How I ended up in private schools

 There are some stories where I always said I would never tell them until everyone involved was dead.  How I ended up in private schools is one of them.  I'm not even sure if my siblings know this story.  Even though everybody involved has been dead for at least fifteen years, I'm still not going to give out the names.

As you may know, my father was the head of Missco Corporation.  Five of its seven divisions derived most of their income from the public schools.    

By 1970, Mississippi had exhausted all options to keep its public schools segregated.  There was a mad rush to form private schools beginning the prior two years to absorb the predicted flood of white kids leaving the public schools.

The right choice for my dad's business would be to keep all four of us in public schools.  My dyslexia had already manifested itself, but at that point, my teachers thought I just needed to work harder, but I didn't need any special education.  Taking his children out of the public schools could have been seen as an affront to his most valuable customers.  

Here's the part where I'm not going to give you the man's name.  He was a good man.  My dad admired him.  I admired him,  But he was wrong.  This man had a senior position in Mississippi public schools.  He was a friend of my dad, granddad, and Uncle Boyd. 

"Jim, you need to get your kids in private school before they hit Murrah.  We just don't know what's going to happen at Murrah next year.  "  He said.

By next year, he meant 1971,  the year I would be in third grade.  My brother Jimmy would be in Murrah soon.  My dad was in a position where most of his friends were moving to private schools, and now this man he admired, whose job it was to administer the Mississippi public schools, was saying to get out of our public schools before high school.

Let me be clear on something.  Many of my friends went to Murrah.  I have family members who went to Murrah.  My ex-wife went to Murrah.  Absolutely nothing terrible happened at Murrah.  Whatever that man was afraid of didn't happen.  Some of these people are better scholars than me, even now.

Because of my dyslexia, I needed some special training that St. Andrews offered that Casey Elementary didn't, but in 1970, nobody knew I was dyslexic yet.  They just thought I was lazy.  

My parents had to choose between the right decision for the business and what all their friends said was the right decision as parents.  For my dad, having his friends say to move us was one thing; to have an actual official with the schools say it was another.  

I would have had a great time at Murrah.  Many of my friends did.  Forced to choose between doing what was best for his business and what everyone said was doing was best for his children, my dad chose us.  I don't know what I would have done in his position.  Both of us tend to err on the side of caution when children are involved.  

They pulled me from Casey and moved me to St. Andrews.  At St. Andrews, Mrs. McIntyre became concerned that my reading and writing were far behind my classmates, so they held me back a year and got me some special training both for my dyslexia and my stuttering.  Eventually, I learned to read and speak normally.

Had we stuck it out in the public schools, I'm sure I would have been fine.  I might have had to have tutoring or something for my dyslexia and stuttering, but it would have been fine.  That's hindsight, though.  There was a panic among parents in 1970, and my dad erred on the side of caution.  I can't criticize him for it.  There were times when he would be accused of choosing business over people, but this time he didn't; even if the danger her feared never manifested, he chose us.

The Robin's Nest

 The Lord's been good to me.  She sent me a friend who could always see the truth of my situation.  The gentle glint of her eyes anesthetizes the sharpness of her rapier.  When we were young, I could sometimes hide from it; now that I'm old, I just don't bother.

"Why do you find it necessary to try and save everyone and everything?"  She asks.

That's the question, isn't it?  That's THE question.  The answer is not so simple.  Part of the answer is that I had a moderately privileged upbringing, exaggerated by the reputations of my father (who was always out of town) and my uncle (who was actually dead.)  I was receiving credit for things I had nothing to do with, and I knew it, and it bothered me.  A lot.  

I had a moderately privileged life in a world where nearly everyone was desperately underserved and suffering, and if I gave away everything I ever had, it wouldn't make a dent in that condition.  Psychologists and sociologists call it "white guilt" or "survivor's guilt."  Whatever you call it, I had it in spades, and it made enjoying the privileges of being privileged very difficult.

Dickenson says to help one fainting robin unto his nest again, and I will not live in vain.  That's great advice, but Dickenson was a devoted recluse and couldn't see the thousands of naked, struggling robins dying on the ground with no one caring to look if their nest was even close by.  I understand why Dickenson became a recluse.  I tried it myself.  I failed.

Suffering, when I'm not the one suffering, makes me insane.  It splits my mind into a million different directions.  Sometimes I can help.  Most of the time, I can't.  The thousand failures make it difficult to enjoy the precious few victories.  

In my rehabilitation, I'm surrounded by people in much worse shape than I.  The staff here is world-class, but even they can't provide comfort for some of the sufferings.  If I'm to recover, I have to focus on myself.  One step, two steps, three steps, look up, straighten my back, take my meds, watch my diet.  Pretend as if everything is normal and smile at everyone like it's afternoon tea, even when they're in genuine distress, distress that will never go away.  I can be gentle, I can be kind, but I can't actually help.

I am Sisyphos, endlessly pushing a boulder up a hill.  At least Sisyphos knew what his sins were.  When the moon is right, I can sometimes move one of my boulders to the top.  No rest, though; there are thousands of boulders still at the bottom.

So, Why do I find it necessary to try and save everyone and everything?  If I'm honest, then I suppose the answer is: because I cannot.  

 

The Gait Belt

 Let me introduce ya'll to something called a Gait Belt.  They're constructed like and buckle like a football or Boy Scout belt.  They're a tool of the trade for Physical Therapists and Occupational Therapists.

Like a Boy Scout belt, the Gait Belt has a million different uses, but its primary function is to act like a handle for the therapist when they work with you.  Using the belt, they can grab hold of it and guide you when you're heading in the wrong direction,  they can tug the belt and correct you if you're not using the correct form, and they can use the Gait Belt to pull you to safety if you stumble or lose your strength.

Therapists work like football coaches because they condition your body and strengthen it.  They work like a Scout Master in that they teach you the right, safe, and best way to do things.  Unlike football coaches, therapists don't tell you to tough it out or work through the pain.  They definitely don't ask you to bust some heads.  Like a Scout Master, they tell you to be prepared and remember safety first.  

I think my mom would have benefited by putting me in a Gait Belt starting around nineteen sixty-five.  They call it a Gait Belt because it's used to help build and correct your gait, but I might call it a Gate Belt because the therapy is a gateway towards getting my life back. 

I may continue to wear my Gait Belt long after I no longer need therapy.  If you see me wearing a Gait belt and feel like I need to correct my course, improve my form, or a pull to safety, feel free.  If you see me wearing it, know it's a sign of gratitude for all the people who helped restore me, including many of you reading this.

Shrimp and Grits

 1985.  Ruben Anderson is appointed to the Mississippi State Supreme Court.  My dad decided to have a dinner party in his honor.  My dad was making a point.  He probably thought his points were subtle, but they never were.  There were men in Mississippi who might make a face at having a black man on the State Supreme court, and my dad wanted them to know his opinion of their opinion.  

Besides Judge Anderson and his remarkable wife, the guest list was the regular suspects, Brum Day, Rowan Taylor, Charlie Deaton, and added in George Hughes, Bill Goodman, and of course, everyone's respective spouses or public girlfriends.  A lot of times, I was more pleased to see the spouses and girlfriends than the men themselves.

Daddy was making a point.  His side of the Capitol Street Gang approved of Judge Anderson, and he didn't care who had other opinions.  Not just approval of Judge Anderson, although he's a genuinely remarkable man, but approval of having black men in positions of power in Jackson, Mississippi.

The guts and the details of the dinner party fell to my mom.  She was a self-taught cook and a great one.  Her regular co-conspirators were Mrs. Kroeze, Mrs. Lewis, Mrs. Flood, Mrs. Bass, and my Aunt Linda.   Jane Lewis was the best baker I've ever met.  They told me it was a rare disease that took her from us, but several other dear Mississippians died of the same condition, so maybe it wasn't all that rare after all.  That disease stole vital human beings from me.  That makes it my enemy.

Mother was a very experimental cook, which I appreciated, but my siblings often had another opinion.  Sometimes her menus were unconventional.  Gazpacho, different forms of liver and oysters, and calf's tongue were served at family dinners but not well received.

"What are you serving?"  I asked as she was cutting onions.

"Shrimp and Grits," she said.  I could see the shrimp in the sink where she de-veined them.  She bought them from a man coming up from Biloxi every week and parked his truck with ice chests full of fresh seafood at Deville Plaza.  Every woman in town made occasional trips to meet him and cut a deal. 

"Mother, this man is a judge; you cannot serve grits for supper."  I was adamant.

She ignored my opinion, as she often would.  In this instance, she was correct.  This was a few years before Bill Neal made shrimp and grits famous and Southern Cooking respectable.  If you've never heard of Bill Neal, I'll include a link to a video about him.  He's a remarkable man and responsible for many of the recipes you eat.

Years later, I asked her how she knew ten years before anyone else that Shrimp and Grits were a thing.  She said she got the recipe out of Southern Living, but I've looked, and there weren't any Shrimp and Grits recipes in Southern Living that year.  Further research told me that Galatoire's in New Orleans had occasionally been serving Shrimp and Grits since the seventies.  Her recipe was similar to that.  Either she had it there, or one of her co-conspirators had it there.

The best Shrimp and Grits I've ever had was at City Grocery in Oxford.  Their recipe was similar to Bill Neal's but had a little extra push to it.  By now, if you're from here, you've had the dish somewhere unless you were kosher or suffered a shellfish allergy.  

For me, Shrimp and Grits mean a time when my mother was right, and I was wrong.  They represent a day when my Daddy wanted to make a blunt point, and my mom made it graceful.  Food isn't just food.  It's art, and it's culture, and sometimes it's memory.

A video about Bill Neal

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TeteYtkVB6Y