Jackson Free Press

"Let's go to the redneck bar," Blondie exclaimed from the backseat of my car. Three of us had just enjoyed a girls' day out after feeding the cows and touring my friend's farm in Canton. A little window-shopping and some fine dining on the Square had rounded out the day when we decided to hightail it over to the honky-tonk on Highway 43. We threw inhibition to the wind as I accelerated and made a hard right toward the bar.

I squeezed my Volvo between the dusty pick-up trucks, and our adventure began. "Charlie's Angels" we often call ourselves: I'm the black chick, then there's the blonde Caucasian and, of course, the sexy Spanish mamí, last but never least. Out of the car and through the front door, and we were stepping into the smoky depths of one of Canton's finest watering holes.

We were just three ladies on the town; nothing new there. But at this place, it was as if we'd just broken at least several decades' worth of barriers by sashaying through the door in our tight blue jeans and high heels. Though I didn't quite feel like Rosa Parks, Blondie declared that surely I was the first black person to enter this establishment.

We took our places at the bar and pondered what to order. A fine Merlot was out of the question, so we asked the barkeep for three beers. Mamí cringed at the display of three dripping cans of Miller Lite. "Eww! I don't drink out of cans. Do they have any straws?" she whispered to me as she pulled some bills from her Prada bag to pay. I chuckled as I told her that straws weren't likely here. What a scene: Three health nuts sitting in a smoky bar, sipping beer from the can and toying with the idea of buying a pack of cigarettes to look cool just like in the movies.

A $4 pack of cigarettes and three half-empty beer cans later, we were tapping our toes to the evening's featured band. The sweet sound of country covers bounced melodiously off the array of Confederate flags that served as a colorful backdrop for the stage. Ah, the familiar glow of the old red, white and blue.

I don't know if it was the heat or the margarita with dinner, but I felt bold that night. No, we didn't exactly crash a Klan rally or ambush an al Qaeda campground. But somehow that night as I had turned my Volvo down that dark stretch of highway, I discovered a fearlessness that I'd kept buried for some time.

I suddenly realized that I am totally comfortable in my skin and that I love the sound of my own laughter, especially when it's filling an empty room. I'm not interested in fitting in or being normal. More importantly, I don't care about the naysayers, or the haters you might call them, who try to cramp my style.

So much has plagued us as a nation in the last year—a lagging economy, the war on terrorism, sniper attacks, sex scandals, natural disasters and the like. In a search for normalcy, our personal lives have often become a bid for acceptance and for sameness.

Even our New Year's resolutions often reflect our desire to please others and fit into society's molds: weight loss, relationships, even vacation planning. I haven't made any resolutions this year. They generally don't mean very much. I have been considering the proverbial road I'm traveling and the ones not taken. I now know that in my chaos and confusion, I've actually been making my way toward something big. I'm still not sure what it is, but that night on Highway 43, I glimpsed the plan in action.

Blondie, Mamí and I appeared to be three ladies on the town, shattering a few social barriers and building a bridge to lifelong friendship. But there was something else at play—we were three women boldly grasping destiny by the horns. Perched on those bar stools like they were reserved specifically for us, we announced to a stunned world that we wouldn't let go until that bull cries, "Uncle!"
Jennifer Spann is a regular columnist for the Jackson Free Press.

Previous Commentsshow

I found this article in the current edition of "Jackson Free Press" and had to smile. I'm often the bartender at Club 43 and recognized it's "flagged stage" immediately. It reminds me of a letter I recently sent to our AOL Jackson MS Chat room regarding Club 43, portions of which are attached: Club 43 is a place where people come when they are lonely, where they come when they are surround by friends, they come when they are happy to share in laughter, they come when they are sad to find a warm smile. Every walk of life comes through that door, from lawyers to beggers. Some people are nice and friendly, some are a little snobby. We don't ask them if they have a savings account, we don't ask them to show us a bank statement at the door. I'll tell you why, Money doesn't buy the "REAL TRUE" things in life. True enough some have a few teeth missing, some drive up in Lexus and some drive up in 65 fords, we don't walk to the lot to check and see if their material items allow them our company. One thing is for sure, we are not steriotypical, we don't serve JUST the high class, our friends with common wealth or beggers. We serve everyone. We are a place where regulars are family oriented and we fit into that family, where new comers are welcome whether they come with a smile or a broken heart. Where money doesn't talk and society standards don't judge them. Sandy and Danny work their butts off hours upon hours thinking of ways in which to please everyone, to make them have a great time and to be friends to one and all, most months they have to take money from their fence company to cover the cost of the bar, it ends up in the negative, yet they stay for the people. They stay because they want EVERYONE to feel invited in and to provide a place where warmth and friendship is served along with whatever else someone orders. Let people live as they choose to, if you don't like it then carry on with your own lives and live with yourselves. Anyone who ever comes in Club 43 can make their own minds up, afterall we are all adults with inidividual personalities and ideas. I ask each of you to make one trip to club 43 and experience the friendship that begins when you drive up and the warmth you take home with you when you go. http://www.geocities.com/missnmiss/godpoem.html

Donna

Jan 17 2003