Facelift


A person sitting on the ground in front of water.I’ve never been a fan of facelifts, but after 18 months, it’s time for a new look.     My facebook page has been retitled Southern Women Writers.  Look there for posts from great women writers, writing tips,  original art by southern women, information on upcoming workshops and conferences and profiles of famous women in history.

At realsouthernwomen.com, you’ll be seeing  more guest writers, commentary, short stories and southern memorabilia.  For starters.  Stay tuned.

Flying Toward Forever by Marla Cantrell


Eunice Iola Mondier was my grandmother. Small and short and black-headed, with crystal blue eyes, she attended the Second Baptist Church. She sold Beauty
A person sitting on the ground in front of water.Counselor makeup. Even then, when I was a girl, I felt as if she should have attended the much bigger First Baptist Church, as if she should have sold Avon cosmetics. Those were names a person could get behind; they were A-list material. At least that’s what I thought when I was all of nine years old.
Which is a nice way to say that my family was very nearly poor and not well connected, which seemed at the time to
matter more than almost anything else.
Not that she ever said that to me. Her life suited her just fine. She wore old clothes and drove quick new cars in bright colors with wide racing stripes. She wore big straw hats and spent afternoons fishing. She got her hair done on Fridays and spent the rest of the week sleeping with a pair of satin panties on her head to keep her up-do up.
My best friend’s grandmother wore a bun, made her own clothes, and baked like she was getting graded on it. What she talked about, when I sat at her cozy kitchen table, was the weather.
My own grandmother defied storms, standing in front of her picture window as lightning struck, as hail pelted the catalpa tree, as thunder shook her little house.
You don’t learn to crochet from a grandmother like mine. You don’t learn to bake, or clean, or do cross stitch.
I did learn from her, though. She taught me the books of the Bible when I was in her Junior Sunday school class and gave me a religious charm bracelet as a reward. She picked up a raft of kids on her way to church, from places that made our trailer, that we’d parked right behind Grandma’s house, look palatial. She sang in the choir, her alto voice so low that it verged on being bass.
At home, she talked back to soap operas and indulged in a little gossip, both things my parents disapproved of. But she also took in her full-grown nephew after he suffered a brain injury that made living alone impossible. What I remember most was how she seemed to delight in him, and in doing so he got a lot better than anyone expected him to.
When I got engaged at a ridiculously young age, she kept her mouth shut and bought me a can opener. “Man’s gotta eat,” she said, and that’s all she said. Later, when the marriage failed, she told me about her first love, Alonzo Willett. I had seldom heard his name, even though he was my grandfather. The story of his treatment of my mother and grandmother was cautionary and filled with so much pain it rarely got told. But on this day she said, “There’s no love like your first love, and he was mine.”
The statement solidified everything I knew to be true about my grandmother. She was not easy to pigeonhole. She taught Sunday school, but smoked clandestinely, a big no-no in the Baptist faith. She shunned divorce but had gotten one from Alonzo in the 1930s when her community considered it treachery to do so. She remarried a saint of a man soon after, someone she loved dearly, and when he died, she went out and found a third husband. “If something happens to him,” she said, once, her head held high, “I’ll go get me another one. I can’t live without a man.”
As far as I know my grandmother never wrote anything other than a few letters, so I don’t get my writing gene from her. And she didn’t read excessively. A few magazines, the Bible, her Sunday school lesson. She had a collection of Reader’s Digest condensed books that did little more than frustrate me, so I didn’t get my incessant need for stories from her either. I don’t think I got my brains from her either. She was a dozen times smarter than I will ever be.
I like to believe I got a dose of kindness from her, but I might be flattering myself. I do know that I’m glad she wasn’t the pie-baking, hand-sewing, fairy tale-reading grandmother I thought I wanted when I was younger. She was tough like cowboys are tough, and soft they way women whose hearts are broken early sometimes are. When I think of her now, it is always when she is behind the wheel, her foot hard on the gas pedal, her eyes just barely scaling the top of the steering wheel. I want her to slow down, but she can’t, and so keeps going, until the road turns to silver beneath her and the sky opens up and takes her away.

Standing with Mother Emanuel


It’s been two weeks since the horrific shootings at Emanuel AME Church in Charleston,  and we’re hearing a lot about A person sitting on the ground in front of water. Standing with Mother Emanuel. There are inspiring speeches, demonstrations of community solidarity, outpourings of outrage, grief and support to the community.  I pray we have at last turned a corner in our violent history, but experience tells me we have a fragile peace.

Our good intentions so easily get swept away by the whirlwinds of everyday lives, responsibilities and private crises.  Perhaps we succumb to  the emotion of the moment without understanding the promises we’re making.  Perhaps we’re just indulging in righteous indignation. In any case, A person sitting on the ground in front of water.we’ve been here before.   I am old enough to remember the Freedom Rides, Rosa Parks,  the March on Washington, Selma;   the Civil Rights Act of 1964, the Voting Rights Act of 1965, and of course, the historic election of our first African-American President.  But I also remember too many rally calls to re-dedicate our wounded nation to  racial equality, peace and justice in the aftermath of  yet another act of racial violence.

Over the period of 1963 to present, there have been 45 riots  over 23 states involving African-Americans in the United States; nine from 2001 to present.  To name a few;  Watts (1965), “The Long Hot Summer of 1967 (nine states),  Rodney King (1991) and of course Ferguson (2015). (1) And  yesterday in Charlotte NC,   Briar Creek Baptist Church, was struck by an arsonist.  Its parishioners are predominately African-American, and  once more a hate crime investigation is underway.

No matter your views on any of these tragic incidents,  we are clearly doing something wrong.  Hordes of solutions have been proposed and implemented with varying success; legislation, government programs, church programs, peace marches, and no doubt these  efforts have averted some of the violence.  But clearly, there is no simple solution. Trite as it sounds, I believe that enduring change among people happens one person at a time.  Slowly, but it happens.

I have learned much about race relationships, and many other things, from my grandchildren.  The youngest, JJ, started first grade in a new school that enrolls children from over 50 zip codes in the Houston area.  After his first day, he remarked warily,  “I don’t know, Mom, there are a lot of strangers there!† She reassured him they would soon be friends.  And they were.

Perhaps it’s learned, perhaps wired behavior,  but whatever the origin, we are wary of strangers.  And rightly so; after all,  we teach our children about “stranger-danger.†  But there’s another kind of “stranger danger” – the danger of blaming strangers for our troubles  when we have no understanding of theirs.  We all do it; I’d like to think, mostly unconsciously. But the “strangersâ€Â Â we need to befriend are not the guy walking toward us  at night in the long overcoat, or the teenager cutting us off on the freeway, but the people in our daily lives.  The woman at the auto parts store, the guy at the pizza parlor, the high school student at the dry cleaner, the checker in the grocery line, the postman and yes, the unwary telemarketer who interrupts our dinner by doing her job.

When our communities were small and everyone looked pretty much the same,  we  accepted each other,  often grudgingly,  for who we were.  We had to, we depended on each other.   Attacks on each other were rare and almost always  localized to a few people  with some sort of private feud.    Now most of us live in cities where  hundreds of  anonymous faces encounter us on the street, in cars,  busses, and airplanes.  Unless we have school-age children, most of us know only a few of our neighbors.  We may recognize familiar faces on our daily commute or in coffee shops for years yet never speak to each other.  Instead we are mesmerized by our electronic devices, oblivious of those around us.    More and more of our “friends†are  on social media.

It’s not enough.  We need community.  If we befriend that neighbor who looks a little different, we may reconsider reporting him to the neighborhood association for weeds in his lawn.  Maybe we’ll find out he’s carrying for his critically ill wife.   Perhaps if we learn about the trials of the working mom from the harried checker in the grocery line we might start contributing to, or even working at, the local food bank.  If we communicate in Spanglish with the lady at the laundry, perhaps we will both improve our language skills and come to know each other as neighbors and not competitors.   At least the efforts will make someone’s day a little brighter.  However we do it,  we need more friends and fewer “strangers† in our lives.

For centuries Southern women have been the cornerstones of the family.  These strong women held their families together through enduring hardships and stood for justice at no small cost to themselves. They were our role models.  And the values they passed to us  are our gifts  to our children and their children.  I believe it is my responsibility to my children and grandchildren to live out my commitment to justice,  not just in the aftermath of tragedy, but in my daily encounters with those around me.  If I do nothing, my grandchildren can only conclude it was unimportant to me, and if I have any influence on them,  by example, not worthy of their time.    I have no illusion that community-building will stop racial violence, but I do believe that one person at a time,  we can build communities that make a  difference.

Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church, founded in 1816,  is the oldest African Methodist Episcopal church in the Southern United States.   The original church was burned down by in 1822 by white supremacists and rebuilt in 1865.  Her pulpit has hosted such luminaries as Booker T Washington, Martin Luther King,  Coretta King, and most recently Barak Obama.  She has survived an earthquake and a hurricane and severe structural damage due to lack of funds for repair. (2)  But She is  still standing.   Are we?

Note:  The previous post from Zetta Brown was written the week before the Charleston shootings.  It exemplifies by its content and responses from readers, that the kind of community suggested here can indeed exist and flourish.   I welcome your comments..

(1) List of Ethnic Riots, Wikipedia (2) History,  Emanuel African American Episcopal Church http://www.emanuelamechurch.org

Images are from the public domain

Native Texan, by Zetta Brown


A person sitting on the ground in front of water.I was born in a very small North Texas town, and I was born a Negro…which became black…which became Afro/Black/African-American. But while American society came up with new names to call me based on my race, I just considered myself a Texan.

I remember as a child playing in the red dirt of my parent’s home town, eating Moon Pies, drinking grape Nehi or red cream sodas, giant pickles from a pickle jar, salt-and-vinegar chips like a home-grown Southern kid. I think it’s very telling that my earliest memories of living in the South centers around food.

Then we moved to Colorado and snow, which had been a novelty before but became a part of life. It didn’t take me long to realize that I’m not a huge fan of snow. My parents were surprised when we were showed homes in racially diverse neighborhoods. We wouldn’t be “blockbusting†after all.

Years later, circumstances and finances had me moving back to Texas and living with my parents. I was nervous at first, considering the stories my parents told me about growing up in the segregated South, but when I arrived and visited the small hometown my parents grew up in, I was shocked at what I saw.

A small North Texas town more racially integrated than some of the neighborhoods I left behind in Colorado.

After living in Colorado for 17 years, I came back to Texas. After living in Scotland for over seven years—I came back to Texas with my Scottish husband who loves it here.

Why? Because my roots run very deep here, unlike some of the politicians who have represented the state in recent history. Despite these “prominent†citizens, the people of Texas really are friendly, are caring, and do have common sense.

Living in Texas has made me appreciate history and especially the history of my family. History is nothing but a bunch of stories; some of it is fact, some of it is fiction, but it’s all about the story. Texans have been known to tell a tall tale or two.

The South is full of myths, legends, and stereotypes that mix in with reality and creates a wealth of inspiration for stories. But sometimes these elements turn into propaganda—for better or worse.

Is Texas perfect? Hell, no. Ever wondered why there are so many churches in the South? Because there’s a whole lotta sinnin’ goin’ on! You can’t take us at face value. You have to come and experience it for yourself.

So come on down to Texas. You may not have been born here, but like the bumper sticker says, you should get here as soon as you can.

Zetta Brown is an editor and the author of several published short stories and a novel. Her short story “Devil Don’t Want Her†is set in Texas and available as an ebook. She blogs about writing and editing at her Zetta’s Desk blog (zettasdesk.com) and has a featured blog at SheWrites.com called [REALITY CHECK]

On Being a Southern Writer by Marla Cantrell


A person sitting on the ground in front of water.
I was born in Phoenix on a day so hot even the desert sighed. It feels like a small misstep, this beginning in Arizona, so far from
my parents’ people in the hills of Arkansas. They had moved to Phoenix a few years before so my daddy could find work, because times were hard in the South at that time. And they did prosper, but they did not thrive.
It was made right the year I turned six, when we moved home. By then my mama, an only child, was aching for her own mama, was overcome by the promise of snow in winter, blackberries in spring, and thunderstorms that blew up an afternoon, that punctuated a solitary night that had been unremarkable until the first round of thunder drove her from her bed, caused her to bound to the porch where she watched the lightning battle an invisible army in the inky, rumbling sky.

I have heard other people’s stories of finding home. Of how, after deplaning in New York City, they were able to navigate the great city as if they’d spent their entire life there. I have a friend who moved all the way to New Zealand to find home, there by the ocean, in a place so glorious she feels as if her life has been restored twelve times over.

My parents’ decision to return to the South brought me to my own home. I remember stepping out of the station wagon at my grandma’s house after traveling more than a thousand miles. I remember taking off my shoes and feeling the dew on the thick grass, seeing the bright blue sky above me, hearing birds call out from a nearby pecan tree. I don’t know what paradise is to you, but I have never come closer than that moment.

There is music everywhere in the South. Bluegrass bands show up on town squares, unbidden, and perform for passersby. Families get together on front porches to sing country music, to sing gospel. There are harp singers who congregate in wooden buildings, using nothing but their voices in an art form older than the hills. As a child, just after arriving in Arkansas, I sat amongst pews of worshippers at a tiny Baptist church. They sang with the gliding vowels of all southerners, with the languid ending to words, dropping “g’s” as easily as dropping quarters in the collection plate.

On the stereo late at night, my parents listened to Johnny Cash and Roger Miller and Tammy Wynette. On Saturdays when my uncle visited, full of liquor, his tongue loose, he’d tell stories so rich and full they seemed to play out as cinematically as any movie. Before he’d call a cab to leave, he’d try to climb atop our gentle horse, Candy, the attempt both slap-stick funny and heartbreaking all at once.

I spent my childhood summers, beginning when I was six years old, working on farms, picking strawberries first and then tomatoes and bell peppers, as the season progressed. I hoed soybeans before any of us knew how good they were for our health. There, in the fields, I met workers from deep in the hills, whose lives depended on abundant crops and backbreaking work. They told stories of love gone wrong, time in the slammer, the inescapable pull of get-rich-quick schemes. When they talked, I felt as if I was opening other people’s mail, as if I was eavesdropping, and it thrilled me to be privy to this adult world, to these great voices of the South.

These are the people I think of today when I write. The church people in their pressed clothes, the women in tight curls, the men with hair slicked back, solemn, hopeful. My uncle, wrecked by alcohol, and fueled by stories. The field hands, tied to the earth in a way I seldom see today, betting on a better day, even though the odds were against them. I close my eyes and hear their voices, that lyrical sound that is better than any concert. I remember, and I wait for inspiration to hit. It always does. This place, my home, hasn’t failed me once. I work every day to return the favor.
###
Marla Cantrell is the managing editor/lead writer for Do South Magazine in Arkansas. Each month she publishes a short story in Do South, along with several other articles. She’s won several awards, including a 2014 Arkansas Arts Council Award for Short Fiction. Her fiction has been published in several magazines and anthologies. You can follow her on Twitter at @SouthernPencil.

To read a few Marla’s short southern stories, click on the links below. (Each month she publishes a new short story for Do South Magazine. Be sure to check in regularly for those.)

Carry Me Over:http://southernpencil.com/carry/
As Long As You Remember:http://dosouthmagazine.com/as-long-as-you-remember/
Struck: http://dosouthmagazine.com/struck/

A person holding an umbrella over their head

Get Under the Umbrella


A person sitting on the ground in front of water.Southern women are nothing if not nurturing.  We learn it at our mother’s knee. And it’s a good thing.  The love and support of the women in my life have sustained me through many rough spots.  But, speaking for myself,  it’s easy to overdo it.  Last week while getting a manicure (my first this year…) the  manicurist said to me in her lovely Jamaican accent,  “You are carrying a large and beautiful umbrella, with many people under it… but you are not under the umbrella yourself!”

Her comment took me by surprise since I had just met her.  I didn’t ask how she knew that.  Perhaps coming from a more tranquil culture makes her more intuitive or maybe my appearance gave me away.  No matter; I knew she was right.

Self-care is hard work and takes time!  It’s easier to get instant gratification by making cookies for that grandchild than to do the cardio workout;  simpler to “do it myself” than let someone else struggle with the chore while I take that needed rest,  faster to answer the cell than to  let it go to voicemail, more expedient to run that last load of dishes than to get to bed on time.   I could go on, but if you’re reading this, you know the drill.   It’s insidious.  I don’t even see it happening until I’m caught in the downpour. And  I get lots of warm fuzzies for holding the umbrella over others.  But the Jamaican lady was right;  if I neglect myself, in time I will collapse and become someone else’s problem; the very last thing I want. It’s my responsibility to take care of myself.  Thanks for the reminder, pretty lady.