These are Whitehouse/Westside – Riverside ladies. My relatives and ancestors.
From the baby Suzanne, in her mother Naomi’s lap. To her mother Nell Sallas who came out of the woods and moved uptown to Riverside. To her mother Mary Elizabeth Lowe to her mother Eliza Parrish Lowe. Five generations of Westside girls.
Nell was a quiet lady. Like my grandmother, her sister. Stoics.
As a small child, I played Bingo with those two at the Jacksonville Trail Riders, on Halesema Rd. The bingo hall resembled a military bunker. I had actually forgotten about those excursions, until now. Old memories resurface. They began the games with a prayer and a bowed head. This was part of my introduction to the world of Baptists. We were Catholic. The neighbors were pagans as they were not a part of the One Holy Apostolic Church and we were unsaved because the pagans thought that we did not know that Jesus died on the cross for our sins. That’s what the neighborhood kids explained to me as we raced our stingray bikes. My mother reiterated the pagan concept as we passed the little corner church. I asked questions. I wanted to know.
In Jacksonville if you head west out Normandy Blvd, you will cross a line of demarcation. A boundary, a separation, a distinction.
The people that grew up in this area know that border. As you cross Fouraker Rd. you are on different terrrain than the other areas of Jacksonville. The land has now been quartered and re-quartered. Subdivisions have been built on what was once sprawling pasture land.
It is no longer recognizable as the majestic acreage that it once was.
Cattle grazed under massive oaks. They lumbered to the creek for their daily water. They gave milk and beef, complimantary to the garden vegetables. Biscuits were a staple. No one knows biscuits like people who were raised on the Westide.
Even in my life time it was not uncommon to see someone traveling on horse. ( That was me! )
Many of us, whose family’s have been there since the 1840’s know we have a different history.
Until the threads of his underwear were imbedded in his skin
No hanging
Just asphalt
This poem is about a young man who was Catholic. Living in Jacksonville, Florida. He had an extramarital affair and the KKK were going to set him straight. Teach him a lesson. My mother, who was 11 at this time, relayed the story of them coming into the church. My aunt would tell about his beating and the threads of his underwear being stuck into his skin. I researched underwear. And yes, they had just become fashionable.
The KKK chose to beat him and leave him laying in the street. Down the road on Old Kings Road they were prancing on their horses in full regalia. Lynching.
I do see this as an example of white privilege. I am beginning to understand through the course of conversation that those words have a different meaning to different people. It triggers alien internal contexts inside of us. Pulling dormant concepts to the surface.
I am a Cracker/by birth – A Redneck by Default – And a peace activist through reading, writing and education.
I have lived on a monkey trail for over twenty years. The Howlers travel down from the hills towards the beach. Swinging and climbing. They travel. Daily sojourners. Feasting on the lush abundant leaves of the disappearing jungle. My habitat is their habitat. The tribe moves together. They have a system. Mamas carry babies on their backs. Papas hang back and watch. They are much bigger. Their eyes dart. Perched precariously until all have crossed safely.
They make noise across my roof tops. The last tree on their trail – lines up with a small cottage we put together. We call it the bird house. They scamper. I know they are there. Then to the mango. The tree that gives us fruit and shade. It saves us from the blistering April sun. The mango is the monkey’s favorite tree.
They cross another roof and then an electrical wire. Then they are gone. Every morning is ritual. They return in the afternoon.
Today, Mary, my amiga, alerted me. I thought she was going to show me a toucan. They have been coming back around. But no, it was a baby monkey. By itself. It was peering out from the bushes. I knew it was in trouble. Where is the rest of the gang. We stared at each other. The baby in a panic. It darted into Mary’s house.
Oh no, there’s a dog in there. Dogs and monkeys are natural enemies. Fala, the non-watching, watch dog, never bothered to wake up. She was probably lost in a good dream. Suenos.
Rooster caught the little feller in a fish net and took him around to our mango. He or she, didn’t want to move. It didn’t seem to have energy. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called for help.
We were relayed to the monkey expert in Brasilito. Also a person who rescues was informed of the orphan on our property.
We learned a lot in the next hour. The babies’ mother had been electrocuted down at the other end of the block. It had probably been on her back at the time. Can you imagine?
Poor thing. It had somehow made its way to the trail.
After we put it in the mango. It crossed the street – south – to the mango match and began to bark. I went inside. There was nothing I could do. When I came back out it was once again in our mango. It moved once again to yet another mango. It barked loud.
I was looking up to locate the baby. A buzzard flew into a Guanacaste tree and rested. Oh No!
Then came another buzzard.
Then the jungle went silent.
I feel the weight of nature. The baby that would have no milk. Lost and screaming for help. Only to be answered by predators.
Red for the church house door. Red doors of prosperity. Red door of “do I open this door.”
I recently went to a promotion for a book by a local author. It’s something I have been doing when I am at home in Florida. Participating in the local literary community. It’s current. It’s art.
I listened to the speaker. This was hosted by the Jacksonville Historical Society. The author of his twenty something book did a fair job. I bought the book.
As I waited to have my book signed, another author stood to my left and tried to engage the writer in a conversation. He asked questions? He mentioned his writing. The author was distracted, of course. He feigned interest and obviously had no idea what his peer was talking about. I took this all in.
Then I opened the book. The words were ……….. I mentioned to the lady standing next to me, “It looks like I am going to be living in my dictionary again.” I have a created habit of looking up every word I read that I am not familiar with. This book was full of them on every page. I complained. “Why do people do this? She replied, not verbatim, “the author wants to show his knowledge of language.” I would have to say he was successful on that plane of existence.
I said, “Why doesn’t anyone write like Flannery O’Conner anymore.” She looked at me and said do you mean like in layers and ………..
I replied, Yes.
As we move forward, dragging the past into the present. Flying it high in the south. A new Confederate flag. A trending political word power. Emotive and inciting.
Murder, drama, politics in words meant for …… A new National Enquirer.
I read and comment.
I challenge.
I am deleted.
Fly High – From the Pulpit – The New Improved Confederate Flag
Fish Eye Farm 