Having now, foolishly perhaps, styled
myself as a Southern writer, I must grapple with what that means. I furthered
my education by watching the American Masters episode on Harper Lee. To Kill a Mockingbird addressed an
overwhelming American truth by exposing the ways we deal with, avoid, dance
around, and occasionally confront race.
I identify with Southern writers due to
stylistic similarities and a fascination with the human and spiritual
landscapes writers like Flannery O’Connor and Carson McCullers paint with their
words and characters. Harper Lee painted
with a more realistic world compared with O’Connor’s and McCuller’s more
impressionistic renderings. So much so that throughout the American Masters
episode the words ‘clear’ and ‘clarity’ almost became a refrain.
Twice during the show, speakers referred
to the Southern Tribe. My membership in that tribe may be suspect. It is
certainly tangential at best, but tied in through two parallel connections.
I’ve lived in Central Pennsylvania most of my life. Two primary groups settled
the area: German immigrants and the Scotch-Irish. The typical journey,
sometimes occurring over generations, consisted of arriving at either
Philadelphia or Baltimore, moving westward to the mountains and then, usually
drawn by cheaper land prices, following them southward. This migration
populated the more elevated portions of Virginia, Maryland, West Virginia,
Tennessee, Kentucky, the Carolinas, Georgia and Alabama splashing out of the
mountains like so much alluvial soil upon Gulf Coast’s plain. So Central
Pennsylvania culture is simple an early mutation of what evolved in the South.
The main difference being that these European settlers used African slaves to
farm those fertile fields.
A scan of the Southern Writer’s pantheon
reveals a preponderance of Irish surnames and therein lays another connection.
My Irish ancestry with its mystery, secrets, isolation and alienation reflects
the worlds evoked by Southern writers.
No Southern or Irish story is complete
without an epiphany, a moment where a person sees their shortcomings in such
stark relief, they can no longer be denied. I experienced such an epiphany
during the show.
Although I claim to be a Southern writer
in style, my birth twelve miles north of the Mason-Dixon line to decidedly
Northern parents at the height of the Civil Rights Movement imbued me with
significant anti-Southern prejudices. As the show discussed how differently
people reacted to To
Kill a Mockingbird, I smugly
listened to Diane McWhorter, author of Carry Me Home : Birmingham, Alabama: The Climactic Battle of the
Civil Rights Revolution,
describe her journey from certainty that Tom Robinson would be acquitted to being
moved to tears following his conviction and death. She then thought, “What
would my father think if he saw me crying for a black man?”
Then a square-faced man with a sculpted
mane of silver hair and a voice as smooth as butter wearing a conservative blue
suit filled the screen describing his experiences during the Civil Rights era.
Based on his appearance, voice, and attire, I felt an instant dislike and
fully expected to hear him spew some racist diatribe. The Reverend Thomas Lane
Butts both disappointed and shamed me as he reflected on his support for integration
and resulting conflicts with the Mobile, Alabama KKK. I, too, had falsely
judged a man based on his outward appearance. In a Flannery
O’Connor story, this epiphany would be a step toward redemption. I hope it
is for me.
No comments:
Post a Comment