Saturday adventure in backwoods Mississippi

I spent yesterday afternoon helping a neighbor and her two kids move from here in Buttcrack, MS, to an even tinier community about 90 minutes away. It was a brief but intimate glimpse into how freakin exhausting it is to be a single mother living in poverty. I hope she's going to be okay in her new digs and can get back on her feet.

The minute I laid eyes on her trailer, the single saddest one-bedroom trailer I have ever laid eyes on in my entire life, I almost said: "Look, come live with me. This will not do." But truthfully, I don't have room for three more people, and she wanted more than anything to be in her own space, no matter how run down. I don't think she would have accepted the offer, even if I had been able to make it.

So today I am very, very aware of the bedrock of privilege that gives me the life I am living.

Here, let me explain south Mississippi to you.

So I'm on Facebook, and I see a friend of a friend's profile picture and think: "I cannot possibly be seeing what I think I'm seeing." So I click on her name, and behold, let me describe to you the full redneck-ed-ness of her profile picture. She and her partner/bf/babydaddy/wev have gone to a photo studio in jeans. She is about 4-5 months pregnant, and they have taken off their shirts. They are posed with her in his arms, her to the right, him to the left, with his arm around her front (covering her boobs) and his other hand firmly clamped on her ass. Yes: this is the pose they chose at Olan Mills, or WalMart, or wherever it is they went to commemorate their young love, early pregnancy, and vibrant youth. He has a crappy tattoo on the bicep facing us (I'm sure this is on purpose, so we can see his awesomely crappy tattoo) and his hair has been doused with some sort of unguent and combed back so you can see exactly where the stylist did his highlights. Did I mention she is wearing low-rider maternity jeans so you can see the fullness of her baby bump?

Look, I am not one to judge her for getting pregnant so young. It's just the state of things in Mississippi, where there is no sex education and kids are taught that using birth control is as big a sin as fornication, so why double their sins when they decide to fuck while still in high school? [this accounts not only for our high teen pregnancy rate but also our awesomely high rates of gonorrhea, chlamydia, et al.] My objection is entirely in the realm of aesthetics and taste.

But, see, it's not just the poor aesthetic choice I am judging. No, it's not. There's more. And this is where my bitchy Southern lady hostess training goes into full effect. This kid, with her naked Olan Mills portrait AS HER FACEBOOK PROFILE, says to our mutual friend: "I'm rushing. Any words of advice?"

Which means, precious, that our heroine wants to join a sorority. Yes. And it has not occurred to her that her Portrait of Young Love? Is not what sororities are looking for. O. M. G. I almost - I swear to you - posted in that thread and said, honey, take that picture down if you want to get into a decent sorority.

And then I remembered how much I loathe the national Greek system, and that she's really going to be better off NOT joining a sorority (even though she thinks she wants that right now), and I let it pass.

And then I thought: what the fuck do I know about sororities in the 21st century in the buttcrack of Mississippi? Maybe they don't care if you put pictures of your semi-naked pregnant self on the internet?

And then! Bitchy Southern Lady Hostess-Trained Self thinks: oh holy fuck the Greek system has gone to hell in handbasket if this is appropriate behavior not only for young women in general, but also for sorority rushees?

Yes, I'm a fogey. I get that. But, jeez, kids, keep your naked pics off the internet. Especially if you want to join a sorority. And any sorority that's okay with your naked pic being on the internet? You don't want to join it.

Although, really, I'd advise against joining the Greek system under any circumstances. It's a conformity machine for women, and fraternities are, for the most part, a tool for turning semi-douchey young men into the douchiest, date-rapiest assholes they can be.

Dear Rich White Ladies:

Memo to Rich White Ladies Blocking Traffic at 8:30 A.M.:

Yeah, you! The three rich white ladies pushing strollers, side by side, filling an entire lane of 5th Avenue? Yeah. Cut that out. Pronto. Just because you are rich white Republican mommies doesn't mean you own the roads. I realize this is brand new information, so I'm gonna give you a second to absorb it.

There. Got it? The roads, they were not built for your strolling convenience.

You happen to live in the only neighborhood in town with sidewalks. USE THEM. The roads, as it happens, are there for people with cars to get to work. You've heard of that, right? Jobs, which people go to in order to get paid? I have one of those, and I have to drive my crappy car down the road to get to it, so GET. OUT. OF. THE. STREET.

Love,
Jezebella

An open letter to the grocery cashiers of Buttcrack

[As I may have mentioned once or maybe a thousand times, I live in Buttcrack, MS, deep in the heart of Dumbfuckistan.]


Dear Grocery Store Cashier:

I belong to a sub-culture known in these parts as "Treehuggers". One of the quaint customs of my people is the use of re-usable tote bags at the grocery store. You may have heard of it before. I hear it's very big in Japan, this custom. Also in most places where people don't want to use a plastic bag for ten minutes that will then go into a landfill for decades. I know, it's a crazy idea. Humor me, though, okay? Approximately 9 out of the 10 times I get into line with my tote bag, you are dumbfounded. Even at the grocery store where I shop like three times a week. Seriously, whatever you are doing that wrecks your memory, cut it out, okay?

Let me help you out here with some advice.

1. Do not try to charge me for my own bag and be mystified that it lacks a tag. It's RE-USABLE, see? So I bring in my own.

2. This happens probably 5 out of 10 times: you ask, "Do you want me to put EVERYTHING in this bag??" Hm, I don't know. Depends on how much stuff I have. It's not a TARDIS, see, so if I happen to have picked out more stuff than will fit in the bag, then, you know, put the rest in disposable plastic. I will re-use it for cat litter. Easy peasy, see?

3. I realize that the custom in most stores is to put one item, maybe two in each bag. But I'm guessing that somewhere along the line, you learned NOT to put squashable things in the bottom of a bag. For example: eggs, bread, chips, $5 bags of organic baby spring greens, bananas; these do not go in the bottom. Do not give me the stinkeye when I stop you from dropping canned goods and orange juice on top of squashable things.

4. If I have, say, a box of cat litter and two smaller items, do not put the 15-pound box of cat litter in the tote bag. This is just fucking stupid. Would you put it in a plastic bag? No. Do you think the bag is made of woven titanium and not some kind of flimsy fiber? God, I hope not. Seriously, put the small shit in the bag, and I will carry the cat litter with the HANDLE ON TOP OF IT.

5. Do not bag my items in plastic before putting them into the tote bag. This just defeats the purpose. You DO understand the purpose, right? To not waste plastic bags??

6. When I tell you not to pre-bag my items in plastic, don't roll your eyes, take the item you already bagged out of the plastic bag, wad it up, and throw it away. I can't tell you how depressing it is when you do that.

Sincerely,
Jezebella

so hot no one knows how to act

So I'm walking up to the door of my fave tex-mex joint here in Buttcrack yesterday at noonish, and this little brown mouse comes HAULING ASS up the sidewalk past me. I thought it was a bird or something. I mean, who sees mice running around on hot pavement in broad daylight?* WTF? Fortunately he cruised past the entrance and took off towards the dumpster. I think he was disoriented by the heat. His little toesies were probably fixin to blister from the hot cement. Normally I'm a steady proponent of the "mice aren't cute" school, but this little guy was kind of ballsy, and I guess I appreciate that in a rodent. As long as it's not at MY house.



*You know, "broad" daylight, as opposed to the other kind of daylight. Which is, um, uh... I don't know. Not broad.

PS

For the love of god, people, if you're going to name your daughter "Chastity" it has TWO FUCKING T's in it. It is not "Chasity". Christ on a cracker. Get a dictionary.

still not cromulent

There is a personality type that seems to thrive here in Dumbfuckistan, a peculiar combination of cocky and stupid. It's a lethal combination and it raises my blood pressure every time. I cannot, for example, eat at the local Applebee's because there are toxic levels of cocky+stupid on staff there. Not that it's even good food, but when you want to kill at least one employee every time you go to a restaurant, it's time to stop going. I think they hire the dumbest, highest, most ignorant, cocky little rednecks they can find. And you know what? This post isn't even about Applebee's. It's about my visit this noonday to a sandwich joint called Sweet Peppers. I ordered a vegetarian on ciabatta bread, an option clearly indicated on the menu. I get the "what the fuck" look from the cashier, who has no idea what I'm talking about. "You want what?" I point to the menu over her head and speak slowly and loudly:

THE VEGETARIAN SANDWICH ON THE CIABATTA BREAD. SEE? RIGHT THERE ON THE MENU?

She says, "Vegetarian wrap?" No, I want the vegetarian SANDWICH, SEE, RIGHT THERE, ON THE MENU OVER YOUR HEAD? Five minutes more of this, and finally she appears to have pushed the appropriate buttons on her touch screen, I order bbq chips and a diet coke, and we move on.

Ten minutes later, my lunch companions arrive, having apparently also needed five minutes each with Cocky McStupid to order their sandwiches.

Ten minutes after that, a sorry little sandwich arrives. It is missing three ingredients: red peppers, green peppers, and a side of ranch. It has four correct ingredients (lettuce, tomato, cheese, and cucumber). I'm calling that, what 55% accuracy? Not so good. I ask for the side of ranch. It gets there, eventually. I get up, look at the menu to be sure I ordered what I think I ordered. I send the sandwich back for correction. I see the dude in the kitchen give the waitress the stinkeye, like I'm an asshole for wanting the sandwich I ordered and why on earth would she cater to my arrogant desire for a correct fucking sandwich. Ten minutes later, the sandwich comes back with green peppers, but not red peppers. I know perfectly well that if I send it back again, it'll come with extra ingredients I do not wish to consume. I sigh and eat this sorry little sandwich and regret ever moving to dumbfuckistan. Again.

PS

Oh, and by the way: that woman reading the news in the video? That could not be a more perfect example of the homegrown Jones County accent. It's enough to set your teeth on edge, ain't it? I call it the Jones County Whiiiiiine, with a dash of Mis'sippi LazyMouth. I have no idea why women around here pitch their voices so damn high, I swear.

my new favorite mississippi moment

This afternoon, I went out to a friend's country property to help critique the site-specific sculptures her students had produced out there. About every ten minutes, she would warn us of some new danger. Watch out for snakes! Oh yeah, and the brown recluse spiders. Next it was fire ants, and then the poison ivy and the slippery muddy swampy bits. Seriously, why do people even LIVE in the country? It's freakin dangerous. And there are bitey things.

So, one of the students had accidentally placed her piece outside of the friend's property, in her neighbor's field. The field was right next to the driveway, just a chunk of field, nothing much happening. She dug a hole, inserted a 10' I-beam, and attached on top a ring of metal (imagine a really big iron stop sign, only with a ring instead of a circle). There's another piece on the ground that fell off during installation, but that's neither here nor there.

What *is* important is that the neighbor came rolling up as we were all standing around, having just finished critiquing the work. He was the very picture of a pissed-off redneck, in his ginormous crew-cab pickup truck and his triplet-sized beer-belly. He was on the phone until he stopped the truck, then got off the phone and started snapping pictures of us with it. He shouted "Do you all know what you're doing out here?" Which, to my mind, is a dumb-ass question. Anyway. My friend walks over to chat with him, and tells us to go back to the house, since we're done with the critique. A few of us kind of linger around for a few minutes, because he really seems pretty pissed. She looks around, says, no, she's fine, head on back, and we mosey back slowly.

Ten minutes later she returns. What's the deal, we ask? This is rich. Wait for it.



He was convinced we were performing a Satanic Ritual on his property and was outraged. Yes. He thought that it was an Satanic symbol of some kind and we were out there sacrificing goats or whatever the hell. As soon as he said that, she knew it would be fine and she'd be able to calm him down, because it was so freakin absurd. Look, he was DEAD SERIOUS. Somebody had called him and told him that satanists were preparing to worship the devil on his land.

I mean, I must've laughed for ten minutes straight when I realized what he was so het up about. Satanic Rituals! On his PROPERTY! Goldangit! Do you people realize what you are doing? I'm surprised he didn't launch into a preachin'.

So that was the surreal end to my very sweaty, swampy, buggy, arty afternoon.

unpack THIS!

Having solved all of our economic, racial, educational, and environmental problems here in the Magnolia State, three arrogant, deluded, fat-hating Mississippi politicians want to make it illegal to serve an obese person in a restaurant.

Warning: Fat People Hatred Inside

I quote:

"Any establishment to which this section applies shall not be allowed to serve food to anyone who is obese."

"This section" applies to all restaurants licensed by the state. In other words: all restaurants in the state.

Reps. Mayhall, Read, and Shows hate fat people. Oh, and get this: it's two Republicans and one Democrat. So nice to know our politicians can cross the aisle and agree on things that REALLY MATTER.

The Health Department is designated as the enforcer. What, will they put medical scales and calculators at each door? "Hm, let's see....weight, height, ooooh, too bad, you're just over the [almost entirely useless and ever-changing] BMI designation "obese." No food for you, fattie!"

And this, my internet friends, is Mississippi Dumbfuckistan at its finest.

Well, that's unexpected.

I got a call at 8:30 this morning. On a Saturday. Everyone knows I'm in bed at that hour on a weekend. Hell, I'm usually still in bed at that hour on a weekday. It's the Poet: "Look out your window." Me: "Huhwhat?" Poet: "Look out your window." Me: "Well, that's unexpected."

It was snowing. In Buttcrack, Mississippi. I've been here over five years and it's only snowed once before. Tragically (ahem) I was in Paris at the time, so I missed it. No big deal, as a few winters in the Midwest cured me of any fascination I might have had with snow. So, I went back to sleep, during which time the power went off. It got a bit chilly, I drank a lot of hot tea, and fortunately, the power came back on just after noon. I headed out late this afternoon to shoots some pictures just to prove that, yes, Virginia, sometimes it really DOES snow in the Deep South. By late afternoon it was turning slushy, and now it's about to drop into the 20s so I expect it'll be a charming lot of ice by midnight. I hope the rednecks who successfully navigated the snow in their pick-em-up trucks realize that ice? It's nothing like snow. You simply cannot drive on ice, no matter how big & manly your truck is. Anyway, I'm staying off the roads. I'm thinking of baking a cake, but first I'd have to clean the oven, and, ick, who wants to do THAT on a Saturday night? But, mmmmm....cake! It's a tough decision to make. I'm also anticipating another power outage as soon as the branches start freezing & cracking, so I've got the central heat cranked up a few extra degrees. This will not prevent the cats from sleeping in a pile on top of me. Yay! Cat blanket!

So, herewith, evidence:

election time in Mississippi

Yesterday, I voted for a dude named "Popcorn" because his opponent was the Douchebaggy McGee who wanted to know about my John Kerry bumper sticker a few weeks ago. Well, McGee's also a pro-life, anti-gay, pro-business godbag. I have no idea what Popcorn stands for, but he ran as a Democrat* and he wasn't the other guy.

Also, when I got to the voting precinct, some godbag had taped flyers for a church revival on the front door and on either side of it. I told the election workers that I felt a revival flyer was inappropriate in this venue, and to their credit, they agreed promptly and went and took them down right away. I was kind of ready for an argument, and was also ready to take them down myself. Fortunately I did not have to stamp my feet and make a scene.

*Alas, running as a Democrat in Mississippi is a nearly meaningless exercise. I only saw one third-party candidate, from the "Constitution Party," which I hear is even farther right than the R's.

More Mississippi Idioms

Not only does one "cut off", say, the air conditioning, one can also "cut it on".

Furthermore, and I may have mentioned this before but I'm too lazy to check: hereabouts, one uses a "buggy" to shop for groceries, not a grocery cart.

And if you're going anywhere, in any direction, you are going "down to" wherever. Someone from Mississippi could very well tell you he'd gone "down to Alaska" last week.
[I'm kind of afraid to parse this one.]

where I live

Alas, I cannot find anywhere the Robert Smigel "Blue Christmas" TV Funhouse that calls the giant red state I inhabit "Dumbfuckistan." The giant red state that is all the red states squished together, the ones between the enclaves of un-affordable blue states.

Mississippi isn't nearly as bad as everybody thinks it is. Whenever you see Mississippi in TV shows and movies, it's usually a version of 1965 Mississippi. People do not get lynched here anymore. Old white men do not stand around gas stations chewing on straws and squinting at yankees who are about to uncover the civil rights murder no southerner was smart enough to solve. People do have running water and electricity, and hardly anyone wears overalls. We do all own shoes. We have movie theatres and sushi and health food stores and spas and museums.

But it does suck. A lot of people are poor here. Really poor. Public education? It sucks. So poor people aren't very well-educated. They smoke when they're pregnant. They leave their kids in front of Cartoon Network 24/7. They give babies sweet tea in their bottles. Not from meanness or stupidity, but sheer ignorance. Just don't know no better. Most educated people give lip service to equal rights, but the level of ignorant racial bigotry just beneath the surface is sometimes mind-boggling. The misogyny is even less hidden. Homophobia? It's what's for breakfast.

On top of poverty and ignorance, slather on a layer of evangelical christianity of varying stripes: southern baptist, pentecostal, church of christ, megachurch, you name it. Whatever it is, it don't like no homos, no jews, no evolution, and it sure as shit don't like no democrats. Not the yankee kind anyway. Because Mississippi Democrats are nearly indistinguishable from Mississippi Republicans.

To wit: we have a gubernatorial election coming up. Our incumbent, Haley Barbour, is a former lobbyist for big tobacco and big oil. He is anti-gay rights, anti-abortion, pro-development, pro-business, and a Republican. His opponent, John Arthur Eaves, carries a bible around in his ads. He is anti-gay rights, anti-abortion, pro-prayer in schools, pro "family values," a personal injury lawyer and a... Democrat?? Huhwhat? As far as I can tell the DNC is having nothing to do with Eaves. I have no idea why he's even registered as a Dem, except that it allowed him to get on the ballot, because Barbour would've knocked him out in a Republican primary. So basically, we have one godbaggy republican, or the other.

I live here, and there are things about it that don't suck. The landscape is nice. The food's pretty good. People are generally courteous to one another, and the cost of living is low. There's a lot of music and literature to be had.

On the whole, I tend to blame evangelical christianity and its bedfellow, red-state republican brainwashing, for most of what is still wrong with Mississippi. If anybody in charge gave a shit about anybody but rich, white, heterosexual christians, the public school system would work. Welfare and Medicaid/Medicare would be fully funded. Everyone would have access to reproductive health services, day care, and post-secondary education. But that's not the case. The poor keep on getting poorer and more ignorant; and the rich? They get richer and build bigger walls around their gated communities.

And those gated communities don't look a damned thing like Mississippi. They look like Phoenix, and Houston, and Atlanta, and every other boring cookie-cutter McMansion gated community in America. It's their loss, but it's also our loss. If I were anything but white and hetero, I would've never moved here. There is an as-yet undocumented brain drain (I'm willing to bet) of talented and brilliant African-American and homosexual Mississippians who just had to get the hell out. It's not about violence, or structured bigotry, though. There just aren't many opportunities for people who don't meet the honky heteronormative model.

so get this

Local state senatorial candidate rolls up behind my place of employment last week, and asks a co-worker who's standing out back:

"Whose white car is that with the JOHN KERRY sticker!?"

Asks it, I might add, in a state of RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION that someone in this godforsaken shithole of a godbaggy small town should DARE, DARE to sport a Democratic bumpersticker.

Now, I know that election is long gone, and I am a lazy-ass mofo who should've taken the sticker off long ago, but you know what? NOW it's staying on until I decide which presidential candidate I'll be supporting.

Ass-hat, godbaggy asshole. I dare him to come have a chat with me about my freedom of speech. I don't give a rat's ass if he works with my boss's wife or has a stupid rush-limbaugh-wanna-be radio show: I will fucking well rip off his head and shit down his neck if he steps on my freedom of speech. Ass.

why I need to leave Mississippi

Editorials with statements like this:

"Here's what I believe: Someone else's beliefs - even the backward, despicable ones - don't really hurt anyone."

AAAAAAAHHHGGGGGGGGFISDJGldkfjfuckityfuckfuckodsufojusputter....

there's so much wrong with that statement I hardly know where to begin.

I've GOT TO get out of this place.

have I ever happened to mention...

That here in the buttcrack of Mississippi, people who keep their plants in pots refer to them as "pot plants." Not POTTED plants, mind you. "Pot Plants." The first time I heard our 60-ish receptionist say she had to bring her "pot plants" in because it was going to freeze, I think I choked, tripped, and my jaw hit the floor, all at once. Huh-what?

Jezebella on tour: Greenville, MS

It's a long way to the ass-end of the Delta: Greenville. It's on the Arkansas border, right on the Mississippi River, and it's a solid four hours from me. I didn't take any pictures, but I can recommend a visit to the Greenville Arts Council to visit their gallery, and their freshly restored, century-old carousel, which is just gorgeous. It's been restored to function, but it's only open a few hours a day.

On Friday night, I ate at Fermo's, which had fantastic eggplant parmesan, a civilized wine list, and home-made fried cheese that was spectacular (not that Sysco fried-cheese-stick stuff). Alas, it being a small town, they were vacuuming and stacking chairs at 9:fucking:20 PM, while we were still seated. Tres gauche.

On my way out of town, I took a ride over to see the new - but not yet open - Greenville Bridge over the Mississippi. It's a fine-looking bridge. The old bridge is a fairly alarming, narrow, two-laned thing. I'd bet it's an old WPA project, it's that narrow. Nonetheless, it gives a great view of the new bridge, and the river really is gorgeous there. It being the Delta, the river is not controlled by levees. This allows for river expansion and silt spread, which is the reason for that rich dark farming ground all over the Delta. Corn, soybeans, and catfish farms are your main scenery up Highway 49W and across 82. It's okay for a while, but then it just gets boring.

Greenville is a bit grim in that broke-down southern town way, but the Arts Council is doing a good job of keeping the community filled with theater, visual arts, and so forth. Some of the older houses are being kept up, but a lot of houses with amazing bones are being let go to hell.

Greenville does have a real live independent bookstore, the McCormick Book Inn. Their emphasis is Mississippi writers and info, plus they have a big children's section. The back room is a kind of de facto Greenville History Museum, featuring books, postcards, and memorabilia from the town. I wanted to have a chat with the owner about the damaging effects of flourescent light on vintage paper & photographs, but I decided to let it be. He's doing a community service by keeping that stuff in his commercial establishment as it is.

Greenville, by the way, has brown water. When I checked into my hotel, I thought someone had left piss in the toilet. Seriously. Turns out the water is brown everywhere, and they claim it's perfectly safe, and there are signs in every single bathroom in town addressing the issue. Ooookay, whatever. It kind of freaked me out.

On my way home I stopped in Leland to visit the Highway 61 Blues Museum. I'll be honest with you: those guys NEED your five bucks. They've got memorabilia, a temporary exhibit of blues musician photos - a lot of Son Thomas and BB King - and I hear their festival is quite fine. Why do they need your five bucks? Because, holy crap, they need some damn air conditioning. Whew. They do have good t-shirts and posters, and they're doing a decent job considering their limited resources. I do believe you would find some truly down-home Delta Blues jam sessions there during festival weekend, if you can take the heat.

more local dialect

I forgot to mention:

If one is to be ill for some time, "He's gonna be stove up for a while."

If one is too tired to do something, she is "too give out" to do it.

And if one is really hungry, it is "about to starve slap to death."

local dialect

Here in the Piney Woods of South Mississippi, one does not "push" a button, one "mashes" a button.

Also, the word spelled "bye" (as in "goodbye"), it's "bah" not "bi".

And I'm not sure I've ever been anywhere else where people who live outside the town proper live in "the county." (not "the country")

Folks from way out in the county don't say "daddy" they say "diddy".