Category Archives: Magnolia

Stories from the Deep South

Uncle Jim

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Missed the last Mississippi post? Click here to catch up.

 

I got my first taste of Southern hospitality on a puddle-jumper, sitting next to a completely-deaf-in-one-ear, Southern gentleman in his 90′s. “You should just call me Uncle Jim!” he exclaimed – loud enough for everyone around us to hear.

I learned a lot about Uncle Jim on that short flight. He told me about his children, his grandchildren and his GREAT grandchildren. He talked about his arthritis, his bad knee, his medical history (Parkinson’s), his hobbies (fishing and flying remote control airplanes), family holidays and pets. He insisted on buying me coffee and asked me a lot of questions about life in Kuwait and my family. (“You mean they didn’t marry you off at 16?!” he wanted to know.) He was fascinated by everything I said – but mostly by the fact that I spoke English.

When we arrived at Jackson, I helped Uncle Jim down the stairs and pushed his wheelchair to where his daughter was waiting – his daughter was a tired 40-something year old woman in pastels who would not have been thrilled with her father for divulging family secrets to an Arab. She whisked her father away as he called after me, “don’t forget to call me, young lady! I’m gonna take you fishing!”

Oh yes. We had a date.

Uncle Jim and I became buddies on that flight and at some point he invited me over to his place. And “his place” sounded like a secluded shack in the middle of nowhere. He said he would teach me how to fly toy airplanes and take me fishing. Yes, I realize how creepy that sounds now but at 30,000 feet in the air I thought it was a brilliant idea. I jotted down his number and promised to visit. It was not until I related the story to my friends a few days later that my old man sounded a lot more sketchy and less grandfatherly. ”He must be a pervert!” They said, “or a serial killer! Or BOTH.” I argued that he was real sweet, mainly trying to convince myself that the old man was harmless and not in fact a psychopath out to get me.

Maybe it’s a good thing I did not tell my friends he wore a patch over one eye and clutched my hand a little too long when he was talking to me. Maybe it’s a good thing I never got around to paying Uncle Jim a visit…

YOU SPEAK ENGLISH!

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Here’s a link to the last post I wrote about my big adventure in Mississippi. I was saying how I was completely lost in thought as I sat waiting to fly to Jackson.

When it was time to board, I gathered my belongings and made my way to the smallest plane I had ever seen. I later found out that these planes are called ‘puddle jumpers’. To me, it looked like a plaything, like an airplane from a movie set that will somehow be made to look bigger on the screen. I wondered how a plane like that could actually fly, I tried not to engage in all the dark thoughts swirling in my head. I took my book out to read, or to be honest… I took my book out to make the other passengers comfortable.

You see, my book, is actually a prop. I have found that holding Jane Eyre or Mansfield Park up and looking like I was totally absorbed in a Victorian tale of arranged marriages puts your average, suspicious American at ease. My headgear becomes less of a threat, because hey! she’s reading ENGLISH. And will you please look at what this Arab woman is reading? It is not a tattered copy of Stories of the Prophets by Hafiz Ibn Kathir – a very questionable choice of literature for a plane ride in the United States. No, I hold Pride and Prejudice up high for all to see. Look, my book says, this young woman obviously has some sort of Western education, be nice to her! And trust me, people are considerably nice-rrrr. I get less hostile looks and fewer people avert their eyes in confusion.   I get smiles, nods and the raised-eyebrow-in-pleasant-surprise.  All thanks to my girlfriends Charlotte Brontë and Jane Austen. (Hey, Remember this?)

Anyway!

Just as I was getting comfortable and smiling smugly at the empty seat next to me, an old man hobbled onto the plane. Hobbled, isn’t even the right word: he leaned heavily on a cane and the flight attendant slowly pushed him forward. He had a patch on one eye and seven wispy white hairs that stuck out randomly on his head.

“Where would you like to sit, Sir?” she asked him.

“WHAT?” He stopped. Turned to look at her. “SPEAK UP, I CAN’T HEAR YOU.”

The flight attendant laughed. All 30 passengers on the tiny plane were now watching the action unfold. She spoke louder this time, “Where would you like to sit? We have 4 empty seats. You can have these two in the front, all to yourself!”

“I want to sit next to that young lady.” He leaned on his cane and pointed a shaky finger right at me.

I moved my stuff over and flashed the old man a tight-lipped look-I’m-really-social-just-not-today smile. He gushed back and pointed at my book, “SO! YOU SPEAK ENGLISH!”

4

Ghost brides and graveyards

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Chapel of the Cross

Annandale was a huge Maidson County plantation built in the 1840s. The plantation owner’s daughter, Helen Johnstone, fell in love with the dashing Henry Vick, and their wedding was planned for May 21, 1859, at the Chapel of the Cross. But mere days before the nuptials, Henry was killed in a duel. He was buried at midnight in the churchyard behind the chapel, and the devastated Helen wore her wedding gown to the funeral.

Kirkpatrick from Off the Beaten Path, Mississippi.

It was a damp, dreary day in February and we were in the mood for an adventure. S. drove  us to Madison to meet the bride of Annandale. We found the simple brick church and we made our way over to the building to investigate.

If I recall correctly, the doors were bolted shut and we walked around the building and into the yard.

To those who thought I was making S. up, that’s her on the right! (S. saved me, remember?)

Visitors to Chapel of the Cross often report sightings of a sad woman clad all in white, sitting on a bench near Henry Vick’s grave.

Maybe it was Helen’s day off. We couldn’t spot a woman clad in white – but the moment we stepped out of the car we were swathed in a strange stillness that hung over the churchyard and the nearby lake.

So we explored the area, took pictures and jumped back in the car (well before sunset; it’s illegal to “prowl the cemetery after dark”) but I have to admit that we were a little spooked. I can’t report any strange sightings or noises, but the haunting silence definitely got to us. We were practically whispering to each other!

Got a spine-chilling story for us? Do share!

If you want to read more about the adventures of a Kuwaiti women living in Mississippi click here.

Brown University, Rhode Island

Thoughts in transit

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The panic of moving to Mississippi didn’t really set in until I was catching a connecting flight from North Carolina to Jackson, Mississippi. Don’t get me wrong, I was still thrilled about the adventures that lay ahead – but I was also finally realizing the magnitude of my responsibilities as a TA at a university. And after spending a few days at Brown University for my orientation, I became attached to that picturesque campus and was reluctant to fly to the South.

Brown University, Rhode Island

I had just graduated from university myself and was still in the student frame of mind. During my senior year I pretty much mastered the art of procrastination, receiving the Most Likely To Be An Hour Late and Still Think She’s on Time Award. I maintained my grades but I was apt to leave assignments to the last possible minute and spend my time dreaming of an ideal life where I had no lectures to attend or exams to study for. I was swiftly (in less than three months!) thrust to the other end of the spectrum.

I was dreading having to deal with students like myself. Unmotivated seniors who showed up to class with a giant cup of coffee and raccoon eyes – decidedly bored with the traditional classroom setting and restlessly anticipating the moment where they would don a swishing cape and save the world. I was also worried about teaching and my lack of experience. Throughout my time at university I worked as a tutor and writing center consultant, but TA-ing was a whole different ball game. Not to mention that my Fulbright contract said I’d be a TA (teaching assistant) but the host university informed me that I’m the only Arabic teacher on campus. I had to come up with syllabi and strategies with very little preparation. I was to teach and study at the same time, to volunteer and organize cultural events – I was to live with complete strangers for a year.

All those thoughts washed over me in Raleigh-Durham International Airport, where I felt very much alone for the first time since I left Kuwait.

This is just down the street from where I lived.

What I want to go back for?

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Muddy Waters allegedly said, “I wanted to get out of Mississippi in the worst way. Go back? What I want to go back for?”

I moved to Mississippi in August, 2008 to teach Arabic at Jackson State University (as a Fulbright TA). By Thanksgiving I knew what Muddy Waters was talking about. I wanted to get out of Mississippi and never go back. Before leaving Kuwait, I had prepared myself for an adventure. This was going to be my first experience living away from home, and for a whole year! I decided that I was going to make the most of it: meet new people, explore new places, read Southern literature, try new food and basically live my life to the fullest.

A random photo I took during my first week.

Maybe I had high expectations but in a few weeks I started writing to my friends saying that I was not prepared for life in the Deep South. Without a car, I was completely cut off. I was stranded in the ghetto. The people I met were not friendly, the classes I took were mediocre and the activities arranged by the international program were too outdoorsy for me. My living arrangement (read: psychotic flatmate) probably aggravated my sense of despair.

Cooped up in my apartment, this was my view all day, every day.

Fate dealt me several blows during the first part of my Fulbright program. Office politics and the animosity between employees demotivated me. I became withdrawn and instead of making the most of my experience, I spent all my days online, chatting with friends back home and composing silly e-mails. I was a 21st century hermit. I’d go to campus, teach my classes, head back home and get online. Later in the evening, when everyone in Kuwait was fast asleep, I’d venture out of my apartment and walk to the gym where I’d work out for an hour then get back to the safety of my room. I had met a few international students and I we hung out almost on a daily basis, but they lived on campus and I didn’t and I knew better than to get too attached to them (they were all heading back to their own countries in December). And just when I was getting comfortable in my pitiful routine, Red Lobster changed my life! Wait, that’s pretty pathetic too.

Early in September, one of the employees coerced me into attending a luncheon at the Red Lobster – even though it was Ramadan and I was fasting. I can’t remember the details but she needed to parade the international teachers to a group of benevolent citizens who funded and supported exchange programs (hmm). I contemplated not going but I pushed myself because Ramadan is not just about fasting from food and drink but all about increasing one’s good deeds and being a better person. It was there that I met my friend S. (who I often refer to as my savior). I must have been so tired and hungry that I still can’t remember what I said to her that day. But apparently we exchanged e-mails! And I am so grateful we did.

A month later, S. got in touch with me and I think we met for the first time in November. S. plucked me out of my apartment where I was wallowing in self-pity and showed me Mississippi. She showed me the southern hospitality one reads and hears about. She talked to me about the rich literary tradition in her soft drawl, introduced me to her family and friends and by January all but adopted me!

This is just down the street from where I lived.

It was only after I saw Mississippi through her eyes that I grew to love it and tried to understand it. It was on our adventures that I finally lived up to the promises I made myself. I was meeting new people, having the most unexpected adventures, reading Eudora Welty and enjoying cup after cup of sweet tea. Although I wanted to get out of Mississippi in the worst way, I now yearn to go back. There are stories I want to hear and places I want to explore. As William Faulkner pointed out, “to understand the world, you must first understand a place like Mississippi.”

the good days

They call it “The Movie Capital of Mississippi”

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The Ponder Heart, A Time to Kill, My Dog Skip, Oh Brother Where Art Thou are all movies I haven’t seen.

And they were filmed entirely in Canton, Mississippi.

On a surprisingly chilly day at the end of February (2009), my good friend Sarah drove us to this quaint little town to explore the famous Canton Square. It was like we drove right back into the 1950′s.

Apparently there’s a museum in Old Canton and a biannual Flea Market that attracts over a thousand vendors. We were there on a quiet weekend and it was like Canton was taking a nap.

We strolled around, wandering in and out of the antique stores and peering into a curtained window. We took some pictures – though I wish I took more, or had a better camera (I was using my sturdy Sony DSC-W120 at the time).

In 1950 Canton probably rocked to Bill Haley and His Comets.

In 2009 it was drowning in a stagnant pool of nostalgia.