Jackson Free Press

Being born in the Bolivar County hospital on a sweltering day in August is just about my chief claim to credibility as a writer. I was raised in the Mississippi Delta, which seems to produce writers and artists in staggering numbers. I have many ideas as to why this is true, but I've refused to write about the Delta much, because my feelings toward it run deep and very conflicted. There is great disparity in the Delta between the "haves" and the "have nots," although often it's only about who owns the seeds.

Many papers in this state are currently discussing the topic of Delta development. I've tried to stay out of the debate. After all, I ran out of there at the age of 21 with the fear that staying would suffocate me. I wanted something more for my life than the limited opportunities the Delta could provide. I wanted something bigger. How lucky am I that I can afford to run away and find that something bigger in another part of the state? Unfortunately, a lot of the people who currently live in the Delta do not have this option; their opportunities are much more limited than mine.

Today, the Delta is an example of what happens to an agricultural community when machines replace humans for working the land. There are many ideas about what would help turn the Delta around. Some of these ideas include moving industry to the Delta, while other people think the residents should just move.

I think these people should try telling that to my father. He's a man who was born and raised in Cleveland, Miss., and in the 50-some-odd years he's been on this Earth, he's lived within one square mile. He is the Delta. He's been a crop duster since he was 18 years old, and by the time he retired, he had agricultural airports in three different towns.

My father lived his life from March to October. While I was in college, I worked for him doing books and logging fertilizer and pesticide orders. During those days when I rolled over in bed after the alarm went off at 6 a.m., I knew if it was raining, I had the day off. Our lives alternated between needing rain and praying that the weather would hold so that the farmers could pick the crops. We experienced life in seasons instead of months.

When my father purchased his first business, an elderly African American man came "with" the purchase. His name was Mr. Willie, and he'd been working that airstrip for years. He didn't have many options for employment at this stage in his life, so my father put him in charge of the other men loading the planes. Every day Mr. Willie sat on a milk crate under a tree in front of the office, staring at a newspaper. My father and I knew he couldn't read, but none of the other workers did.

In the morning, my father wrote out Mr. Willie's instructions for the day on a piece of paper and then read them to him aloud. Mr. Willie memorized the list while my father read it to him. Mr. Willie would then take this piece of paper out to the other workers and "read" it to them. They replayed the farce every day for all the days I worked in the office, and it signifies a lot of what the "old school" Delta was about: a woefully undereducated working class and the "haves" who took care of them. My father holds some pretty traditional segregationist beliefs because of these "old school" Delta traditions, and those beliefs have driven a wedge between us that continues to affect our interactions. But this was the Delta.

There is something about being in a plane overlooking miles of flat farmland that seems to affect the men in my family. When my brother was 18, he took to flying just like my father to carry on the family tradition. He died a year and a half later when his plane went down in one of those fields.

Those fields have taken a lot from me in the years I've been on this Earth. They are what stand between my father and me. They are what stand for the soul-tearing grief I experienced when my brother died in one. But they are also the fields that produce the passion that push words out of my mouth. The Delta is my home. My blood is there. My brother is buried in its dark dirt. And as much as I hate to admit it, it has shaped every word I've ever written.

I dislike writing a column that has no "answer" to the problem I present, but in this case, there are no easy answers. All I know is that the Delta is not a place that will be simple to fix. When I drive over the bridge in Yazoo City and smell the air, I know that I am home. I also know that no matter where I go, I won't ever let go of that place. It will always be with me. It was a place my brother loved, and he died for its traditions.

Most of this state's accomplished artists came from the Delta, and their art surely grew from the same feelings I have toward my native soil. Without the Delta, Mississippi would lose part of its color—part of its history. We hold even the ugly parts close to our hearts, though we don't like to admit it. All of these things—both the ugly and the beautiful—are us.

Previous Comments

ID

74922

Comment

Lori, Ali, whoever you are; you're a soul-stirring writer. You are the Delta for sure, the cigarette, glass or jug and certainly the pen and pad alike. I don't like the old Delta no more than I like the old Mississippi but I love your ability to tell heart-felt stories like an old-styled writer, when writer were more concerned about the craft of writing than press conference, book deals, book signings and accolades. You got skills! And that's the double truth. Sorry to hear about your brother.

Author

Ray Carter

Date

2007-05-24T13:48:48-06:00

ID

74923

Comment

It seems I can't write anything on here without making errors. I should have been born in the delta but left before I got old enough to work. Maybe my writing would be better.

Author

Ray Carter

Date

2007-05-24T14:34:39-06:00

ID

74924

Comment

Great job, Lori. I'm sorry about your brother, too. I'm sure he would be proud of you and your writing ability.

Author

LatashaWillis

Date

2007-05-24T15:00:56-06:00

ID

74925

Comment

Actually, Lori, your dad started flying when he was 16 years old. He would work at this family's grocery story and earn money for flying lessons at an old flying school in Merigold, MS. It is no longer there but, at the time, it was owned by a retired crop duster who fed your father's love of being above those flat fields. We always knew your brother would fly too. After all, he only wanted to make his dad proud! We are both blessed and cursed by the land known as the Delta. VJM

Author

NOYRSLF

Date

2007-05-28T20:45:59-06:00