(stay tuned for some truly amazing photos that I currently can't get up....)
I traveled to Birmingham, Alabama on a rainy morning to visit the Civil Rights Institute. Back in Portland, Maine, the marches of the Civil Rights era seemed confined to the pages of my textbooks (if even!), and other historical reference points.
But in Birmingham, as the rain broke into humid heat, and the churches chimed out Amazing Grace and different songs made famous by the Civil Rights Movement, events were a bit more tangible.
Once upon a time, Birmingham was hailed as the most up-and coming industrial center. Access to the city by train was created by African-American laborers, their bosses chasing slavery into a new century. Despite segregation, Birmingham became home to one of the most successful Black business districts in the South. During the Civil Rights era, an important battle was waged here, as protesters risked their lives against police and their dogs and firefighter's hoses under the command of "Bull" Connor.
I was captured by the moments spent walking through the Civil Rights Institute, a museum of history that begins with a symbol not easily forgotten: a water fountain, from an era of blatant segregationist language everywhere. I walked through this historical tour of the Civil Rights Era, which encourages the journeyer to be enraged, to march for freedom, to mourn for Martin and Malcolm and quieter heroes. The water hoses, the police dogs, the fear of that era begin to be represented here.
Why did I come here, to Birmingham? I feel so immersed in this living history tour through the South. I came because I was encouraged to make this pilgrimage by certain elders in my community back home. I came because I know that my journey to practice anti-racism in New Orleans will not be easy, and that I have so much catching up to do. I came because being part of a multi-racial immigration struggle means honoring and learning about the struggle for justice of all people. To remember Birmingham, to be grounded in what was created here.
Leaving the CRI, I crossed the street to the Park of Reconciliation and Revolution, just as the sun was setting. The meditative me transitioned into the present as I was approached time and again for donations. I chattered away with many people in that park, feeling more myself in general with human collections than historical ones. My belly was advocating for the soul food that I had promised her, but my mission was clear. I would traverse the park, taking in the monuments to the students and adults who risked so much in their civil disobedience. At one point, I was aware of what was still being risked here when a seemingly agitated, older Black man moved away from my camera. This is a park still waiting for reconciliation.
In front of the 16th Street Church, where the four little girls were killed, a single tree was planted. Footprints in the form of plaques inform and capture still-lives. Hold fast the Dream! In a little while, they will march in with the setting sun, your sons and daughters, Birmingham, into the Park of Revolution and Reconciliation, to be fed not by Revolution, but by Wild Irish Rose. March on! There is still so much dreaming to do...
Monday, November 19, 2007
How She Lived in the Forest
The other day I was reflecting on my first experience solo-camping in Maine. During this trip, righteously freaked out with images of burly men in the night and anticipation of a whole night of listening to my own breath (which, in those desperate days, was probably the more terrifying). I carried a big knife, a big backpack and walked with a big dog.
We knew we would prevail, even when it poured harder the further up the mountain we walked. Rain was my favorite to sleep in. My dog agreed, and bounded through the forest. Exhausted, soaked, and trying to keep the canine within sight, I looked for a place to set up.
It became more than an adventure when it appeared I just couldn't get through the forest without my girl leaping over drenched tree trunks, and excitedly knocking a very unbalanced-packed me over on my back. Frustrated and even wetter, yelling out commands that were going nowhere, I felt a little defeated until I found our spot: a little patch of dryer land under a grove of deciduous trees. Educating myself that very moment about how to set up camp in the pouring rain, I slept in dry comfort, feeling the precious gift of taking care of the two of us. The journey was just as important as the settling in.
My gift on this road is still setting up and taking down camp. I self-imposed this job when I traveled across the deep south with ten dollars in my pocket to New Orleans, stopping only to reflect when my friend Alana remarked, "You're sleeping in the woods in Mississippi, alone? Girl!"Often frustrated with the reality of the difference in negotiating safety as a woman, so many times either pleasantly or unpleasantly surprised by circumstances, all the while thinking...we all must do this every once in awhile. I wanted to take the time to journey into Louisiana, to reflect and prepare, to be open to more surprises. To listen to a little of the language of this land.
So there I found myself in the Talladega National Forest in eastern Alabama, listening to the sounds of birds and insects and my own tent zippers. The patterns of tall, leafy trees reminded me of adults creeping around, their arms outstretched, with bedsheets over their heads to frighten little children. The night before I barely found my campsite before I up and turned around, headed toward Birmingham to the closest available motel for the night. I had already been lost twice when I stopped at the home of a native, a nice, older man out watching the sun go down. I asked for directions, adapting to speak 'bama, which sounds soft and gentle like Tennessee, but maybe a little faster. His directions led me to a creepy old horse farm, my imagination turning me right out of there. Alone, settled in my tent, water was dripping somewhere and I feel inundated with the weight of my own decisions.
So there I found myself in Mississippi, camping outside the ranger station where I have been instructed. The ranger had scratched his head and said, "Well, there are some spots you can camp, but we do have a local drunk who likes to go in there and mess with our water supply. But you can stay there for free. " Get what you pay for, I guess. I had a brief fantasy about swimming in the river, but the idea of poisonous water moccasins did away with that. I'm not particularly afraid of snakes, but I just figured I couldn't afford that hospital bill. I was so broke during this trip I actually had half a penny in my bag, like someone had taken a bite right out of it. Of course, I had a couple of dollars besides that, but it became symbolic, made me hungry just thinking about it.
I rested in places where I was amazed that the forest had not yet disappeared. On a map, I couldn't even decipher how much woodland Alabama actually had. And really, sometimes my motel experiences held just as much wildlife as the forest. Regardless, I have been challenged to rely on my survival skills (the greatest of which is patience!) and my extra-strength Benadryl in any and all accommodations.
We knew we would prevail, even when it poured harder the further up the mountain we walked. Rain was my favorite to sleep in. My dog agreed, and bounded through the forest. Exhausted, soaked, and trying to keep the canine within sight, I looked for a place to set up.
It became more than an adventure when it appeared I just couldn't get through the forest without my girl leaping over drenched tree trunks, and excitedly knocking a very unbalanced-packed me over on my back. Frustrated and even wetter, yelling out commands that were going nowhere, I felt a little defeated until I found our spot: a little patch of dryer land under a grove of deciduous trees. Educating myself that very moment about how to set up camp in the pouring rain, I slept in dry comfort, feeling the precious gift of taking care of the two of us. The journey was just as important as the settling in.
My gift on this road is still setting up and taking down camp. I self-imposed this job when I traveled across the deep south with ten dollars in my pocket to New Orleans, stopping only to reflect when my friend Alana remarked, "You're sleeping in the woods in Mississippi, alone? Girl!"Often frustrated with the reality of the difference in negotiating safety as a woman, so many times either pleasantly or unpleasantly surprised by circumstances, all the while thinking...we all must do this every once in awhile. I wanted to take the time to journey into Louisiana, to reflect and prepare, to be open to more surprises. To listen to a little of the language of this land.
So there I found myself in the Talladega National Forest in eastern Alabama, listening to the sounds of birds and insects and my own tent zippers. The patterns of tall, leafy trees reminded me of adults creeping around, their arms outstretched, with bedsheets over their heads to frighten little children. The night before I barely found my campsite before I up and turned around, headed toward Birmingham to the closest available motel for the night. I had already been lost twice when I stopped at the home of a native, a nice, older man out watching the sun go down. I asked for directions, adapting to speak 'bama, which sounds soft and gentle like Tennessee, but maybe a little faster. His directions led me to a creepy old horse farm, my imagination turning me right out of there. Alone, settled in my tent, water was dripping somewhere and I feel inundated with the weight of my own decisions.
So there I found myself in Mississippi, camping outside the ranger station where I have been instructed. The ranger had scratched his head and said, "Well, there are some spots you can camp, but we do have a local drunk who likes to go in there and mess with our water supply. But you can stay there for free. " Get what you pay for, I guess. I had a brief fantasy about swimming in the river, but the idea of poisonous water moccasins did away with that. I'm not particularly afraid of snakes, but I just figured I couldn't afford that hospital bill. I was so broke during this trip I actually had half a penny in my bag, like someone had taken a bite right out of it. Of course, I had a couple of dollars besides that, but it became symbolic, made me hungry just thinking about it.
I rested in places where I was amazed that the forest had not yet disappeared. On a map, I couldn't even decipher how much woodland Alabama actually had. And really, sometimes my motel experiences held just as much wildlife as the forest. Regardless, I have been challenged to rely on my survival skills (the greatest of which is patience!) and my extra-strength Benadryl in any and all accommodations.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
My Car: A Lesson in Impermanence
Allow me to introduce you to the Urban Merchant.....
I started this trip envisioning it all by bus. Ah, the romance in the sweat and struggle of nights spent on the Greyhound station floor, waiting for that 2am bus we're all not sure is coming, that certain special customer eying you throughout the trip, his glance on the vacant seat next to you...that and your collarbone.
Besides my own safety, the main reason I decided to liberate the Urban Merchant from her grassy knoll in Black Mountain, North Carolina, was my desire to farm and camp my way across the south. I want to be connected to the land I'm loving. And after awhile, I just didn't want to give my money to Greyhound anymore. I may be in solidarity with the people I love in traveling this way, but this is the same company that keeps people waiting hours without information and doesn't usually chase la Migra away from arrival points, even after customers have paid for the ride.
Now, don't think I've sold out. My car, beautiful as she may be, is truly only a step above the Greyhound. For one, she has managed to attach herself to every insect that likes to travel and in doing so, keeps me very close to nature. (Sorry, Grandma, you're not going to appreciate this story very much...) I've been blessed that the ants my car is infested with do not actually bite, but I was not so keen to acknowledge while at a rest stop one day that I had a black widow who had taken a flat just below the engine. Much as I believe in fair housing (especially for single parents!), I had to evict her right then and there. And every once in awhile I turn off the engine to the tune of the gentle fluttering of a moth's wings from the back seat.
The Merchant likes to graze among the bounty of southbound trucks, straddling 60 mph as she plods along. So the other day, while pushing the limit to perhaps 62, I glanced over to my left and nearly turned off the road. This huge, brown spider was waving its legs, just hanging out on the window. Um, I'm not actually afraid of spiders, but I have total respect for their poisonous bites. So there I am on the highway- the wind in my hair, the ants crawling on my legs, and the spider who now lives in the vent, waving as the cars go by. If I so much as see one Palmetto, that's it. I mean, this is ridiculous!
Every time I enter my car I acknowledge that tomorrow she may not work. And honestly, I try to feel blessed with the lesson this holds for me in my life outside of her musty interior. I am a woman traveling alone across the south, navigating new boundaries about my own safety. I have to trust myself, trust that I am prepared if tomorrow my car stops working, my money runs out, I run into trouble. I cannot take myself for granted, because I am the only one I have at the end of the day. I chortle down the highway, making plans should she fail me, letting go... We are in this journey together for as far as it lets us, and then I may need to let her go.
I am blessed time and again with this message of life's impermanence, and the critical friendship I want to cultivate with myself. The road moves, warps, curves, shapes the next day. I follow with an open heart, ready for potholes.
I started this trip envisioning it all by bus. Ah, the romance in the sweat and struggle of nights spent on the Greyhound station floor, waiting for that 2am bus we're all not sure is coming, that certain special customer eying you throughout the trip, his glance on the vacant seat next to you...that and your collarbone.
Besides my own safety, the main reason I decided to liberate the Urban Merchant from her grassy knoll in Black Mountain, North Carolina, was my desire to farm and camp my way across the south. I want to be connected to the land I'm loving. And after awhile, I just didn't want to give my money to Greyhound anymore. I may be in solidarity with the people I love in traveling this way, but this is the same company that keeps people waiting hours without information and doesn't usually chase la Migra away from arrival points, even after customers have paid for the ride.
Now, don't think I've sold out. My car, beautiful as she may be, is truly only a step above the Greyhound. For one, she has managed to attach herself to every insect that likes to travel and in doing so, keeps me very close to nature. (Sorry, Grandma, you're not going to appreciate this story very much...) I've been blessed that the ants my car is infested with do not actually bite, but I was not so keen to acknowledge while at a rest stop one day that I had a black widow who had taken a flat just below the engine. Much as I believe in fair housing (especially for single parents!), I had to evict her right then and there. And every once in awhile I turn off the engine to the tune of the gentle fluttering of a moth's wings from the back seat.
The Merchant likes to graze among the bounty of southbound trucks, straddling 60 mph as she plods along. So the other day, while pushing the limit to perhaps 62, I glanced over to my left and nearly turned off the road. This huge, brown spider was waving its legs, just hanging out on the window. Um, I'm not actually afraid of spiders, but I have total respect for their poisonous bites. So there I am on the highway- the wind in my hair, the ants crawling on my legs, and the spider who now lives in the vent, waving as the cars go by. If I so much as see one Palmetto, that's it. I mean, this is ridiculous!
Every time I enter my car I acknowledge that tomorrow she may not work. And honestly, I try to feel blessed with the lesson this holds for me in my life outside of her musty interior. I am a woman traveling alone across the south, navigating new boundaries about my own safety. I have to trust myself, trust that I am prepared if tomorrow my car stops working, my money runs out, I run into trouble. I cannot take myself for granted, because I am the only one I have at the end of the day. I chortle down the highway, making plans should she fail me, letting go... We are in this journey together for as far as it lets us, and then I may need to let her go.
I am blessed time and again with this message of life's impermanence, and the critical friendship I want to cultivate with myself. The road moves, warps, curves, shapes the next day. I follow with an open heart, ready for potholes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
