Biscuits: Conflict of Interest
My family (like the maternal, paternal kind) believed very strongly in a lot of things, and one of those things is that being Southern is something to be incredibly proud of. Proud like you would be if your family is directly descended from George Washington and you had the Delaware crossing boat in a museum somewhere with your name on it. Just so we're clear, my family is not descended from George Washington, but more like the cast extras from a season of Justified. My family is Alabama red clay, balmy Gulf Coast humidity living, gimmie-that-old-timey-religion Southern. There are pictures of magnolias on the wall beside the mounted deer head in the house that sits on 80 acres of pine trees at the end of a 1.5 mile dusty dirt road that takes you by a herd of cows (my uncle owns those if you're curious), by a hog parlor (no, that's a real thing), and two double wide trailers that an industrious fellow pulled together and nailed mostly in line with giant sheets of plywood and tarps. Also there's the corn fields, pastures, and swampy spots. Paddle. Faster.
Speaking of Justified, you know that song you hear, the one that says you'll never leave Harlan County alive? Ok, life where I grew up is like that. Most people don't leave. And they're really damn happy about it. Also this might be the time I mention that the "town" I grew up in is called Howardtown. My last name is Howard. I was lucky enough to have that last name in Howardtown and it was also an alignment of the stars that my father's father owned the land this town was on. And my mother's father owned what he didn't. My grandfathers were feuding. That's right people, I used the word feuding in a context that does not involve the Hatfields and McCoys, or moonshine... although I feel quite certain moonshine could have improved the situation. Teetotalers does not even being to cover the opinion those two men have of alcohol.
I did leave and so did my brother. And in leaving I started looking back, seeing my home town fade into the distance of the metaphorical rearview mirror of my life. I had struggled being there, growing there and never felt like I fit in. It was a relief to walk away, and as I started art school (which doesn't attract too many kids who grew up the way I did) I knew that I had the opportunity to truly rid myself of what I had struggled with for 17 years. That ridding wasn’t entirely negative. I learned a lot during this time that I hadn’t before, and I am proud of that. I learned more about myself as well. I learned that the way I had always thought, dressed, spoke, etc. wasn’t something I needed to change but just allow to be. Growing up, it had always felt like a burden that I wasn’t particularly attracted to men in trucks or having a family by the time I was 20, and finally I was in a place where it was ok to be different.
On the other hand, it did cause a problem for me. I have an identity issue. I also make good biscuits. Not sure what these two things have to do with one another? Yea, me either. Yet more often than not when I am in the center of my identity crisis I find myself thinking about biscuits, and how important it was to my mother, grandmothers and great-grandmothers that I learn how to make them. Biscuits, and cornbread. Also when paired with tomato gravy, it was a more than adequate dinner option. These things roll around in my head continuously. When I hear people talk about the South, and its changing cultural landscape (The New-New South, if you will), I feel both attracted to the concept and really very alienated. I’ve spent most of my life being raised as "old southern" and very much detaching myself from being southern at all. I know I'm not the first person to think like this, or be hesitant to identify with the term. It's a conflict of interest, so to speak.
Before I continue here let me address some things. I wasn’t raised with confederate flags flying outside my house, or being told that my race made me superior. I didn’t watch the Klan gather, use racial slurs and most likely would have been severely punished for doing so. My parents (despite the Southern Baptist stigma) are extremely aware that racism is alive and well, and that it is a core issue that has to be resolved. I was never once taught that I was any different or any better than another person. Period. In addition to the race conflict, my parents never drew any distinction between socioeconomic statuses either… But I watched grandfathers and uncles and cousins and others do so. I saw judgement in their eyes when my dad would talk about his black pastor friends and although I may have not been taught it, I observed many, many of the stigmas that the south deservingly carries.
So, you see, here’s my issue– I want to see this New South that people are discussing, and even be a part of it. I obsess over southern artists and makers like Alabama Chain, Billy Reid and others. In fact I would say that most of my favorite artists (visual or otherwise) are from the state of Alabama. Yet at the same time, I feel that the things I love about being southern could very quickly bring up painful history for many, and not the warm, fuzzy nostalgia that it does for me (even for me those fuzzies are few and far between).
I'm going to be attempting to work through this crisis and maybe even figure out how to be “new southern.” I can’t quite sort out why my heart and mind are fixated on this being a core item in my life that needs resolving, but somehow it is significant. Maybe it is the inherent need we all have for a culture that feels like home to us. Or maybe I just really like making biscuits.