Jackson Free Press

When I was 5 years old, my grandmother taught me to play poker. She always started by pulling out an old cleaned-out Betty Crocker icing container, now filled with pennies and nickels. She then dealt the cards and played with no mercy. Man, woman or child could go down to her three of a kind, and she cared not if you cried. A grandchild did not "beat" Mamaw at poker, gin rummy or Scrabble without earning that win. And it took me years to finally beat her in all three.

Scrabble didn't happen until college. But she put a spirit in us of persistence. She taught us that in order to win, we had to deserve it, and that often took practice, mistakes and learning. Mamaw gave no participation trophy.

I moved to Jackson around 15 years ago from the Delta. At first I thought it was huge city. How little I knew then. But, the fear that I felt about walking into a completely new city—separate from anyone I knew—was very real. The first year I remember just trying to learn the interstate and the fact that I didn't have to pass tractors on a two-lane. Now I drive like I've never seen a two-lane, and I've developed a healthy case of road rage at Mississippians who think on-ramps are for racing, and turn signals are gentle suggestions. But I digress.

After two years, I made a few friends, started graduate school and became enamored with a little paper called the Planet Weekly. It was an alternative that focused on arts and music and writing and was the first kind I'd ever seen like that. Then the Jackson Free Press showed up. I loved both of them for what they meant to me. It meant that other people like me existed in this state. I wasn't actually sure of that growing up when my thoughts leaned left of center. I blame this on MTV finally being available on cable when I was 13. It corrupted all of us greatly, just like the Baptist preachers said it would.

Concepts and systems with which I did not agree still often surrounded me. That struggle is real for a lot of progressive Mississippi kids. The search for our place among our home. We want it, badly. We want to feel a part of this place that somehow stays a little magical for us, even as it often punches us in the gut. It was finding my tribe.

I remember winning second place in Best of Jackson for column writing back then. Orley Hood, may he rest in peace, was an institution who could not be beat. To a girl who literally grew up on the edge of a cotton field, that Almost Award for best is still the one I remember. It was the only one that mattered. It meant that I came here, found something that I loved and then kept trying to do it to the best of my ability.

It also meant that other people noticed. That is what being "The Best" is about, right? It is finding what you love, doing it in the best way that you know how and other people noticing.

Very quickly, I met and became friends with other community leaders—other people just trying to do their best. Ten years later, some of those people are still my closest friends. In fact, it is strange to think that I did not grow up here because I feel my family is here. A family that I cobbled together from like-minded people. People who pushed me to find myself. People who believed in me.

See, you never really do it on your own. Someone usually teaches you, supports you and then gives you no mercy when you cry. Then they tell you to get up and try again. That is what it takes.

One thing I tell people is that in Jackson, there is still always room to be the best. I never fail to be surprised by the colorful genius that permeates this town at times. The people who work tirelessly and never ask for gratitude even though they are part of the backbone of this community. I've learned some of my best lessons from them.

And they all echo Mamaw's advice. Work hard. Be persistent. Do better the next time if you mess up. Don't cry if you lose. And don't just participate.

In this town, there is still room to not only know the best but to become it if you choose.

Lori Gregory is a social worker from Greenville, Miss. She lives in Fondren with two ruined rescues and a 7-year-old daughter who terrorizes her.