TALE OF TWO STATES
Often heard it said that there are two Georgias: Atlanta and the rest of Georgia. Never really gave this much credence. Still the recent political climate and the fact that I am surrounded by political talk on a daily basis gave me cause to pause, figuratively, not literally, during a trip from Atlanta to Savannah.
On the three hour drive down Interstate 16, I noticed how bleak and desolate some places looked. There were a few places that looked as if there had once been corn or wheat fields, but they were now barren; pretty much they looked abandoned. It was creepy.
Once in Savannah, there were quite a few campaign posters and billboards. Darryl Hicks, black, and Hecht, white, were well represented in the poorer neighborhoods, near the beach and along Liberty St. Where were the signs for the others? Are these two candidates the only ones who care about the working class people struggling "to make a dollar out of fifteen cents?" One might say that I was in looking in all the wrong places; hell, I was in vacation, I wasn’t really looking anyway.
I continued to look for signs of proof that Georgia is "one state 'under a groove' and walked around downtown Savannah for a while, almost four hours. The small shops, cafes and boutiques were quite appealing; I kept thinking I would love to live there.
Still, I did not see what is so common in Atlanta: white-collar Blacks. Almost every brown person I came in contact with had on a uniform of some sort. No suit & tie, or neat Donna Karen outfit. Mostly all were domesticates or in some type of civil service position that is clearly non-management or requires physical labor.
I cannot confirm or deny if there are “two Georgias.” However, I do know what I saw. And it was very separate and not equal.
1 comment:
Just spent a couple days last week in Savannah, and I've been in Atlanta for 17 years now. And although from the very beginning it seems as though we we're all over Georgia, there are still some very definite racial borders. In Savannah, the first city established in the state in 1733, I relished it's antiquated ambiance of moss-covered landscape, the grandeur of slave-built colonial dwellings and cobble stoned streets, laid as well by my ancestors with the expectation and faith that 'this too will pass'. The neighborhood where I took shelter was accentuated with dreamy squares where even the vagrants took time to feed the pigeons. A trendy little vegetarian restaurant was my reward after strolling carefree through a park called Forest, where I dined on warm humus quesadillas and an iced chai latte. Then, just a few blocks north of this quasi, surreal episode (and, I mean just a few as all this was in walking distance of the bed and breakfast), it was like I was transported into another world, another time and place, both figuratively and literally. I visited the Ralph Mark Gilbert Civil Rights Museum and learned (not surprisingly) that once upon a time the very park called Forest was off limits to African Americans. So was the beach I visited called Tybee. I giggled nervously and thought how silly those policemen must have looked walking out into the waters our ancestors claimed long ago in full uniform to remove the brave brothers and sisters who dared to integrate the surf. Like in every city, there is in Savannah a distinct line in the lives of its people both black and white. The whites dwelled in those historic, perfectly preserved neighborhoods that we built but they lord the land. They are the keepers of those stately, majestic relics of a past which seems to want to write us out of its shameful history. Our neighborhood, our line, in every city is very distinctly marked: Martin Luther King, Jr. Drive, Boulevard, Road, etc. When we want to find our folks, just look for MLK Street, with its own relics of the past; past government projects, liquor stores, 10 million churches, and ragged bus stops. The historic district in Savannah had those cute little open-air shuttles that resembled trolley cars which turned around at MLK. On the other side of MLK, there were no more of those whimsical squares, or brick homes.
In Saint Louis, where I’m from, blacks on the north side, whites on the south. Sis, it’s not just Georgia; it’s like that all over this planet which they sardonically call a melting pot.
Post a Comment