Mississippi Decay

Patriotism

I had just gotten a job at a daily newspaper in Columbus, Miss. On my first day, a resident asked a question I would hear often during my two-year stint:

She wasn’t asking my last name, in the way that no one in the South is ever asking what you think they are asking.

My people are the fighters, the rebels, the downtrodden, the truth bearers. The ones who stand for hours in the rain in front of city halls and state capitols because something is wrong and someone needs to do something about it, dammit.

My people are the ones who won’t lay down, won’t stay put, won’t keep their mouths closed, and can’t close their eyes. The ones who know that “the way we’ve always done it” is just another way of saying, “Your opinion doesn’t matter.” The ones who say, “I have the right to exist. I have the right to speak. I have the right to ask questions. I have the right to demand answers.”

My people are the ones who say, “Not this time. Never again.”

“Sisson,” I said. “You don’t know my people.”

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