Commentary
My Affair with the (New) South
As an Italian-Filipina growing up in Georgia, I saw myself as “non-white.” I soon joined the Mexicans.
gcp224@nyu.edu
In my hometown of Kennesaw, Georgia, I once stumbled into Dent “Wildman” Myers’ Civil War Surplus Shop — a mish-mash of Civil War relics, medicinal herbs, and white supremacy material. Wildman guarded the counter with a gun at his side, his thick, reckless beard hanging like a mess of Spanish moss from a Savannah oak. Proud Confederate flags adorned the walls, and a mannequin dressed as a Ku Klux Klansmen stood in back, brandishing a noose.
Kennesaw, which is just north of Atlanta, earned the nickname “Guntown, USA” in 1982, when it passed a law requiring all homeowners to own and maintain a firearm. There, trailer parks converge with tree-lined suburbs, and the smoke-congested Waffle House presses against the shiny new Starbucks.
I love the South for its rich history, colorful heritage and quiet charm. I despise it for the ignorant beliefs that still saturate some strains of thought.
As the child of an Italian father and a Filipino mother, I was one of the few non-white students at my Georgia elementary school.
“I can’t talk to you. You’re ugly. You’re a blackie,” a girl once informed me. I shrunk back, hurt more by her intonation than her words, yet the words I remembered clearly. Suddenly, my brown skin felt uncomfortable, hot, itchy. I hopelessly struggled to strip this layer from my body.
At annual father-daughter dances, I’d watch as black girls danced with their black fathers and white girls with their white fathers; they’d promenade like matching wind-up dolls, gliding across the dance floor in perfect pairs. My father and I were mismatched — I, the little brown girl who effortlessly floated through the air, my weightless body carried on the toes of his black shoes; he, the anchor who held me steady, guided my movements, the white figure I clung to with my small, tan hands.
But like many Southern cities, Kennesaw has greatly diversified in the past 10 years, largely due to a new trend of Mexican immigrants moving north to my South. Between 1990 and 2000, Tennessee’s Mexican population increased by 2,000 percent; Georgia’s expanded tenfold, from 20,000 to more than 200,000.
It was in this Mexican community that I finally began to feel a sense of belonging.
I immersed myself in the culture, and soon discovered the many perks of being Mexican. I developed a love for Latin music and dancing, mastering cumbia but never quite getting the hang of the polka-like rhythms of ranchera music. I enjoyed the food. During a trip to Cuernavaca, Mexico, my friend’s grandmother introduced me to enchiladas topped with diced onions, crema, and mole sauce—spicy, chocolaty, finger-licking bliss. Finally, I became fluent in Spanish, mostly owing to a series of Mexican boyfriends.
Me pierdo en tus ojos, was one of the first Spanish phrases I learned. “I get lost in your eyes.”
I embraced the warmth and vitality of the culture, but likewise experienced the challenges of being Mexican in the South.
“Dirty Mexicans,” I recall a boy taunting, as some friends and I passed by. Tall, attractive and blue-eyed, he sported the confederate flag on his Dixie Outfitters T-shirt, a brand that grew wildly popular locally after Georgia stripped its state flag of the confederate symbols of pride and glory.
Recently, Kennesaw’s county of Cobb adopted some of the nation’s strictest immigration enforcement provisions. Cobb jailers, trained by immigration officials, can now begin deportation proceedings, after making arrests for minor traffic violations. Many of my friends say they are afraid to drive, due to new roadblocks intended to trap undocumented immigrants driving without U.S. licenses.
Toombs County High School in rural Lyons, Georgia, which has long maintained a tradition of segregated proms for white and black students, in 2004 added a Hispanic prom.
After leaving the south for New York University, I learned much more about my own Sicilian and Filipino heritage. I had the opportunity to study Italian (which seems delightfully similar to Spanish) and to get involved with my school’s Filipino association. I’ve grown comfortable in my own skin — but I’ll always be grateful to the Mexican friends who temporarily took me under their wing.
Wildman’s shop lives on; for over 35 years, it’s stood right across from City Hall. The Kennesaw Historical Society even presented Myers with its first Historic Preservation Award. But whether he’s viewed as a dangerous bigot, an eccentric or a wacky tourist attraction, I realize he isn’t the only face of my city.
He’s a relic of a past struggling to live on. If only the history could be separated from the hate, he and the Old South just might be worth saving.
This Civil War surplus shop, with its jumble of civil war relics and white supremacy literature, won an award from the local historical society. But it’s not the only face of Kennesaw, Georgia.
Photo by Shevaun Ruiz
A child of Italian-Filipino heritage, the author (right), thought of herself as “non-white,” and came to identify with members of the burgeoning Mexican community.
Photo by Dawn Massey