An Unfinished House Divided
Current Waffle House Count: 7
Number of people who have told me that some of their best friends are black: 1
First off, sorry for the weird post. There was no internet access in Perry, not even via phone. You see, at our motel the phones are hardwired into the walls and the cables hardwired into the phones. Lots of people passing through Perry who like to steal the phones, I suppose. So, no post. I wrote it last night and copied it into the blog, which didn't recognize apostrophes. Just in case you thought I was STILL watching the Sox at 4 this afternoon.
Well, let's see... The Red Sox won, and I got to see the last five innings in Perry after being unable to get a single non-religious radio signal for two hours on the way. It was brutal. Nevertheless, David Ortiz remains King of the World for another night. This is unreal. I think the only reason they're winning is because God can't find me to smack me around. I'll keep moving as long as I have to...
We cruised through Perry this morning. For a town with a charming courthouse square, it was a bit short on charm. The courthouse was modern (read: ugly) and a great deal of the storefronts in the square had been abandoned. A quick perusal of the Yellow Pages yielded no fewer than six bail bondsmen in town, so I guess some businesses are booming. We did not even get out of the car.
On to Monticello. Monticello is a town of about 3,000 built around a rotary, with four streets going off in opposite directions. It's a beautiful little town, with lots of people lining up to tell us how beautiful it is and how wonderful the people are. The majority of the main street seems to be owned by one woman who I might compare to a skinny, smiling Boss Hogg. She could not have been nicer--ebullient, generous, and kind--and every time you mentioned her name to someone, they kept smiling, but it was a determined smile. Like you just stuck a knife between their ribs, but damn it if that was going to keep them from smiling.
One guy we talked to is living in a totally different world from the rest of us. He moved here a few years ago, via the Bronx and Miami Beach, and appears to be the only Jew in Monticello. He's spent over a year and a half rehabbing an immense Victorian mansion. By rehabbing, I mean "living in sawdust." I don't know how the building remains standing. It's like an antique store that is surrounded by artfully placed kindling. The guy could not have been nicer. He's dying to show people why he fell in love with Monticello. He's dying to finish the house. He will never finish the house. He will never finish the house because he exists outside of the United States economy. Every single thing he's getting for the house, from materials to repair labor, he's getting through a barter system. He insists that it's cheaper and more efficient than actual money. He's very convincing. He's never going to finish the house.
There's a very interesting syndrome down here. If you ask white people how everyone gets along, you won't find one who tells you things are anything other than King's Dream come to life. The African-Americans seem to have another story to tell.
We went down ML King, Jr. Blvd for that perspective. The white manager of "the projects" (what everyone called them, even though they aren't projects, just privately-owned apartments) called us over as soon as he saw us get out of our car. It seems he hasn't seen too many other white people around and thought we might be lost. This is THREE BLOCKS AWAY from the downtown area.
Anyhow, the folks there were very friendly, camera-shy, and very sure that a network TV makeover show could help out their neighborhood. Specifically, by building their kids a playground. Over and over, the kids said they needed a playground because all there was to do is eat, drink, and sit out on the steps. One girl who could not have been more than eight years old followed us out to our car and asked if the network was going to build her a playground. The network, who can't even program a decent Monday night, is literally this girl's only chance at a playground. I wanted to build her a playground right then and there. I wanted to open up a vein and bleed into the ground, hoping a playground would grow there for her. If the network does not pick Monticello, she's not getting it. Ever. The network will probably not pick Monticello.
Number of people who have told me that some of their best friends are black: 1
First off, sorry for the weird post. There was no internet access in Perry, not even via phone. You see, at our motel the phones are hardwired into the walls and the cables hardwired into the phones. Lots of people passing through Perry who like to steal the phones, I suppose. So, no post. I wrote it last night and copied it into the blog, which didn't recognize apostrophes. Just in case you thought I was STILL watching the Sox at 4 this afternoon.
Well, let's see... The Red Sox won, and I got to see the last five innings in Perry after being unable to get a single non-religious radio signal for two hours on the way. It was brutal. Nevertheless, David Ortiz remains King of the World for another night. This is unreal. I think the only reason they're winning is because God can't find me to smack me around. I'll keep moving as long as I have to...
We cruised through Perry this morning. For a town with a charming courthouse square, it was a bit short on charm. The courthouse was modern (read: ugly) and a great deal of the storefronts in the square had been abandoned. A quick perusal of the Yellow Pages yielded no fewer than six bail bondsmen in town, so I guess some businesses are booming. We did not even get out of the car.
On to Monticello. Monticello is a town of about 3,000 built around a rotary, with four streets going off in opposite directions. It's a beautiful little town, with lots of people lining up to tell us how beautiful it is and how wonderful the people are. The majority of the main street seems to be owned by one woman who I might compare to a skinny, smiling Boss Hogg. She could not have been nicer--ebullient, generous, and kind--and every time you mentioned her name to someone, they kept smiling, but it was a determined smile. Like you just stuck a knife between their ribs, but damn it if that was going to keep them from smiling.
One guy we talked to is living in a totally different world from the rest of us. He moved here a few years ago, via the Bronx and Miami Beach, and appears to be the only Jew in Monticello. He's spent over a year and a half rehabbing an immense Victorian mansion. By rehabbing, I mean "living in sawdust." I don't know how the building remains standing. It's like an antique store that is surrounded by artfully placed kindling. The guy could not have been nicer. He's dying to show people why he fell in love with Monticello. He's dying to finish the house. He will never finish the house. He will never finish the house because he exists outside of the United States economy. Every single thing he's getting for the house, from materials to repair labor, he's getting through a barter system. He insists that it's cheaper and more efficient than actual money. He's very convincing. He's never going to finish the house.
There's a very interesting syndrome down here. If you ask white people how everyone gets along, you won't find one who tells you things are anything other than King's Dream come to life. The African-Americans seem to have another story to tell.
We went down ML King, Jr. Blvd for that perspective. The white manager of "the projects" (what everyone called them, even though they aren't projects, just privately-owned apartments) called us over as soon as he saw us get out of our car. It seems he hasn't seen too many other white people around and thought we might be lost. This is THREE BLOCKS AWAY from the downtown area.
Anyhow, the folks there were very friendly, camera-shy, and very sure that a network TV makeover show could help out their neighborhood. Specifically, by building their kids a playground. Over and over, the kids said they needed a playground because all there was to do is eat, drink, and sit out on the steps. One girl who could not have been more than eight years old followed us out to our car and asked if the network was going to build her a playground. The network, who can't even program a decent Monday night, is literally this girl's only chance at a playground. I wanted to build her a playground right then and there. I wanted to open up a vein and bleed into the ground, hoping a playground would grow there for her. If the network does not pick Monticello, she's not getting it. Ever. The network will probably not pick Monticello.
posted by Matthew at 4:25 PM
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