By the time we made it to the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute, we had seen a lot of small and fascinating museums exploring specific people or aspects of the Civil Rights movement in the United States. The Birmingham museum was huge in comparison, also very interesting, but I think by that point we had become a bit museum-weary. We enjoyed a walking tour afterwards given by a random guy in the park who was able to explain in detail the meaning of the park's various artistic creations. We also came across some Occupiers, a small enclave but dedicated, and we stopped to talk to them about their movement.
After that, we were done with touring and ready for lunch. Someone recommended to me a place that sounded like the Birmingham Pie Company. OK, I thought, pie or something... they probably have sandwiches too. We followed her directions and found ourselves at the Birmingham Power Company. That's where people eat lunch in Alabama - the power company, an enclosed business park, places like that. It's almost like eating in the food court at a shopping mall, except that there aren't any stores, just offices. We never quite got used to that, but it seemed like a very common thing to do... so on our last day we had lunch in the lunch room of the Birmingham Power Company. It seemed appropriate. Birmingham, after all, was one of the places where young people took part in lunch counter sit-ins in order to force desegregation. After all the visiting and exploring and learning we'd done, after all the people we'd met, all the conversations about race, I couldn't help it... I had to count. I took an informal survey to see how many mixed race groups of diners were in that lunch room. Over the course of our 30-minute lunch, I counted nine. Nine groups of people who had skin of different pigmentation from one another and who appeared to be voluntarily eating together. We were in good company.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Glendora, Mississippi
The smoke at Red's gave my mom and I both scratchy throats that lasted more than a week, but it was worth it. The following morning it was bright and early out of Clarksdale and on our way to Birmingham. A part of this route has recently been named the Emmett Till Memorial Highway. Emmett Till was one of the martyrs of the Civil Rights movement, a 14-year-old from Chicago who went to Mississippi to visit relatives in 1955 and, not knowing the local rules of engagement, made the mistake of looking at a white woman. Some say he made a flirtatious gesture or possibly spoke to her. Whatever it was, there was a perception that an incident of some kind had taken place. By the following morning, Till had been brutally lynched. The murderers, who eventually confessed to the crime, were acquitted by the local court. To ensure that all Americans came face to face with the reality of Southern racial dynamics, Till's mother insisted on an open casket. By bringing broader public awareness to the realty of lynching, Till's open casket funeral increased the pressure for reform. Here are the before and after photos of Emmett Till.
A small sign along the highway guided us to the raw and powerful Emmett Till Historic Intrepid Center, which became my other favorite tiny museum of this trip.
A small sign along the highway guided us to the raw and powerful Emmett Till Historic Intrepid Center, which became my other favorite tiny museum of this trip.
Clarksdale
We took the Mississippi Blues Trail ( http://www.msbluestrail.org/ ) from Natchez to Clarksdale. This turned out to be a fun little hunt for markers in various towns and roadside locations along our way. Most of them were quite humble, none was spectacular in and of itself, but altogether they made for an enjoyable scavenger hunt and drew us into some out-of-the-way towns we otherwise would have just driven by. This was the tiny home of blues legend Muddy Waters, for example, complete with a bottle tree.
The bottle tree thing is something we don't see much of in California. Turns out there's quite a history behind bottle trees. Although I know nothing about him as an authoritative source, I liked Felder Rushing's "Bottle Tree History" which you can find at http://www.felderrushing.net/HistoryofBottleTrees.htm
Night found us in Clarksdale, munching on Wendy's lovely bacon-free salads and eagerly awaiting a show at Red's Lounge, a divy juke joint that's about as authentic as it gets. See if you can find the blues club in this photo!
The bottle tree thing is something we don't see much of in California. Turns out there's quite a history behind bottle trees. Although I know nothing about him as an authoritative source, I liked Felder Rushing's "Bottle Tree History" which you can find at http://www.felderrushing.net/HistoryofBottleTrees.htm
Night found us in Clarksdale, munching on Wendy's lovely bacon-free salads and eagerly awaiting a show at Red's Lounge, a divy juke joint that's about as authentic as it gets. See if you can find the blues club in this photo!
ISO Alligators
After a couple of days in New Orleans, complete with a riverboat tour, a Bourbon Street jazz club, a couple of Frenchmen Street jazz clubs, a little art shopping and some good (though bacony) food, we were on our way again, destination Natchez, Mississippi. I wanted to drive the River Road trail which, I assumed, passed closer to the river and also went by several plantations. Admiring plantation architecture was way down on the list of our priorities for this trip, but I figured if they were more or less on the way we should stop and check out at least one of them.
What we didn't expect until we were already enroute was that we might have an opportunity to take a swamp tour. It hadn't really occurred to me, but yes, we were driving through the bayou and they really do have alligators in this part of the country. We saw a small, curious sign along the highway, at least, that implied as much. A fruit vendor along the highway (we were sooo happy to find some fresh fruit and vegetables, all unadulterated by bacon) informed us that Munson's Swamp Tours ( http://www.munsonswamptours.com/ )might be difficult to find. He had tried it himself one time, just out of curiosity, and only found it through extreme perseverance and because he had nothing else to do that day. We might not be so lucky. I whipped out my iPad and asked if he could show us the way, pointing out the pulsing blue dot that was us. "Oh," he said, "maybe with that thing you'll be able to find it."
It was quite a detour, but we did find the swamp tour shack. Alas, the next tour wasn't for another two hours and we didn't have that much time to wait. In any case, said a French tourist just arriving from the morning ride, the alligators seemed to be mostly hibernating. I didn't know that alligators hibernate. It didn't really seem cold enough for hibernation. Maybe the tour guide just said that because they didn't find any alligators and he didn't want his French visitors to be too disappointed. Whatever the reason, we skipped the swamp tour and continued on with our drive. If you're ever in the area during the non-hibernation season, however, and you want to get up close and personal with an alligator, it's probably worth a try.
We also visited the Rosedown Plantation House ( http://www.rosedownplantationhome.com/ ). My mom and I make good travel partners when it comes to things like walking through plantation houses and touring gardens. We were both quite interested in going to one and Rosedown turned out to be a perfect stop along our day's route, but neither of us was interested in going to more than one. It's nice little synchronicities like that which make for compatible travel partners.
Our long drive that day ended at the Natchez Eola Hotel, and that's where, for me, the nightmare began.
One thing I've learned about myself from traveling with other people is that I'm a much lighter sleeper than I had realized. I thought it was normal for the human brain to take an hour or more to wind down and fall asleep. I thought it was normal for people to wake up in the middle of the night if there was a ruckus outside. When I'm traveling, I always like to get a room on the street with an operable window so I can stick my head out and listen to the street noise of whatever place I'm in. That street noise rarely prevents me from sleeping. I like street noise. But I guess I don't like all street noise.
When I traveled in Morocco with my French friend Caroline, I discovered that she takes all of about two minutes to fall asleep. Literally, we would wrap up a lively conversation and say goodnight, and within two minutes she'd be snoring away. My friend Trish was even faster... on our trip through Portugal and Spain she consistently nodded off in a minute or less. Amazing! I can't do that under normal circumstances, let alone when I'm traveling. Add to that a noisy party outside and the night starts to get very, very long. Our lovely street-side room at the Eola was quiet enough when we went to bed, but right at midnight someone enjoying a rigorous night of partying at the club next door must have walked outside for a cigarette and left its door open. Suddenly, it was as though the party was right there on our balcony, and essentially, that's where it was. Several floors down, but facing right towards our room. Our room with the lovely, historic balcony doors that don't quite close all the way, allowing every decibel of sound direct entry. It couldn't go on, I thought. Someone will say something. But minutes went by and on it went. Boom! Boom! Boom! Ta ta boom! How could my mom possibly be sleeping through this?
After the eternity of five minutes, I decided to call the guy at the front desk to see if he could do anything. But I didn't want to wake my mom by picking up the phone. Lucky her that she can sleep through it, I thought, envious. Instead of picking up the phone, I pulled on some flip flops and took the elevator downstairs. The guy at the front desk knew exactly what club I was talking about. "How long do they stay open?" I asked.
"Two, three, four o'clock," he said. "Depends."
I had a long drive the next day and the last thing I wanted was to listen to somebody else's party for the next four hours. "I can put you in a different room," he suggested.
"Can I go in one and leave my mom sleeping where she is?"
"Mmmm, no. Sorry. Either you both go or you both stay." I felt bad about it, but I had no choice. "Do you want me to send up a porter with a cart?"
"Yes, please," I said.
That was only one part of the fiasco of the Eola, but I won't go into the rest. All was more or less fixed by the time we checked out, and I more or less managed to get enough sleep to be a safe driver the following day. I still got a ticket on our way to Clarksdale, but I don't suppose I can blame that on loud music or poor-fitting doors. Call that my $295.50 user's fee for the privilege of using the lovely, long, straight and well-policed roads of the State of Mississippi. In the grand scheme of things, that was money well spent.
What we didn't expect until we were already enroute was that we might have an opportunity to take a swamp tour. It hadn't really occurred to me, but yes, we were driving through the bayou and they really do have alligators in this part of the country. We saw a small, curious sign along the highway, at least, that implied as much. A fruit vendor along the highway (we were sooo happy to find some fresh fruit and vegetables, all unadulterated by bacon) informed us that Munson's Swamp Tours ( http://www.munsonswamptours.com/ )might be difficult to find. He had tried it himself one time, just out of curiosity, and only found it through extreme perseverance and because he had nothing else to do that day. We might not be so lucky. I whipped out my iPad and asked if he could show us the way, pointing out the pulsing blue dot that was us. "Oh," he said, "maybe with that thing you'll be able to find it."
It was quite a detour, but we did find the swamp tour shack. Alas, the next tour wasn't for another two hours and we didn't have that much time to wait. In any case, said a French tourist just arriving from the morning ride, the alligators seemed to be mostly hibernating. I didn't know that alligators hibernate. It didn't really seem cold enough for hibernation. Maybe the tour guide just said that because they didn't find any alligators and he didn't want his French visitors to be too disappointed. Whatever the reason, we skipped the swamp tour and continued on with our drive. If you're ever in the area during the non-hibernation season, however, and you want to get up close and personal with an alligator, it's probably worth a try.
We also visited the Rosedown Plantation House ( http://www.rosedownplantationhome.com/ ). My mom and I make good travel partners when it comes to things like walking through plantation houses and touring gardens. We were both quite interested in going to one and Rosedown turned out to be a perfect stop along our day's route, but neither of us was interested in going to more than one. It's nice little synchronicities like that which make for compatible travel partners.
Our long drive that day ended at the Natchez Eola Hotel, and that's where, for me, the nightmare began.
One thing I've learned about myself from traveling with other people is that I'm a much lighter sleeper than I had realized. I thought it was normal for the human brain to take an hour or more to wind down and fall asleep. I thought it was normal for people to wake up in the middle of the night if there was a ruckus outside. When I'm traveling, I always like to get a room on the street with an operable window so I can stick my head out and listen to the street noise of whatever place I'm in. That street noise rarely prevents me from sleeping. I like street noise. But I guess I don't like all street noise.
When I traveled in Morocco with my French friend Caroline, I discovered that she takes all of about two minutes to fall asleep. Literally, we would wrap up a lively conversation and say goodnight, and within two minutes she'd be snoring away. My friend Trish was even faster... on our trip through Portugal and Spain she consistently nodded off in a minute or less. Amazing! I can't do that under normal circumstances, let alone when I'm traveling. Add to that a noisy party outside and the night starts to get very, very long. Our lovely street-side room at the Eola was quiet enough when we went to bed, but right at midnight someone enjoying a rigorous night of partying at the club next door must have walked outside for a cigarette and left its door open. Suddenly, it was as though the party was right there on our balcony, and essentially, that's where it was. Several floors down, but facing right towards our room. Our room with the lovely, historic balcony doors that don't quite close all the way, allowing every decibel of sound direct entry. It couldn't go on, I thought. Someone will say something. But minutes went by and on it went. Boom! Boom! Boom! Ta ta boom! How could my mom possibly be sleeping through this?
After the eternity of five minutes, I decided to call the guy at the front desk to see if he could do anything. But I didn't want to wake my mom by picking up the phone. Lucky her that she can sleep through it, I thought, envious. Instead of picking up the phone, I pulled on some flip flops and took the elevator downstairs. The guy at the front desk knew exactly what club I was talking about. "How long do they stay open?" I asked.
"Two, three, four o'clock," he said. "Depends."
I had a long drive the next day and the last thing I wanted was to listen to somebody else's party for the next four hours. "I can put you in a different room," he suggested.
"Can I go in one and leave my mom sleeping where she is?"
"Mmmm, no. Sorry. Either you both go or you both stay." I felt bad about it, but I had no choice. "Do you want me to send up a porter with a cart?"
"Yes, please," I said.
That was only one part of the fiasco of the Eola, but I won't go into the rest. All was more or less fixed by the time we checked out, and I more or less managed to get enough sleep to be a safe driver the following day. I still got a ticket on our way to Clarksdale, but I don't suppose I can blame that on loud music or poor-fitting doors. Call that my $295.50 user's fee for the privilege of using the lovely, long, straight and well-policed roads of the State of Mississippi. In the grand scheme of things, that was money well spent.
Selma
One of the highlights of the trip for me was our visit to Selma.
The route from Selma to Montgomery is now a National Historic Trail. The Park Service brochure sums it up nicely:
Anyone interested in this era in American history, or in the evolution of rights in the modern world, would do well to take a pilgrimage along this route. Beginning with the Brown Chapel AME Church (closed when we tried to see it) and the National Voting Rights Museum and Institute ( http://nvrmi.com/ )in Selma and ending at the state building, one could hike, bike or drive the 54-mile route over the course of several days without running out of things to see. I found the Voting Rights Museum to be one of the most interesting of the whole trip. It continues to keep the issue of voting rights alive with an annual Bridge Crossing Jubilee event featuring three days of activities, including a film festival, youth leadership conference, re-enactments and more. The museum's exhibits include a series of plaster cast footprints of the Foot Soldiers who participated in the march. By the time we arrived at the museum it had closed for the day. Fortunately, the staff on duty saw us out there and let us in anyway or else we would have missed this moving collection of exhibits.
We stayed one night at the historic St. James Hotel in Selma and were on our way again bright and early the next day. Next stop: New Orleans!
The route from Selma to Montgomery is now a National Historic Trail. The Park Service brochure sums it up nicely:
"The 54-mile march from Selma, Alabama, to the state capitol in Montgomery in 1965 culminated a journey of a hundred years by African Americans to gain one of the most fundamental of American freedoms: the right to vote. The peaceful march was possible because in the preceding days courageous citizens, local leaders, and civil rights groups had, at the cost of harassment, bloodshed, and innocent lives, come together to demand that right. The final march was a celebration of their achievement, a processional for fallen comrades, and the climactic event of the modern civil rights movement."
Anyone interested in this era in American history, or in the evolution of rights in the modern world, would do well to take a pilgrimage along this route. Beginning with the Brown Chapel AME Church (closed when we tried to see it) and the National Voting Rights Museum and Institute ( http://nvrmi.com/ )in Selma and ending at the state building, one could hike, bike or drive the 54-mile route over the course of several days without running out of things to see. I found the Voting Rights Museum to be one of the most interesting of the whole trip. It continues to keep the issue of voting rights alive with an annual Bridge Crossing Jubilee event featuring three days of activities, including a film festival, youth leadership conference, re-enactments and more. The museum's exhibits include a series of plaster cast footprints of the Foot Soldiers who participated in the march. By the time we arrived at the museum it had closed for the day. Fortunately, the staff on duty saw us out there and let us in anyway or else we would have missed this moving collection of exhibits.
We stayed one night at the historic St. James Hotel in Selma and were on our way again bright and early the next day. Next stop: New Orleans!
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