[Greggs] The Vanilla City | Jackson Free Press | Jackson, MS

[Greggs] The Vanilla City

This next statement pains me to admit: I live in Madison. There, I said it. It's not that I don't love my home out here in the country. I do. Its "free-rentness" is a large factor in why I love it so much. Its ability to stay approximately 40 degrees during the entire month of August is another reason. But there is obviously some shame for me in the admission, as I love Jackson and everything about it.

Last week at a lunch meeting in Madison for local business leaders, a representative from the Madison County Chamber of Commerce spent half an hour enumerating the many benefits of this beautiful town. She informed the crowd that "everyone who is anyone" is moving to Madison. I must be ahead of the cool-people learning curve because I've bussed myself out to this county for the past five years—the large Madison Monument calling me home to a town filled with ground-level signs, brick-encased gas stations, decorative lighting and scary looking cell-phone towers. I often feel I am wandering around a large soundstage for the government propaganda film "Better Living Thru Planning." Although, one would never find me complaining about the high-end wine cellars and the large selection of good beer in our gas stations.

The lady speaking to the luncheon used the word "safe" over and over again to prove her point: Madison is supremely kick-ass over the rest of the suburbs in the Jackson area.

Safe? Hell, I almost never feel safe.

At least twice a day, my life is put in jeopardy by a small woman driving a large SUV while talking on the phone. The rear ends of their assault vehicles usually display myriad stickers advertising their ability to pay large sums of money for their child's education. I've come to suspect that these women lead organized attacks on local drivers. Or, at least, those of us that look as if we don't belong to the club. I've often thought they hand out a "let's kill all the people who have liberal bumper stickers" phone tree at the PTA meetings. But I've always been a little paranoid.

That paranoia is even worse when I have to schlep my cookies across the interstate to the Super Retail-plex That Is the Spawn of Satan. I won't say its name because I think it operates sort of like "Candyman." If you call the "W" word three times in a row, another behemoth store sprouts up in a previously empty field, and 500 people from the surrounding area spontaneously appear. If you build it, they will come. I don't know if they lead bus tours to the Malco Theatre and Chili's on a daily basis in order to extol the virtues of large, lighted streets and parking lots, but I do know that people around here take their discount shopping seriously. If you've ever wrestled a woman to the ground in a fight over the last $4 roasted chicken, you know there is nothing safe about grocery shopping in Madison on the weekends.

I also don't feel safe living around people who assume that it is reasonable to hand a 16-year-old the keys to a brand-new BMW and let them loose in all their prep-school glory and adolescent entitlement. At 16, I could barely control my own bodily functions, much less the steering wheel of a large German luxury car. It's akin to asking a sex-starved baboon to pilot a jet plane. Everyone really hopes it works out all right, but you know it will end with displays of big pink asses and the slinging of feces. No child at the age of 16 should own something that costs more than $29.95.

In fact, contrary to feeling "safe," I feel attacked to the very core of my individualism when I leave the house on most days. Besides dealing with the overwhelming soccer mom traffic and thrill-seeking adolescents, three times in the past year I have endured "feeling safe" simply driving down the road leading from my home to the grocery store, when I was forced to go through a police roadblock. If having a cop inquire about where I was headed was supposed to make me feel "safe," then I'm moving to Iraq. I'm assuming they feel as safe as a Baptist on Easter. Mostly, the experience made me feel like an extra in the movie "Red Dawn."

It wasn't until after thinking about all the ways in which Madison makes me feel wholly "unsafe" that I finally realized that people in this town not only cover their shop fronts in large brick walls and decorative glass, but also coat their reasons for the Madison exodus with shiny words and beautiful landscaping. We hide our cell-phone towers in church steeples. We hide our hate in building codes and planned developments. It's all the same thing. If anything looked as it really was, well, we just wouldn't feel "safe" now, would we?

In Madison, the word "safe" is used as code for there are no black people here.

Turns out there are quite a few people that do not feel safe in Madison. A large percentage of them are friends who are brave enough to face the half-hour hike out here and get pulled over by overzealous cops looking for nothing more than an African-American face and a Hinds County tag. They couldn't possibly belong here, could they? Not in this beautiful town that has planned its development and hung its future on the possibility that we can create a community that bars the outside world. A community that is blind in its belief that if we can protect it from color, we can protect it from crime.

I'm waiting for the Madison City Government to propose a large concrete wall across I-55 and man it with Web cams to catch the desperate "illegals" attempting to cross our hallowed borders.

Good Lord, this place is supposed to be "safe." What's going to happen if all those Hinds County tags start finding Madison on a more regular basis?

There goes the neighborhood.

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