and that karaoke is not for us.
Two days later, we’re back on the road heading to Kentucky, to the west of the Appalachians, the state that marks the boundary between the North and South. It is especially famous for being the birthplace of American whiskey.
On the radio, they are reporting the firing of the White House Director of Communications, the blaringly noisy Anthony Scaramucci, who had only been appointed ten days before. Ten days during which he had gotten the president’s chief of staff to resign and spoken with such dirty language that certain newspapers didn’t think they should quote him. (I have no such inhibitions: he said, “fucking paranoid” and “suck my dick.”) The general consensus is that chaos reigns in the White House. There is a blazing sun.
We stop in Carroll County. No one here is interested in the madness in Washington. Here, the subject of conversation is Jesus Chavez, fifty-six, a small business owner who runs a maintenance company. Chavez refused to pay a plumber he had just hired for a small contract, threatening to report him to the Department of Immigration on the grounds that he might be an illegal immigrant. The plumber went to the police and reported the blackmail. Chavez was arrested and put in prison for human trafficking. In brief, the worst of capitalism and the best of racism joined together in a single act, although some people seem to think that Chavez wasn’t wrong.
We don’t hang around. Even more so because a sign at the side of the road proudly proclaims that Kentucky has the greatest number of guns per capita. Frankly not very reassuring.
(Something funny: A little farther along, there is another sign, an ad this time, that catches our attention. An ad for Spotify. Scanning the news and reminding everyone of the Muslim Ban, the musical streaming service found a credo: “When people can’t travel, music will.” These two different Americas were only ten miles apart. Unless they’re actually the same America.)
A priori, Tennessee does not seem much more welcoming than Kentucky, when you remember that the state was one of the principle battlefields of the American Civil War, and that the Ku Klux Klan was born here in 1865, a result of the Confederate defeat. And when you also know that the very conservative Southern Baptist Convention dominates thinking here, and that Trump received 61 percent of the votes in 2016. And when you find out that just a few days before, a judge in White County suggested a deal that was at least unique (and probably unconstitutional) for people in jail in the county: thirty days taken off their jail time if they agree to have a vasectomy (for men) or to go on hormonal contraceptives (for women).
To avoid depression, we’re better off remembering that Tennessee is also the birthplace of country, rock, and the blues. And that Memphis, one of the two great cities in the state, is the home of Graceland, where Elvis Presley found eternal rest. And besides, commemorations are in preparation, for the King left this earth exactly forty years ago. Done in by too much alcohol, too many drugs, too much of everything, he ended life bloated, ridiculous, tragic. But here, you don’t make jokes about Tennessee’s idol. You speak of him with reverence. Warren, in his late sixties, wears worn-out cowboy boots and is having a few pints of beer at the bar. He asserts, with the look of someone who knows for sure but isn’t allowed to say how, that Elvis is, “of course” still alive. Elvis spends his days peacefully in some backwater, on a ranch hidden from view. He has long white hair, wears a cowboy hat, and has gotten so thin that people don’t recognize him; only a few insiders take their hats off as he walks by, promising to keep his secret. S. says: “This guy is crazy.” I reply: “No. He needs to believe it, that’s all.” And what difference is there, in the end, between people who believe in God and those who are convinced that Elvis isn’t dead?
If you’re not interested in either rock ’n’ roll or keeping life preserved with mothballs, all that is left, here as elsewhere, is baseball and football, two other religions. Every large city we’ve passed through up till now has had its two stadiums (generally enormous outdoor ones, financed by a sponsor), its favorite teams, its mascots, and the games themselves. The number of season-ticket holders equals the number of seats. Tickets are bought for the entire season as soon as they go on sale. In bars, the TVs are automatically tuned to sports channels, and the calendar of games is posted. One way, like any other, to ward off boredom. Or to organize your existence.
The car takes off again toward Alabama. I confess a certain sense of apprehension. First of all, the state remains a symbol of slavery, and also of segregation. I want to believe that the past is dead and buried. The state is also located at the heart of what is known as the Bible Belt, and I am wary of people who are convinced that God rules over everyone. On the road, there is an enormous sign advertising a Christian community with a terrifying message: “Where will you spend eternity: in HEAVEN or HELL? The choice is yours.” But the countryside is absolutely beautiful, with stony mountains, tree-lined plains, and navigable rivers.
Birmingham, where we stop while muggy rain falls on the streets, does not, sadly, have the same charm. It is cradled in a valley where the Appalachian Mountains end and can certainly pride itself on beautiful gardens and old theaters, but it still carries the stigma of the white flight of the 1990s and 2000s due to the decline in industry.
And yet, what seems to concern the population is not that memory, and even less the memory of Martin Luther King Jr., who was imprisoned here in 1963 during the civil rights movement, but the gentrification of the city center. So much so that the candidates in local elections to be held at the end of the month are required to respond to a detailed questionnaire specifically about urban gentrification and to suggest solutions. You have to understand that in Avondale and Lakeview, hundreds of luxury apartments have been built in the past few years—and the rents are now so high that low-income residents are kicked out. The best schools are located in those areas, businesses that sell expensive, high-end products are flourishing there, and trendy places are opening up. Some people are happy about what they are calling a “renaissance”—that will bring the white people back—while others are worried about this new form of segregation. The mayoral candidates themselves go back and forth between contentment and anxiety. The truth is that this kind of impetus can be difficult to contain. It moves forward as part of history. But a city known for its history of poverty and struggle against the separation of populations that finds itself caught up again in this issue cannot fail to ask questions. It seems the issue of money has replaced the issue of race, and sometimes, the two overlap.
Jill, who is renting us her apartment, talks about it ingenuously in other terms: “You absolutely must go to El Barrio on Second Avenue! It’s a bar and restaurant that has a fabulous brunch menu. It’s full every night and perfect for hipsters.” Even if I definitely do not fall into that category, I assume that she automatically put S. in it, given his strange hat and short pants. We take her advice. We meet very few black people and very few poor people at El Barrio.
The journey continues. It takes us to Mississippi. I’ve dreamed about Mississippi for a long time. I think a lot of people dream about Mississippi. It undoubtedly has to do with the name. A name that has immense power to evoke memories. Or perhaps because of the books by Mark Twain (we all know them), in which the Mississippi River played such a memorable role. Now, we must test the fantasy against reality. There are things that live up to expectations: the immense forests of live oak, cedar, and pine trees, deep waters, somber and majestic, steel bridges, a few plantation-style residences with white porticos (even if they do evoke a tragic history). And then there are things that disappoint: shopping centers as you enter the cities, the Confederate flags, conservatism, and poverty.
We stop at Laurel, by chance, because we’re getting tired. Laurel is almost nothing—just a few calm streets, well-kept lawns, a sports field, a café with no one sitting outside—normal life far from the busy din, life as you sometimes want it to be when, caught up in the whirlwind, you yearn for calm, a slower pace. No, Laurel is nothing, and yet we still find something there: the “light in August”—as Faulkner would put it—on the houses with multicolored facades. And that is priceless.
The
