and murdered. It seems like it's just not polite Southern culture to own these horrors as surely as the victims of this culture were "owned."

And that's what makes these statues and memorials even more problematic. In most cases, they weren't erected immediately following the Civil War. They weren't erected to memorialize the losses, or to honor the valor on the Southern side. They were erected for a more malicious purpose--one far less polite. They were erected during the Jim Crow era and the Civil Rights movement. They were erected to remind the "uppity negro" who deigned to remain in the South, of their place. And they were reaffirmation to the current and future generations of Southerners that their "way of life" had been attacked, and they had been "done wrong."

For some, the war never ended. Even for generations long beyond the original surrender, there has never been any surrender. 

Two days after last week's protests in Charlottesville, Virginia, I stood in line at a children's museum with my daughter. The man in front of us was wearing a t-shirt with a woman bending over in "Daisy Dukes" on the back. And right beside her were the words 'The South will rise again.' He was also sporting a Rebel Flag hat. Because it was a children's museum, it might go without saying, he was there with his child. This man was probably half my age. 

It's not that I don't see this kind of "image" multiple times a week, but it still confuses and troubles me. This man bothered me particularly, because I know his child sees what his father believes. And I know the families of color I saw that day probably saw him as well. 

These statues, flags, and symbols are reminders to people on both sides that for some, the war over race never truly ended. For some, the outcome was unjust. For some, the mythology of superiority lives on. It may hide under the banners of Southern heritage, pride, family values, or even godliness, but there is no hiding the truth of it. 

Many argue that taking down monuments is an attempt to "erase history." Many argue that people are too easily offended, and that the arguments for taking these monuments down are due to "political correctness." Maybe I could see why people cling to these false idols if they were what they purport to be. Maybe if their symbolism was not intended to be a method of intimidation when people of color started to demand the equality and human rights promised by our constitution, I could sympathize with wanting to hold onto their history.

But you see, when ship-loads of people were stolen from their homes, to be bought, sold, enslaved, beaten, raped, and murdered, their histories were erased, too. Their cultures, beliefs, families and homes were stolen from them. And beyond that, their very humanity was ripped from them. In many cases, the descendants of these people don't know where their ancestors came from. All they have is a continent. 

Even if every monument to the Confederacy was pulled down tomorrow, it would never equivocate to the level of erasure which happened to these human beings, for the sake of a "way of life." 

It is unfathomable to me that there should be any argument over displaying on pedestals these "monuments," which so publicly honor such a true theft and erasure of heritage and humanity. These relics of the Jim Crow era and the Civil Rights Movement are on display in public places are held so dearly, because the beliefs behind them cannot be displayed so publicly--at least not without conflict. 

Slavery and racism can never be extricated from the South or the Civil War. Removing a statue, or pulling down a flag will never erase a history so painfully and tightly woven into the fabric of both our nation and the culture of those who are descended from its victims. 

There is no danger that any of this pain or history will be wiped from our memories any time soon--regardless of the fate of a bunch of stone and metal. As long as one side of history continues to keep the wounds open, the divisions of the past will live on, and we will be doomed to perpetually fight the same battles over basic humanity that have been fought over and over again. 

"A nation divided will not stand." And the attachment to a history, heritage and way of life that dehumanizes people because of their skin color will continue to to be a source of that division. 

The parent trap: there is no net

So, I know that I've written about tough times, and the challenges that sometimes make just working through life feel like the scene with the boulder and the mining cart in "Indiana Jones: Temple of Doom." When one thing doesn't catch up with you, and roll you over, another one is close behind. 

I'm feeling a little grief at this tail end of the week. And I think I am finally able to name it, own it and talk about it. 

At the end of our daughter's first year of preschool, we found ourselves at a crossroads. Our girl was too wild in the classroom, too aggressive with materials, and was hitting teachers. Without some work, she wouldn't be able to return. It stung. It still does. 

It's not that we would ever expect someone else to tolerate behavior that we also find challenging at home, but no matter how you look at the situation, it feels like someone is telling you that you have "a bad kid." And inevitably, and especially, as a mom, you feel like you are to blame. It doesn't matter that I always try to address and correct unacceptable behaviors as they happen. It matters that I have "failed." 

And now, it really feels like failure, because in spite of weeks of play therapy, working to change the way I connect and communicate with her, and encouraging her to be everything I know she can be, my little girl will not be returning to preschool with her friends on Monday. It doesn't even matter that the decision was mutually reached, and I feel the best for her. What does matter is that I know in my heart of hearts that if I let her go back, it would only be a matter of time before we were told she couldn't come back. And I would have that failure on my heart as well.

I didn't manage to help her get back to the school that I unwittingly chose for her, while I sat in a waiting room flipping through a local magazine, just months after she was born. 

She'll be fine. I honestly don't think she cares. In fact, I know she doesn't. She just wants to run around naked, eat cookies and ice cream, and watch her TV. When it's nice out, she wants to take her naked party outside, play with the hose, and dump bottle after bottle of bubbles. When she doesn't get to do these things, she becomes an almost rabid animal, full of rage, and unable to control her hitting hands and kicking feet. 

In those moments, I both don't know who she is, and at the same time feel I might be seeing her in her purest form. It's the form that fights for what she wants. It's why people are always saying that her strong-will is going to serve her well--later. She's a fighter, even if right now what she's just fighting to remain overtired and refuse a nap. It's the form that makes me yell like I swore I never would, cry in fits of helplessness, and even question whether she would respond to a swat on the backside--something I will never do. In those moments, I know I don't know who I am, and I know that I am forgetting who I want to be. 

She's going through a phase right now--a very extended phase--in which she claims to be a puppy a fair sixty percent of the time. It makes me crazy. Our therapist suggested she may be doing it, because she hasn't been successful being "a girl." She doesn't know that for sure, but it's one of the theories she's put forth this week. 

How do I process that? How do I process that my daughter pretends she's a puppy most of the time because she  feels she has failed at being a girl? How at three years old does my daughter feel like a failure at anything? Just thinking those words breaks my heart as much as any time she has pushed us so far that either I or her daddy have unleashed the scary loud voice that immediately reduces her to sobs. And it all reduces me to tears. 

There was never a time I imagined that being a parent would be easy. There was never a time I wanted being a mother to fit into some personal fantasy box that many of us imagine while picking out layettes, and painting nurseries. I just wanted to give someone a life, and to let her become whomever she was meant to be. I just never imagined how inorganic that could feel at times, and especially with the pressure of shoehorning her into someone else's view of what a good three-year-old is. 

I know she will be fine. I know not going back to preschool on Monday will not define her. I know that if she doesn't go back in January, that won't define her either. But I am still sad she won't see her friends everyday. I am still sad that it will be easy to fall out of the community again, because school life, work life, and the rest of the world will spin on. Without her. Without us. 

And then, there is the selfish side that makes me sad. None of this defines her--even if she is a "bad kid." But that doesn't change how harshly I feel about, and judge myself. I think we all believe that we are "better than this"--whatever the situation may be. We were going to get it more right than our parents did. It doesn't matter how little I would have to do to improve on that from my own case. I was going to be the mom who had her shit together, and could hold her shit together. I'm not. 

As I beat myself up, and the random person reading thinks I am just being way too hard in myself, I also admit to feeling sad about losing the little nugget of time I had each day to remind myself that being a mother isn't everything I am. It's the time I used to help keep my head in the game--to give myself strength for all the battles. 

I wish I could say that I am prepared to dig in, and grit my teeth. Of course, prepared or not, I will do both. I just know that it's another period of my life for which I just have no other option than to toughen up. Precisely the opposite thing I ever envisioned doing as a mother. I knew I wouldn't be like my mom. I knew that I would set ground rules. I knew I would be a mother instead of a best friend to her as she grows. I just never imagined her will would be so strong, that I would at times find myself gasping for air, and wandering around in the dark. 

We will be each other's brick wall--that immovable force that we run into, headlong. And when we are bloodied, and panting in the rubble, we will be each other's soft place to land. It's just going to take some getting used to. 

Collecting Life: Living to completion

So, I have a confession to make. I am a pack rat and a collector. Sometimes, it's a problem. 

It started at an early age--probably with my collection of "The Empire Strikes Back" trading cards that I painstakingly accumulated, package by package over the course of months. I think I may be missing one or two cards. Those missing cards still haunt me, all these years later. Very recently, I became obsessed with a Wonder Woman action figure. 

When my husband and I moved for the first time in sixteen years, this "collecting" problem of mine really caused some heartache. I was working a lot, three months pregnant, sickly, and not able to participate in a lot of the packing. I am very particular about my "stuff." 

I grew up in a home with what I can only describe as a "split personality." On the one hand, my things had very little value, and could be discarded with little or no warning, and no negotiation. On the other hand, I was raised understanding that certain items were not just valuable, but could increase in value over time. Such items should be kept in their original packaging, whenever possible, or at least replaced in said packaging if the need to put them away arose. 

Over the course of the weeks that my house was being packed up around me, I was reminded that not everyone understands our personal versions of crazy. Boxes were discarded. Items were precariously wrapped. Nearly four years later, there are still things I can no longer find. Things like that used to happen to me a lot growing up. Belongings would disappear, never to be found again. Stuffed animals would be culled. Things that were precious to me were snatched away, or discarded. 

As crazy as it sounds, I believe this lack of "control," or even just input regarding my "stuff" created an attachment to "things" that isn't always healthy. These days, when I collect something, I often have a strange feeling of being incomplete if I am unable to bring everything together. I have the entire set of Twilight Barbie dolls--including the different versions of Bella and Edward. 

As I have grown, I have also grown to look at experiences in much the same way. 

Along with a lack of control over things, my childhood and teen years also translated to a lack of control over activities in which I wanted to participate, and other things I wanted to do. 

As an adult, I think I have attempted to create a sense of autonomy, and a catalog of experiences that fill the void of those years growing up that were so out of control, filled with fear, and filled with helplessness. Concerts, travel and "doing" have become another sort of collection for me. 

In my case, childhood often wasn't a happy time, but there were, of course, bright spots. I was fortunate enough to have a cousin growing up who has become a lifelong best friend. We've faced ups and downs over the years, and there have been periods during which life placed distance between us. Most of my favorite memories about growing up revolve around things she and I did together. 

This many years later, I think of 4th of July family gatherings, the small town fall festival we went to each year, Halloween themed birthday parties, and music--always music. When I look back on these happy times, I think of what I want to give my daughter. These were the times that kept me afloat, and allowed me to believe that abuse and fear didn't have to be the definition of my existence. These were the moments that kept me alive when I questioned whether I could keep going or not. 

I think we all have experiences like those, that we want to share with our kids. But I would argue that if you didn't have very many, the ones that were special take on even greater importance. Even events that seem silly to us as adults are part of our "collection" of experiences and memories that we are reluctant to let go of. If we don't honor or share them appropriately, we fear that we will perpetuate feelings of incompletion for ourselves, and our children. 

I don't want to be rigid about her "stuff." I know there are plenty of things she has, but cares nothing about. But as she starts to develop attachments to certain things, I am going to have the respect for her that I never received. The goal not being to reinforce the value of "things," but the value of her, and what she loves in her life. I want to give her experiences I never had. I want to encourage her loves and her passions. 

I don't want her to grow up with feelings that her things were always taken away, or that she never got to explore activities and adventures that fulfilled her imagination. 

Ultimately, if she "collects," I want it to be from place of joy, and not a place of possible regret or threat. 

I will make mistakes along the way. And I will make decisions based on my own emotional baggage. I will do things for and with her that she won't care about, because of the empty spaces in my life that I sometimes still try to fill and "fix." No matter how much I learn, in the heat of the moment, I will forget that some things just won't ever be "fixed," or "okay," and they don't have to be for me to be complete, or for my child to be complete. 

My hope is that I will be able to see those moments for what they are, and not fall into a place of living vicariously through my child, and pushing her into a different set of baggage that feels just as bad as all of the suitcases I continue to unpack for myself.