IN "LITTLE Gidding", T.S. Eliot reflects, "We shall not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time." Although we're technically still below the Mason-Dixon Line, any true Southerner feels like an expat in Charlottesville. I may have the politics of a New England liberal, but my heart always identifies with the region of my childhood: the South. I find that I understand the region much more acutely as distance and time separate me from it.
Over the weekend, I returned to the region of many of my fondest childhood memories to campaign for Sen. Hillary Clinton in the South Carolina Democratic primary. Driving down I-95, with endless vistas of parched land flanking the highway, I felt again the conflicting emotions that always haunt me whenever I go home. While my love for the South runs deep, the anger and tension I feel toward its hidebound people runs hot through my blood.
A lot of my mixed feelings for the South can be summed up by my meals at Bojangle's. Bojangle's is a Southern fast-food establishment, with fried chicken that cannot be bested and iced tea so sweet it makes your teeth hurt. On our first meal there of many, I glanced up and noticed a well-dressed older lady with a classic white perm silently giving thanks before eating her meal. Rarely outside of the South does one witness this sort of quiet devotion and steadfast observance of religion.
During another meal at Bojangle's, I unwittingly received a Bible lesson, courtesy of two men sitting next to our table. Upon seeing the "Hillary for President" button pinned to my coat, they started up a conversation about the election and why they support John Edwards. We pleasantly discussed politics until one man directed his commentary to me and blurted out Hillary simply shouldn't be president because, well, hadn't I read the second chapter of Timothy? The man elaborated that in this chapter, a woman's place is clearly defined. Women must submit to men and basically should never take leadership positions. I could not believe his audacity, saying this to a young woman clearly passionate about politics -- then again, considering where I was, I could.
With provincial people like this still plaguing the South, I sometimes dread returning. The ignorance is too painful and frankly embarrassing. But there were plenty of moments of hospitality and genuine goodwill that bear witness to the fact that the spirit of the South, deep down, has an unparalleled benevolence. For example, an older man named J.C. kindly allowed the Clinton campaign to open up a field office in his auto repair shop. On Election Day, he constantly hovered around the volunteers. He made coffee, revved up his 1967 Harley-Davidson for us, and later in the afternoon dropped what he was doing and took one volunteer out to his mother's childhood neighborhood. The South has its demons, but it surely has its share of angels.
The older I grow, the more I realize the South is not all moonlight and magnolias. Racism and sexism still linger and in some areas, they thrive. One of our volunteers was not even allowed to campaign in one precinct because her race endangered her safety. But, as shown by the kind J.C. and many others we met, the dialectic of the South continues. For every racial slur, there's an older gentleman willing to take you back to your roots. To outsiders, this is mind-boggling. To those who live in the South and those Southern at heart, it's the reality we're working with.
Like the honeyed drawl of her citizens, progress is slow in the South. Unlike that drawl, slow and sweet, progress in the South is slow and shameful. Nevertheless, armed with the faith the region gave me, I know the South will make good one day. Yes, the South will rise, not to relive her past but to redeem it.
Marta Cook's column appears Tuesdays in The Cavalier Daily. She can be reached at mcook@cavalierdaily.com.
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