Voices in Our Blood

by Jon Meacham

  The other encounter was when I was explaining to our cook, who is from Finland, the mysteries of bus travel in the American Southland. I showed her the bus stop, armed her with a timetable, and then, as a matter of duty, mentioned the customs of the Romans. “When you get on the bus,” I said, “I think you’d better sit in one of the front seats—the seats in back are for colored people.” A look of great weariness came into her face, as it does when we use too many dishes, and she replied, “Oh, I know—isn’t it silly!”

  Her remark, coming as it did all the way from Finland and landing on this sandbar with a plunk, impressed me. The Supreme Court said nothing about silliness, but I suspect it may play more of a role than one might suppose. People are, if anything, more touchy about being thought silly than they are about being thought unjust. I note that one of the arguments in the recent manifesto of Southern congressmen in support of the doctrine of “separate but equal” was that it had been founded on “common sense.” The sense that is common to one generation is uncommon to the next. Probably the first slave ship, with Negroes lying in chains on its decks, seemed commonsensical to the owners who operated it and to the planters who patronized it. But such a vessel would not be in the realm of common sense today. The only sense that is common, in the long run, is the sense of change—and we all instinctively avoid it, and object to the passage of time, and would rather have none of it.

  The Supreme Court decision is like the Southern sun, laggard in its early stages, biding its time. It has been the law in Florida for two years now, and the years have been like the hours of the morning before the sun has gathered its strength. I think the decision is as incontrovertible and warming as the sun, and, like the sun, will eventually take charge.

  But there is certainly a great temptation in Florida to duck the passage of time. Lying in warm comfort by the sea, you receive gratefully the gift of the sun, the gift of the South. This is true seduction. The day is a circle—morning, afternoon, and night. After a few days I was clearly enjoying the same delusion as the girl on the horse—that I could ride clear around the ring of day, guarded by wind and sun and sea and sand, and be not a moment older.

  Segregation: The Inner Conflict in the South

  1956

  ROBERT PENN WARREN

  “I’m glad it’s you going,” my friend, a Southerner, long resident in New York, said, “and not me.” But I went back, for going back this time, like all the other times, was a necessary part of my life. I was going back to look at the landscapes and streets I had known—Kentucky, Tennessee, Arkansas, Mississippi, Louisiana—to look at the faces, to hear the voices, to hear, in fact, the voices in my own blood. A girl from Mississippi had said to me: “I feel it’s all happening inside of me, every bit of it. It’s all there.”

  I know what she meant.

  To the right, the sun, cold and pale, is westering. Far off, a little yellow plane scuttles down a runway, steps awkwardly into the air, then climbs busily, learning grace. Our big plane trundles ponderously forward, feeling its weight like a fat man, hesitates, shudders with an access of sudden, building power, and with a new roar in my ears, I see the ground slide past, then drop away, like a dream. I had not been aware of the instant we had lost that natural contact.

  Memphis is behind me, and I cannot see it, but yonder is the river, glittering coldly, and beyond, the tree-sprigged flats of Arkansas. Still climbing, we tilt eastward now, the land pivoting away below us, the tidy toy farms, white houses, silos the size of a spool of white thread, or smaller, the stock ponds bright like little pieces of gum wrapper dropped in brown grass, but that brown grass is really trees, the toy groves with shadows precise and long in the leveling light.

  Arkansas has pivoted away. It is Mississippi I now see down there, the land slipping away in the long light, and in my mind I see, idly, the ruined, gaunt, classic clay hills, with the creek bottoms throttled long since in pink sand, or the white houses of Holly Springs, some of them severe and beautiful, or Highway 61 striking south from Memphis, straight as a knife edge through the sad and baleful beauty of the Delta country, south toward Vicksburg and the Federal cemeteries, toward the fantasia of Natchez.

  It seems like a thousand years since I first drove that road, more than twenty-five years ago, a new concrete slab then, dizzily glittering in the August sun-blaze, driving past the rows of tenant shacks, Negro shacks set in the infinite cotton fields, and it seems like a hundred years since I last drove it, last week, in the rain, then toward sunset the sky clearing a little, but clouds solid and low on the west like a black range of mountains frilled upward with an edge of bloody gold light, quickly extinguished. Last week I noticed that more of the shacks were ruinous, apparently abandoned. More, but not many, had an electric wire running back from the road. But when I caught a glimpse, in the dusk, of the interior of a lighted shack, I usually saw the coal-oil lamp. Most shacks were not lighted. I wondered if it was too early in the evening. Then it was early no longer. Were that many of the shacks abandoned?

  Then we would pass in the dark some old truck grudging and clanking down the concrete, and catch, in the split-second flick of our headlamps, a glimpse of the black faces and the staring eyes. Or the figure, sudden in our headlight, would rise from the roadside, dark and shapeless against the soaked blackness of the cotton land: the man humping along with the croker sack on his shoulders (containing what?), the woman with a piece of sacking or paper over her head against the drizzle now, at her bosom a bundle that must be a small child, the big children following with the same slow, mud-lifting stride in the darkness. The light of the car snatches past, and I think of them behind us in the darkness, moving up the track beside the concrete, seeing another car light far yonder toward Memphis, staring at it perhaps, watching it grow, plunge at them, strike them, flick past. They will move on, at their pace. Yes, they are still here.

  I see a river below us. It must be the Tennessee. I wonder on which side of us Shiloh is, and guess the right, for we must have swung far enough north for that. I had two grandfathers at Shiloh, that morning of April 6, 1862, young men with the other young men in gray uniforms stepping toward the lethal spring thickets of dogwood and redbud, to the sound of bird song. “One hundred and sixty men we took in the first morning, son. Muster the next night, and it was sixteen answered.” They had fallen back on Corinth, into Mississippi.

  The man in the seat beside me on the plane is offering me a newspaper. I see the thumb of the hand clutching the paper. The nail is nearly as big as a quarter, split at the edges, grooved and horny, yellowish, with irrevocable coal-black grime deep under the nail and into the cuticle. I look at the man. He is a big man, very big, bulging over the seat, bulging inside his blue serge. He is fiftyish, hair graying. His face is large and raw-looking, heavy-jowled, thick gray eyebrows over small, deep-set, appraising eyes. His name, which he tells me, sounds Russian or Polish, something ending in -ski.

  I begin to read the paper, an article about the riots at the University of Alabama. He notices what I am reading. “Bet you thought I was from down here,” he said. “From the way I talk. But I ain’t. I was born and raised in New York City, but I been in the scrap business down here ten years. Didn’t you think I was from down here?”

  “Yes,” I say, for that seems the sociable thing to say.

  He twists his bulk in the blue serge and reaches and stabs a finger at the headline about Alabama. “Folks could be more gen’rous and fair-thinking,” he says. “Like affable, you might say, and things would work out. If folks get affable and contig’ous, you might say, things sort of get worked out in time, but you get folks not being affable-like and stirring things up and it won’t work out. Folks on both sides the question.”

  He asks me if I don’t agree, and I say, sure, I agree. Sure, if folks were just affable-like.

  I am thinking of what a taxi driver had said to me in Memphis: “Looks like the Lucy girl wouldn’t want to go no place where people throw eggs at her and sich. But if t
hey’d jist let her alone, them Goodrich plant fellers and all, it would blow over. What few niggers come would not have stayed no duration. Not when they found she couldn’t git the social stuff, and all.”

  And what the school superintendent, in middle Tennessee, had said: “You take a good many people around here that I know, segregationists all right, but when they read about a thousand to one, it sort of makes them sick. It is the unfairness in that way that gets them.”

  And an organizer of one of the important segregation groups, a lawyer, when I asked him if Autherine Lucy wasn’t acting under law, he creaked his swivel chair, moved his shoulders under his coat, and touched a pencil on his desk, before saying: “Yes—yes—but it was just the Federal Court ruled it.”

  And a taxi driver in Nashville, a back-country man come to the city, a hard, lean, spare face, his lean, strong shoulders humped forward over the wheel so that the clavicles show through the coat: “A black-type person and a white-type person, they ain’t alike. Now, the black-type person, all they think about is fighting and having a good time and you know what. Now, the white-type person is more American-type, he don’t mind fighting but he don’t fight to kill for fun. It’s that cannibal blood you caint git out.”

  Now, on the plane, my companion observes me scribbling something in a notebook.

  “You a writer or something?” he asks. “A newspaper fellow, maybe?”

  I say yes.

  “You interested in that stuff?” he asks, and points to the article. “Somebody ought to tell ’em not to blame no state, not even Alabam’ or Mississippi, for what the bad folks do. Like stuff in New York or Chicago. Folks in Mississippi got good hearts as any place. They always been nice and good-hearted to me, for I go up to a man affable. The folks down here is just in trouble and can’t claw out. Don’t blame ’em, got good hearts but can’t claw out of their trouble. It is hard to claw out from under the past and the past way.”

  He asks me if I have been talking to a lot of people.

  I had been talking to a lot of people.

  I had come to the shack at dusk, by the brimming bayou, in the sea of mud where cotton had been. The cold drizzle was still falling. In the shack, on the hickory chair, the yellow girl, thin but well made, wearing a salmon sweater and salmon denim slacks, holds the baby on her knee and leans toward the iron stove. On the table beyond her is an ivory-colored portable radio and a half-full bottle of Castoria. On the other side of the stove are her three other children, the oldest seven. Behind me, in the shadowy background, I know there are faces peering in from the other room of the shack, black faces, the half-grown boys, another girl I had seen on entering. The girl in the salmon sweater is telling me how she heard her husband had been killed. “Livin in town then, and my sister, she come that night and tole me he was shot. They had done shot him dead. So I up and taken out fer heah, back to the plantation. Later, my sister got my chillen and brought ’em. I ain’t gonna lie, mister. I tell you, I was scairt. No tellin if that man what done it was in jail or no. Even if they had arrest him, they might bon’ him out and he come and do it to me. Be mad because they ’rest him. You caint never tell. And they try him and ’quit him, doan know as I kin stay heah. Even they convick him, maybe I leave. Some good folks round heah and they helpin me, and I try to appreciate and be a prayin chile, but you git so bore down on and nigh ruint and sort of brainwashed, you don’t know what. Things git to goin round in yore head. I could run out or somethin, but you caint leave yore chillen. But look like I might up and leave. He git ’quitted, that man, and maybe I die, but I die goin.”

  This is the cliché. It is the thing the uninitiate would expect. It is the cliché of fear. It is the cliché come fresh, and alive.

  There is another image. It is morning in Nashville. I walk down Union Street, past the Negro barbershops, past the ruinous buildings plastered over with placards of old circuses and rodeos, buildings being wrecked now to make way for progress, going into the square where the big white stone boxlike, ugly and expensive Davidson County Court House now stands on the spot where the old brawling market once was. Otherwise, the square hasn’t changed much, the same buildings, wholesale houses, liquor stores, pawnshops, quick lunches, and the same kind of people stand on the corners, countrymen, in khaki pants and mackinaw coats, weathered faces and hard, withdrawn eyes, usually pale eyes, lean-hipped men (“narrow-assted” in the country phrase) like the men who rode with Forrest, the farm wives, young with a baby in arms, or middle-aged and work-worn, with colored cloths over the head, glasses, false teeth, always the shopping bag.

  I walk down toward the river, past the Darling Display Distribution show window, where a wax figure stands in skirt and silk blouse, the fingers spread on one uplifted hand, the thin face lifted with lips lightly parted as though in eternal, tubercular expectation of a kiss. I see the power pylons rising above the river mist. A tug is hooting upriver in the mist.

  I go on down to the right, First Street, to the replica of Fort Nashborough, the original settlement, which stands on the riverbank under the shadow of warehouses. The stockade looks so child-flimsy and jerry-built jammed against the massive, soot-stained warehouses. How could the settlers have ever taken such protection seriously? But it was enough, that and their will and the long rifles and the hunting knives and the bear-dogs they unleashed to help them when they broke the Indians at the Battle of the Bluffs. They took the land, and remain.

  I am standing in the middle of the empty stockade when a boy enters and approaches me. He is about fifteen, strongly built, wearing a scruffed and tattered brown leather jacket, blue jeans, a faded blue stocking cap on the back of his head, with a mop of yellow hair hanging over his forehead. He is a fine-looking boy, erect, manly in the face, with a direct, blue-eyed glance. “Mister,” he said to me, “is this foh’t the way it was, or they done remodeled it?”

  I tell him it is a replica, smaller than the original and not on the right spot, exactly.

  “I’m glad I seen it, anyway,” he says. “I like to go round seeing things that got history, and such. It gives you something to think about. Helps you in a quiz sometimes, too.”

  I ask him where he goes to school.

  “Atlanta,” he says. “Just come hitchhiking up this a-way, looking at things for interest. Like this here foh’t.”

  “You all been having a little trouble down your way,” I ask, “haven’t you?”

  He looks sharply at me, hesitates, then says: “Niggers—you mean niggers?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hate them bastards,” he says, with a shuddering, automatic violence, and averts his face and spits through his teeth, a quick, viperish, cut-off expectoration.

  I say nothing, and he looks at me, stares into my face with a dawning belligerence, sullen and challenging, and suddenly demands: “Don’t you?”

  “I can’t say that I do,” I reply. “I like some and I don’t like some others.”

  He utters the sudden obscenity, and removes himself a couple of paces from me. He stops and looks back over his shoulder. “I’m hitching on back to Atlanta,” he declares in a flat voice, “this afternoon,” and goes on out of the fort.

  This, too, is a cliché. The boy, standing on the ground of history and heroism, his intellect and imagination stirred by the fact, shudders with that other, automatic emotion which my question had evoked. The cliché had come true: the cliché of hate. And somehow the hallowedness of the ground he stood on had vindicated, as it were, that hate.

  The boy in the fort was the only person to turn from me, but occasionally there would be a stiffening, a flicker of suspicion, an evasion or momentary refusal of the subject, even in the casual acquaintance of lobby or barroom. At one of the new luxurious motels near Clarksdale (the slick motels and the great power stations and booster stations, silver-glittering by day and jewel-glittering by night, are the most obvious marks of the new boom), a well-dressed young man is talking about a movie being made down near Greenville. The movie is
something about cotton, he says, by a fellow named Williams. Anyway, they had burned down a gin in the middle of the night, just for the movie. The woman at the desk (a very good blue dress that had cost money, a precise, respectable middle-aged mouth, pince-nez) speaks up: “Yes, and they say it’s the only movie ever made here didn’t criticize Mississippi.”

  “Criticize?” I ask. “Criticize how?”

  She turns her head a little, looks at the man with her behind the desk, then back at me. “You know,” she says, “just criticize.”

  I see the eyes of the man behind the desk stray to the license of our car parked just beyond the glass front. It has a Tennessee license, a U-Drive-It from Memphis.

  “Criticize?” I try again.

  The man had been busy arranging something in the drawer behind the desk. Suddenly, very sharply, not quite slamming, he shoves the drawer shut. “Heck, you know,” he says.

  “Didn’t they make another movie over at Oxford?” I ask.

  The man nods, the woman says yes. I ask what that one had been about. Nobody has seen it, not the woman, neither of the men. “It was by that fellow Faulkner,” the woman says. “But I never read anything he ever wrote.”

  “I never did either,” the man behind the desk says, “but I know what it’s like. It’s like that fellow Hemingway. I read some of his writings. Gory and on the seedy side of life. I didn’t like it.”