8:38 PM |
I stopped in to the Memphis Visitor's Center (given my experience with visitor's centers, this was tantamount to consumption of at least 30 gallons of gas and three hours of u-turns).
This is Carl. I met him in the parking lot. His name badge said Carlton, so I asked him if he liked to be called Carl or Carlton. He said Carl but when people see the badge they call him Carlton. I'm not sure what he is guarding. The old white lady in the center? There was also a nice professional black man in there.
Anyhow, I asked Carl why there were no black folks visiting Graceland, but all black workers. We had a very long talk about Memphis being 70 percent black, and the housing costs were a lot lower than in Germantown. He gave me the real estate section of his paper so I could see. Germantown is where all the white people live. I asked him how the job situation is. Fed Ex is closing lots of big hangars. Mitsubishi is supposed to be coming though. Carl is 70 and has a pension from Grumman from working 30 years. He still has to work to make ends meet. He jumped on this job when someone whispered to him about it before the opening was made public.
Carl said at first he didn't know what I wanted from him. You know, some folks.... He had been afraid. Of me.
The nice professional black man in the Visitor's Center gave me the first good directions I've had on this trip, with appropriate maps, decorated with sharpies and highlighters. He did not send me on I-55 North. Everyone else would have. My landmarks were MacDonalds and the Post Office. Very simple. Note to self: Ask black people directions. They know them. I would find this to be the case over and over again.
I set out for The Civil Rights Museum. This is the Lorraine Motel. It is where Martin Luther King was shot. Here is a kid reading the plaque. All throughout the museum there were hoards of white kids on field trips. I guarantee you that they may have picked up two pieces of information, at most. I cried at the entrance. The lady working there said that wasn't unusual, that many people are very emotional there. The black visitors read every single word of every single plaque.
This is my wrist.
It kind of says it all (okay, forget the bracelet). The yellow wrist band is from Graceland. It cost me $75. The blue one is from The Civil Rights Museum. The black guy ahead of me bought it and told the lady to give it to the next person who came in. $75 v. free. Gift shops v. real history with real meaning. I was sick.
You must go to this museum. College boyfriend in Nashville told me to go. Tiffeny at Opryland! told me to go. You must too.
I have had an unintentional brush with the KKK this trip. At the museum, I saw a robe and hood. I saw drawings. I saw letters. I read about segregation. About education. And holy cow! The Highlands Folk School in (hold your breath) Monteagle, TN. I had just spent four days combing Monteagle. I didn't see a single black person. I certainly didn't see the school that had hosted Rosa Parks, for one, at its seminars. There was no plaque. There was absolutely no trace.
I am truly surprised that The University of The South (at which my son will soon study) has not launched a project on the school. I asked the lady at the museum if there is a civil rights research library. No there is not. Still, I have been a researcher all my life, and think that I will make this my project. Next road trip: Library of Congress.
I went to Azalea Junior High in 1972. It was the first year of integration. Segregation had been illegal for at least a decade. No one wanted white people to be bussed to black schools. We were to go to school for under four hours a day to accommodate all this shuffling around. My parents put me in private school.
This is Jacqueline Smith's protest. She has been living across the street from The Civil Rights Museum for 23 years. That's when they evicted here from the Lorraine Motel when it was slated to become a museum. She feels that the money used for the edifice should have been used to house people in the motel. She is not giving in. This is her picture with Cindi Lauper. This is her website Fulfill The Dream. It is now over 200 pages.
I asked her what her protest was about. She was very slow to open up to me. She has her stuff under tarps and brings out a paper or two if you keep on talking and taking genuine interest. She showed me a letter from someone who had spent time with her and was using that material for a one-woman play. Elizabeth told me that afterwards she found out the lady was paid $6000 for the material. I asked Jackie what she would do with the 21 million dollars spent on the museum. She would make all this, she waves her hand, into affordable housing. Look up there, she said, a 5 million dollar home. And in the summer they have music and drinking on this place. No place for people to live.
This is Sherry and Tawanda. I asked where the Rendezvous was. Turn at the Dennys and where the TGIFridays used to be. It's in an alley. I drove in that direction because I really really wanted BBQ in Memphis. All the streets are one way, with closed-off Beale Street and the stadium right in the middle of the whole mess. After ending up at the wrong end of town, I checked my guidebook for an address and then followed the numbers down the one-way street in the other direction so I could turn around. It was supposed to be in an alley. An alley was coming up, and some guys were pulling out of a space, so I took it.
At this point in my journey I rely solely on the goodness of people to not steal my car or the videocam or the GPS or the laptop that are in plain view in my unlocked car. I have to just hold my breath and pray. I have not had a problem thus far. I left Woody and started wondering around looking for the Rendezvous, and I asked this man.
He is Bernard. Bernard showed me the Rendezvous but said it wasn't open Sundays and Mondays. Nuts. He told me his wasn't photogenic but I took his picture anyway. He laughed and said now don't you go showing that to the police. In retrospect this is probably something he had a vested interest in. Bernard works at a hotel that is undergoing renovations and is basically closed, except that they are honoring reservations of bus tours and the like. It is creepy in there. Bernard and I got to talking as we walked and I told him I was driving in my old car. I told him to come look. As we got to his hotel, I pointed to where my car was. It apparently was in a very bad place. He told me to come through the alley, don't mind the one way signs, and he would take care of me. You'd think I'd be nervous about this, but somehow the goodness of people always comes clear to me. Bernard had me park in the entrance to his hotel. I cannot begin to tell you how much fun we had. He gave me a coupon and told me to go to BB Kings. I left the car with him, with his full knowledge that it wasn't locked.
I went to BB Kings. On the way, I gave 20 bucks to the black guy in the wheelchair with amputated legs. The ribs were outrageous. You couldn't even pick them up with out the bone just sliding out of the meet. I had them dry (Memphis style). With ribs this good, it would be like putting ketchup on a filet mignon to put sauce on these suckers. I also had a Bud.
BB Kings, most appropriately, has live blues singers. Fabulous. The place is dark and worn, just like you'd like it. I went to the ladies room. These are the faucets.
Hold your horses. It was like that scratchy thing like pulling the needle off a record sound in cartoons. These fancy faucets are in BB Kings. I am heartbroken. I liked my illusion. When I came out, I noticed that all the patrons are white, except one large black man with his white wife. Walked by the amputee again. Had happy conversation.
Back to Bernard's. Car perfect. Bernard getting lottery tickets. Hung around with him for a while longer. Gave him last bottle of Makers Mark 47. Sorry guy at home who helped me with my car before I left.
I had spent half of my day with white people looking for Disneyland, and the black half who made the Disneyland possible. Call me whatever you want, but the very, very best times I have had on this journey have been with black folks.
Anyhow, I asked Carl why there were no black folks visiting Graceland, but all black workers. We had a very long talk about Memphis being 70 percent black, and the housing costs were a lot lower than in Germantown. He gave me the real estate section of his paper so I could see. Germantown is where all the white people live. I asked him how the job situation is. Fed Ex is closing lots of big hangars. Mitsubishi is supposed to be coming though. Carl is 70 and has a pension from Grumman from working 30 years. He still has to work to make ends meet. He jumped on this job when someone whispered to him about it before the opening was made public.
Carl said at first he didn't know what I wanted from him. You know, some folks.... He had been afraid. Of me.
The nice professional black man in the Visitor's Center gave me the first good directions I've had on this trip, with appropriate maps, decorated with sharpies and highlighters. He did not send me on I-55 North. Everyone else would have. My landmarks were MacDonalds and the Post Office. Very simple. Note to self: Ask black people directions. They know them. I would find this to be the case over and over again.
This is my wrist.It kind of says it all (okay, forget the bracelet). The yellow wrist band is from Graceland. It cost me $75. The blue one is from The Civil Rights Museum. The black guy ahead of me bought it and told the lady to give it to the next person who came in. $75 v. free. Gift shops v. real history with real meaning. I was sick.
You must go to this museum. College boyfriend in Nashville told me to go. Tiffeny at Opryland! told me to go. You must too.
I have had an unintentional brush with the KKK this trip. At the museum, I saw a robe and hood. I saw drawings. I saw letters. I read about segregation. About education. And holy cow! The Highlands Folk School in (hold your breath) Monteagle, TN. I had just spent four days combing Monteagle. I didn't see a single black person. I certainly didn't see the school that had hosted Rosa Parks, for one, at its seminars. There was no plaque. There was absolutely no trace.
I am truly surprised that The University of The South (at which my son will soon study) has not launched a project on the school. I asked the lady at the museum if there is a civil rights research library. No there is not. Still, I have been a researcher all my life, and think that I will make this my project. Next road trip: Library of Congress.
I went to Azalea Junior High in 1972. It was the first year of integration. Segregation had been illegal for at least a decade. No one wanted white people to be bussed to black schools. We were to go to school for under four hours a day to accommodate all this shuffling around. My parents put me in private school.
This is Jacqueline Smith's protest. She has been living across the street from The Civil Rights Museum for 23 years. That's when they evicted here from the Lorraine Motel when it was slated to become a museum. She feels that the money used for the edifice should have been used to house people in the motel. She is not giving in. This is her picture with Cindi Lauper. This is her website Fulfill The Dream. It is now over 200 pages.I asked her what her protest was about. She was very slow to open up to me. She has her stuff under tarps and brings out a paper or two if you keep on talking and taking genuine interest. She showed me a letter from someone who had spent time with her and was using that material for a one-woman play. Elizabeth told me that afterwards she found out the lady was paid $6000 for the material. I asked Jackie what she would do with the 21 million dollars spent on the museum. She would make all this, she waves her hand, into affordable housing. Look up there, she said, a 5 million dollar home. And in the summer they have music and drinking on this place. No place for people to live.
This is Sherry and Tawanda. I asked where the Rendezvous was. Turn at the Dennys and where the TGIFridays used to be. It's in an alley. I drove in that direction because I really really wanted BBQ in Memphis. All the streets are one way, with closed-off Beale Street and the stadium right in the middle of the whole mess. After ending up at the wrong end of town, I checked my guidebook for an address and then followed the numbers down the one-way street in the other direction so I could turn around. It was supposed to be in an alley. An alley was coming up, and some guys were pulling out of a space, so I took it.At this point in my journey I rely solely on the goodness of people to not steal my car or the videocam or the GPS or the laptop that are in plain view in my unlocked car. I have to just hold my breath and pray. I have not had a problem thus far. I left Woody and started wondering around looking for the Rendezvous, and I asked this man.
I went to BB Kings. On the way, I gave 20 bucks to the black guy in the wheelchair with amputated legs. The ribs were outrageous. You couldn't even pick them up with out the bone just sliding out of the meet. I had them dry (Memphis style). With ribs this good, it would be like putting ketchup on a filet mignon to put sauce on these suckers. I also had a Bud.
Hold your horses. It was like that scratchy thing like pulling the needle off a record sound in cartoons. These fancy faucets are in BB Kings. I am heartbroken. I liked my illusion. When I came out, I noticed that all the patrons are white, except one large black man with his white wife. Walked by the amputee again. Had happy conversation.
Back to Bernard's. Car perfect. Bernard getting lottery tickets. Hung around with him for a while longer. Gave him last bottle of Makers Mark 47. Sorry guy at home who helped me with my car before I left.
I had spent half of my day with white people looking for Disneyland, and the black half who made the Disneyland possible. Call me whatever you want, but the very, very best times I have had on this journey have been with black folks.