Jackson Free Press

This week, I will begin a journey across the hemispheres to Auckland, New Zealand. I am moving for reasons that begin with my parents' departure for Auckland nine months ago and end with a baby in California, but I'll spare you the several pages I would need to explain.

I am excited about the adventure to the South Pacific I'm beginning, but I am also deeply saddened to leave my friends here in Jackson. I have been humbled and profoundly moved this week by the mementos and affection friends both inside and outside the paper have shown me. Jackson welcomed me like family, and I will certainly take Jackson with me in my heart.

We threw a farewell karaoke bash last Saturday, and I got to fulfill my longstanding dream to perform Rick James' "Give It To Me Baby." Pictures of the event, along with the indiscriminate use of a feather boa, could probably have me deported even if I weren't leaving.

I will certainly miss covering the news with Donna Ladd, Adam Lynch and Darren Schwindaman. We've been soldiers in the trenches together these last two years, and I will always remember our small but relentless team.

I will remember Donna taking me outside to yell confidential news when I was half deaf from an ear infection. I will take with me the stunning portrait Darren gave me at karaoke of Mayor Frank Melton fiddling while Jackson burns. I will remember Adam's brilliant interviews with officials, when he would suddenly laugh into the phone and declare something cryptic but cutting, such as, "You're like a wasp crawling on a nettle."

I will also remember a story Adam told at karaoke, a story from the day we broke the Ridgeway story online.

Adam, like other reporters around town, received a tip last August that the mayor had smashed up a duplex in the Virden Addition. It sounded too crazy even for Melton, but Adam hopped on his motorcycle and shot over to Ridgeway to see the house for himself.

When he returned to the office, Adam knew he had a major story. The house wasn't just damaged; it was nearly destroyed. The front wall had been knocked into the yard, revealing "like a half-rotten skull," as Adam said, a living room that looked like a tornado had ripped through it. That tornado, neighbors told Adam, was Mayor Frank Melton, with his police bodyguards and a group of teenage boys, who helped Melton wreck the house and everything in it. The mayor had even cut his hand smashing windows, witnesses said.

As compelling as the story was, we decided not to publish it to the Web without one more trip to Ridgeway. After all, we were about to report that the mayor had committed what could be felonies, and Melton has a long history of threatening to sue news media.

Adam rode his Honda Shadow while I followed in my Saturn. A friend of mine says my car looks like it was in a demolition derby, and I had recently smashed out one of the windows after I locked my keys in the car—with it running—following a long press night. I am not good to motor vehicles.

When we got to the duplex, Adam veered left over the sidewalk and onto the front yard, which was all gravel. I followed, not realizing that Adam had hopped his bike over a drop from the sidewalk, which was hidden by weeds. As soon as the front end of my car dropped off the sidewalk, it came to a grinding halt on the lawn. My car had bottomed out, and when I put it in reverse, it wouldn't budge.

It was a hot, sunny day, and all around us, neighbors lounged on their porches, all of them turning their heads to watch the unfolding spectacle.

A police cruiser flashed its lights and stopped behind me. The officer got out and said he would help us get the car moving again, and then some of the neighbor kids offered to help. The officer and Adam pushed on the front end while I revved in reverse, not realizing that the front tires were spitting dirt and rocks all over the policeman's pants.

We were just 40 feet from the smashed duplex, which I could see through the rising clouds of dust. Adam even used a broken shingle from the duplex to wedge under one of the tires. After about 10 minutes of struggle, my car finally scraped its way up off the sidewalk and lurched back into the street.

Adam was slapping the dust off his clothes when I walked up to the duplex, camera in hand. He looked around at the neighbors, who were still watching with friendly but skeptical expressions. Adam gave me a pitying look. "You just set the white race back a hundred years," he said.

Fortunately, the neighbors were willing to talk to us despite my shenanigans. We interviewed witnesses for an hour, and then we returned to the office to post the first news story about the Ridgeway incident. The rest is legal history.

More than anything, I will remember the stories of people like Cedric Willis and Shirley Seale Beach. The day before karaoke, Cedric and Shirley were the guests of honor at a reading the JFP held to celebrate awards we won from the Association of Alternative Newsweeklies. I read part of my story about Cedric, who was falsely imprisoned for 12 years. When the crowd gave Cedric a standing ovation after the reading, it was one of the finest moments of life. Ms. Beach is a distant cousin of James Ford Seale who turned away from her virulently racist upbringing and embraced a ministry of love at a predominantly African American church.

These stories capture the mystery of this state, where beauty and passion sprout from injustice and despair.

I don't know what people in New Zealand will make of an American moving from Mississippi. America is not popular now, and Mississippi hasn't been popular in a long time. As a guest in their country, I will try to understand all the Kiwis tell me. But I will also tell the stories of the remarkable people I've known in Mississippi. In telling our stories, we set aside mighty words like history and politics to focus on real people, who struggle with their mistakes even as they hold such promise.

Mississippi is now a part of my story, and I will forever carry a piece of you with me. When I am startled by strange constellations and stranger accents, I will remember the placid streets of Belhaven in the summer heat, along with all my friends in the Magnolia state.

Previous Comments

ID

75056

Comment

We'll miss you, Brian!

Author

LatashaWillis

Date

2007-07-06T08:06:32-06:00

ID

75057

Comment

If your're wondering why there are so few blogs, we are in shock! You have definitely been an asset to the JFP and I will miss your articles. I wish you the very best of everything!

Author

justjess

Date

2007-07-10T12:15:55-06:00