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The morning started with all of us sleeping in and enjoying the easy day. The National Naval Civil War Museum did not open until 10AM, and there was no reason to rush. I wrote the blog all morning, repacked a few items, and, cheating, wore the clothes I had in my carry-on so I never had to open my suitcase. I had the industrial breakfast, but the usual oatmeal container had a taped note, “Grits.” And they were the slow-cooked, perfect kind. The bacon, while still a thin corporate version, seemed better than usual and had a better crunch. I thanked the staff and handled the basic hotel stuff. I get the rooms, and they pay for them at check-out with their credit cards.

I published the blog, then we loaded, and somehow the bags that fit yesterday refused to fit today in the back area of our black mini-van. We reorganized, and it fit better, but it is still tight. While we waited for others to get ready, I posted the rest of the blog but forgot to send the email. I fixed that while I waited.

We finally had everyone and thought we were 30 minutes from the planned start, but we were soon off and crossed Columbus, Georgia, to the museum on the Chattahoochee River. The city is at the brink of the falls and the limit of the navigable river. Brandon shook my hand as I was a member. He is the museum director and is taking a turn at running the ticket booth and gift shop today. Once our group got assembled and with tickets, we explored the gift store (He showed some of the real Confederate money, Brandon gave an introduction, and then went over to the main attraction, the over 100-foot wreck of the CSS Jackson that was salvaged in the 1960s and now resides in this independent non-profit museum organization (this is not public owned or funded museum). The stern (rear) of the CSS Chattahoochee was recovered when the CSS Jackson was salvaged and is also included in the displays, along with its engines. The view of the CSS Jackson remains takes your breath away. Though burned to the waterline, the original lines are reconstructed by a metal framework over wreckage, and it gives you a feeling for this, the last of the ironclads.

The ship never made it into service and was burned when Columbus was taken by the Union forces, likely with other ships like the CSS Chattahoochee found next to the CSS Jackson. They are restoring some of the armor found in the wreck and reconstructing the burned stern, an ongoing project at the museum. The armor recovered from the wreck is included in reconstructions of other ships and in construction examples, giving it realism.

The destroyed navy yard, also burned by the Union (as was the whole town), has recently been explored by archaeologists, and nails were recovered, including those likely from the construction of the CSS Jackson. They are sold in the gift shop; I got one.

I was happy to see two wrecks, but discovered as we explored the remains of the CSS Alabama (a gun recently salvaged from the famous wreck), lost cargo from the wrecked CSS Georgia when it tried to run the blockage, bits of the CSS Virginia (yes, the former USS Merrimack), the flag of captured ships (on both sides), and the flag from the CSS Arkansas (the wreck is likely buried under a levy and unreachable).

The descriptions were focused not on slavery as much as on battles and the effort by the Union Navy to end trade for the Confederates and support the land campaigns. There were a few notes here and there on slavery. The timelines and relics impressed me. I have not seen such a collection of meaningful items placed in context, sometimes in non-navy actions. The brutality of the American Civil War was apparent.

Columbus was burned like Selma, and the two were burned within a few days of each other by the same Union army.

I would recommend the place; at $12 a ticket, it’s not too expensive. We also looked at the gun collection, and we did NOT pay the $300 to fire the big cannon available for special occasions.

We left, headed to a restaurant, and discovered an old-town section of Columbus that surprised Dondrea and me. Our research has shown only the basics you often find in an army base town; Fort Benning was connected with Columbus. Indeed, a surprisingly lovely downtown.

Dondrea found us a parking spot. She managed to parallel park the minivan, and we applauded. We walked to Black Cow, only a few blocks away. We sat outside with different iced tea varieties and some water. It was hot in the sun, and we enjoyed the warm, excellent weather.

My food was meatloaf that was spicy and good with fried okra on the side. Excellent! Portions were large and nobody was disappointed, but Dondrea tried the pineapple and did not think baked cheese fit it (sort of a mac & cheese, but with pineapple in place of the pasta). Chicken and waffles, poboys, chicken, and burgers are all good.

Dondrea drove again, and after 90 minutes, we hit our next stop. The trip to the Atlanta Airport was a bit stressful as we dropped off Pastor Ken to get his car. We went to the address supplied, and all we found were locked fences and car repair facilities. We then headed to the terminal, found the rental center area, looped around until we spotted a tiny sign, and dropped Ken off. Sadly, Ken found no car available for him and took an Uber to his friend’s house; he is staying with them for this part of the trip.

Dondrea drove us through heavy traffic to the hotel in Atlanta’s Buckhead area. Within an hour, we were at the hotel, checked in, with me having to sign every bill and fill out every section. I never complain about being more detailed when it comes to money.

We headed to our room and, within an hour, were headed to Eclipse di Luna in the minivan. It is a tapas place and we have a light meal, with me getting glasses of excellent Spanish wine. We had lots of little plates that we shared. It was all excellent, and there was music playing just behind us.

The host was surprised that we showed up with six without a reservation, but instead of turning us away, they added a few chairs to a table against the band (not the best place for talking), and it worked. The place was swinging, loud, and happy. Perfect for us.

I scanned a QR code and got the bill to pay. I could somehow split the twenty-plus-something items, but instead headed out, printed a copy, and asked folks to figure out their bill and reimburse me later. I paid the whole thing and got miles for it.

We returned and learned from the traffic inbound (we were outbound) that not just our Eclipse di Luna was swinging, but other places had lines of cars to get in. We had inadvertently discovered the hot new scene in Atlanta. Wow! Miami Circle is it!

Back at the room, I started the blog and talked to Deborah for a while. We put on the video as we are missing each other. It was also the first night when I was rushed, and we could just talk. Donovan, Deborah’s son, suggested a song for our trip: “Union Dixie.” I shared it with the group.

We are headed to church tomorrow, and many were sharing about ironing on a group text. We are excited to attend services at Ebenezer Baptist Church. With some of the blog done, ironing done, and unpacked, I crawled into bed after a shower and soon slept. Dreams were many, many about traveling to find something, and one nightmare that forced me awake at 2:30. I cannot remember it even when I woke and went back to sleep and slept until 5ish, rolled over, and rose before my 6:30 alarm.

Thanks for reading.

 

I am in Columbia, Georgia, and we plan to visit the Civil War Naval Museum tomorrow. We have the rental car, not upgraded to a minivan, and drove the two hours to get here from Montgomery, Alabama. Dondrea took the wheel, and I was the co-pilot, and we crossed into Eastern Time now. I am at the Holiday Inn Express, but missed a room for myself, but no matter, they had a room, and it was quickly corrected.

When we reached the hotel area, I found The Charred Oak Kitchen, a whiskey bar with food, to be a middle-of-the-road choice for dinner, and near the hotel. The place was loud, but the food was good and the drinks were not bad. I had an Old Fashioned, though they offered a Sazerac with New Orleans rye. We talked about what we learned and church planning.

With dinner done, we checked into the hotel with no issues. Except that this hotel does not have in-room coffee makers. Ugh! I then started this blog with plans to finish it on Saturday morning. I only wrote a few hundred words, then went to bed and soon fell asleep. I did wake often, but I managed a peaceful, empty sleep.

Before this, Dondrea stopped at Buc-ee’s. This is a truck stop-like place (though semi’s and the like are not allowed) and filled with Buc-ee’s options. None of us had ever been to one, and we were all staring in amazement. It has the feel of a heavily branded department store, Costco, and a tourist trap, all unflinchingly combined into a consumer wonderland. As if Disney had gone madly commercial and replaced the mouse with a beaver and sold four-foot-tall nutcrackers with a happy beaver head on them. Because they had them for sale!

It was fun and a great break from the processing of the last sad and painful museums and monuments on our tour. Some of us were pale and feeling physically ill from what we experienced in the museum and monuments (I had a headache and was dizzy). Now we are getting pictures with Buc-ee! It was fun and helped us unwind; we were all laughing and smiling from that mad stop.

Moving to late afternoon, Dondrea and I picked up the minivan after sharing an Uber with others from the tour who needed to get a car. Pastor Ken went with us, but they did not have a car for him; he was frustrated and also concerned that the van would be uncomfortable with us seven. We made it work; we were traveling only for an hour or so, maybe at the most two hours, and we could make it work. Dondrea took the wheel, and we picked up everyone at the hotel. We had everyone else hang out at the hotel to be comfortable; you never know how long the rental car process will take. They took my credit card info twice, and I had to produce my insurance card (via the Allstate App, which required two-step verification to get it). I forgot I had it in the Wallet app.

We were comfortable and talked while we rode. Some of us even slept. Three in the back bench and the rest in two sets of seats. The Pacifica drove well and fast in the dark, and CarPlay navigation helped.

The morning started with me rising early, dressing again in a dress shirt with a sweater vest, and discovering that Dondrea was already at Starbucks and got me a pastry and coffee. We were soon back on the tour, with our bags, off to the Legacy Museum, housed in a building that once held slave auctions and a cotton warehouse.

The museum is full of sensory and intellectual overload and fills you with despair as you come to grips with the message that slavery has been here since 1619, and the labor of slaves was the source of much wealth in the colonies and the USA. This is not guilt, though there is some of that; it is the realization (and it hurts) of the willingness of so many to take and do to others what they should not. You want it to stop and peace and love to be found, but instead you hear and read more failure. The people enslaved are released into a new terror and then another. Finally, the Room of Reflection brings you some peace.

I wrote this in my notebook:

The emotion and tears of the display, my tears, are nearly overwhelming when I enter the Reflection Room and hear a hymn and see words of encouragement: “We Shall Overcome.” Tears come again, and I walk here as a witness. My eyes are damp. 

I buy a t-shirt that says “just mercy” and join the others. We are all pale and shaken.

The National Memorial of Peace and Justice focuses on lynching, and there are hanging metal boxes for each area where this terror occurred, with dates and names. It appears peaceful, but is sad, and beautiful. It is a terrible ending for someone, and there is no peace here, just recognition. This place remembers and convicts.

At the waterfalls in the dark base of the memorial, I write:

Only tears, silence, the sound of water, and light filtered by the monument here.

I find these words there: “a just and peaceful future” and “this nation to claim our difficult history.” I think about that.

Sort of mixed up and trying to process, we reboard the bus and head to lunch. My feet are sore from standing, but it seems only minutes have happened, not hours. BBQ in the basement dining room near our hotel is terrific. After the shocks, I was surprised to be hungry, and the food was nearly perfect BBQ (though the BBQ sauce had more vinegar than we are used to; the local version). I do not talk that much to folks. I am still shocked.

DeSean tells his story, and I will not repeat it here—I like people to tell their own. But also, I only heard some of it. My mind was still not recovered, and my focus was gone. We finish the tour, and I am happy to end there. We say our goodbyes, and it is hard not to be happy that it is over, but we will miss our new friends. Every ‘hello’ comes with a ‘goodbye.’

Thanks for reading.

 

I rose in Selma in my hotel and immediately returned to the blog I had started the night before and finished it. It was past 7 when I published it. I then rushed to finish my usual items—shower, shave, dress, and so on—and sat on my suitcase, reorganizing everything in it, and closed it. I rolled downstairs, turned in my key, and got some breakfast. Dondrea and Ken were there, as were Doug and Kathy. I am not usually the last one (Michael and Seth showed a bit later). With some industrial eggs and potatoes in me, and coffee consumed, I dropped off my bag and joined Dondrea on the bus. She gets the window seat.

While the hotel is in Selma, it is closer to the highway and about 10 minutes from the old town. We unloaded at the famous Edmund Pettus Bridge, and there we gathered with DeSean, who read a formal text from an iPad. The service remembered the past, recognized the current issues, and looked to the future. There were three water pourings, one for each section. “We come to remember…those who suffered…children taken too soon.” The chimes of a clock rang through part of the service and seemed to make it more sacred. “For living and repair…those who carry the weight of tragedy in their bodies…for those who speak.” The last pouring, as mentioned, was for the future: “For next…to be built…what we will remember…may our steps be steady…our hearts open and have courage.”

With this done, we walk across the bridge. I did not, at first, feel worthy, and I could not take a selfie on the bridge. I turned down the invitation to join a joint photo. I did enjoy the walk and thought of it as a prayer of thanksgiving. The day was warming from its cool start, it was bright, and the Alabama River was muddy but lovely. A perfect day for this walk.

A woman, whose name may have been Dickson, who has a shop on the other side, met us at the end of the walk, and sadly, the place was where Bloody Sunday began. Sacred ground–she stood in the parking lot and retold the story of the attack here. For no charge, she gave us all a newspaper celebrating the 60th anniversary last March and wishing us all well. We thanked her. We returned to the bus and headed out to the Center of Nonviolence Training (www.SelmaCNTR.org).

Ainka Jackson greeted us as we sat at tables in a lecture room. Everything was purple, even her shirt and the folders that held the training material. The Edmund Pettus Bridge was visible from the windows, and the logo included elements of the bridge. She covered the principles of nonviolence with us, as well as the process.

Ainka lectured, and her words were powerful. She reminded us, “love is justice when it connects,” “our fears need to be recognised, and then we can decide what to do,” and “we’ve got to get good at our feelings.” She then covered that love and power are not opposites, but work together (here). This was new to many of us (including me).

I did get a bit emotional for part of the morning class. My family’s past in the Klan made some of this hard to process. I did feel better after.

Mama Callie was introduced to us. She and her husband had stayed up late making us a wonderful chicken dinner (and salmon for someone with dietary restrictions). She also told us her story of recovery from a drug addiction, her son being murdered, and asking the judge to show mercy for her son’s murderer (she later met the man who killed her son, and he thanked her for saving his life with that), and losing her daughter to cancer. It was a powerful witness as you laughed and smiled, telling us about the food and your life.

Mama Callie: “I believe in miracles as I am one,” “If you get food like this again, you call me; someone broke into my kitchen,” “this is (food) medicine,” and “I have to encourage myself in the Lord.” After we had the fantastic lunch and learned that the mac and cheese was excellent, the recipe was from her uncle, who abused her. She has forgiven not him but herself, and makes the mac and cheese to get something good and something from her uncle. A sort of redemption for him, too. After telling the story, “don’t let that change the flavor,” she advised us.

Finally, we heard she has started on a cookbook, and we encouraged her to finish it. She sang and shared more words: “Justice is mercy,” “don’t ask for what you are unwilling to give,” and “We got to be the light.”

We returned to lecture and training on nonviolence from Ainka. She finished our overview and I recorded a few more words: “Curiosity is key” to understanding opponents–be creative, remember “there is a reason people think that way,” we are not here to debunk, “lean in and listen,” “change has to start with us”, and your opponents will change you (and you them) and become allies. She also reminded us that we can be distracted by the goal rather than the cause, and that a good word for the process of nonviolence is ‘co-liberation.’ We, with our opponents, win together.

We took a walking tour of Selma and visited the cement court on the playground, which was the site of the march that started on Bloody Sunday. We were led by a Foot Soldier representative whose grandmother was there for the marches, and she told us some of the story. She also explained that their organization, Foot Soldiers Park (here), They are trying to build a park and facilities dedicated to the Foot Soldiers of the marches and protests. The tour was cut short as our guide had a family emergency, and we prayed for her and her family on the bus.

We traveled a few hours to Montgomery, the capital, and had a short bus tour of the sights, but in the dark, which made it hard to discern. We stopped by MLK’s church here and the parsonage that was fire bombed and had Rev. King realize, as he recorded in his own story, to decide to proceed and risk his life and that of his family. In the parsonage, at the kitchen table, he sat and faced this terrible truth.

We had a wonderful BBQ chicken dinner at the More Up Campus and then headed to our hotel. We, just us from our church, got our rooms, then headed to the bar and had an excellent drink from a boisterous bartender while debriefing about the trip and planning how to incorporate what we learned into the services at our church.

We found many of our fellow people on the trip outside in the roof bar, enjoying the warm evening. I headed back to my room, wrote for a while, and then slept. I woke once, but slept well.

Thanks for reading!

 

It is late Wednesday night, past 11, when I reach my room. I will try to write this, likely finished on Thursday morning.

I rose before my alarm, which was set twice, just in case, but I did sleep some. I was up to 1 a.m. the night before writing the blog. It was a difficult start, but the shower and mainly having packed the night before made it less of a mad rush. I did make coffee from the in-room coffee machine and replugged in the floor lamp. Now, at the last moment, I see the light switch I missed before. My phone, laptop, and battery were now fully charged.

I rolled my bag with my usual carry-on and headed down to the lobby. I thought I left the key upstairs—no matter—and I checked out (I found the key when I tried to get into my room here at a new hotel in Selma). I found at Holmes the name of the coffee bar and the former name of the department store that was here before. I ordered two coffees with danishes for Dondrea and me. Dondrea showed up a bit later. Ken, who also appeared, got breakfast while we chatted about our experiences.

We were back on the bus, but this time with our bags loaded. We stopped by Loyola University in New Orleans and were soon met by a bearded man with bright eyes, an infectious smile, and impeccable manners, wearing a shirt and tie. The room—a college lecture room—and Professor Will Snowden, a former public defender, were ready for us, with a PowerPoint already glowing on a board and a handout provided. Will Snowden is an advocate for improving juries, especially at the local level. We were here to hear about The Juror Project.

Simply put, the project is to make us all better jurors, looking forward to our duty, fulfilling our responsibilities to be available as jurors, and exercising our rights. Even now, the pools from which juries are drawn and the process seem to yield all-white male juries. Other issues, like low pay and poor sourcing of potential jury lists, threaten the process. For a trial and its verdict to be legitimate, the ‘promise of a jury of our peers’ must be kept.

Professor Snowden demonstrated the processes and discussed what he considers some of the issues in forming a jury. He took questions, and we even went over the changes to juries in Louisiana and Oregon. He covered Jury Nullification, when a jury refuses to convict someone even though the evidence is clear that a crime occurred. Often, he explains, this happens when a jury refuses to convict when they think the charge should be replaced with getting some help for an addiction. I was once on a jury and we refused to convict a person of a civil rights charge, as it seemed to us a ridiculous charge. We voted it down 0-12 to the surprise of the prosecutor.

Lunch was boxes from a famous sandwich place, Francolini’s, in New Orleans. Dondrea and I split a monster Gaga sandwich. We ate this on picnic tables that, obviously, being sunk into the earth, were now too low. We had a tour of the Whitney Plantation from the 1790s after lunch.

Our guide, James Kelly, gave us an excellent and often emotional tour of the sights. Many of these buildings had been moved here or moved from the original plantation or another location to a circle that allows easy tours. Two slave houses had survived, and I walked inside. It was sad to see the terrible place and boards and beams built by slaves and used by them. In our tour of Oak Ally Plantation, there were reconstructions, but these were real.

A church is on the grounds that was built by freed slaves right after the end of slavery. The building was replaced by a newer structure and the orginal hand built structure moved to the planataion to be seen by vistors and to hear their story.

 

James Kelly does only a few tours a week. He is a researcher and is very passionate about the false rewriting of history and abandoning the facts, and he calls it out on the tour. There is a horrific memorial to a large local slave revolt that failed. I saw him pick a rose, kneel on the ground before the name of the leader, a woman who was executed, and leave it on her nameplate. He then prayed. He rose, another guide told the story, and then James added more.

Aside: James reasoned that the revolt leaders were not planning to escape but to fight. I agreed with him. Napoleon grabbed a few cannons in Paris, along with some men, and rescued the government from a crowd. His success gave him his first leadership role in France. I cannot imagine the story, fresh, was not retold by other would-be revolutionaries. So I told James, for this reason, I think he is right. He liked the idea.

James walked us through the exhibits, some purchased from auctions from other plantations, but most were real or close to the originals. He took us into the Big House, which was empty of furniture and in good repair, and included paintings from the 1850s. I was surprised by the floor, open boards just under 1/2 of wood. Minimal, and I wonder how much furniture it could hold up.

James took us to the garden where the children who were lost to slavery are remembered. Thousands of names of children with their dates of death, a Victor dying on my birthday, passing away 110 years before my birth. It was hard not to cry, and this was only the names they had for children lost at Whitney Plantation. I did cry at the memorial for the revolt.

DeSean gave a lecture on the moving bus; he waited a while. We had five hours of busing (irony of those words was not lost on me) to reach Selma, Alabama. DeSean covered “The Civil War Reconstruction and the March to Civil Rights.” This area was history I knew well, and many could answer DeSean’s questions.

We stopped for a break in Mississippi. I found this.

The people of color with us shared that they were experiencing rage, grief, and acknowledgment that they were survivors of slavery. I felt the story of Whitney hurt me and weighed heavily. DeSean, our leader and a person of color, told us he understood the material weighed against us. He had given us a break while we processed.

DeSean’s words seemed stronger now: “We encounter hard truths; they cause emotions.” The buildings show the skills of the enslaved labor, he pointed out. He explains that everyone lost the American Civil War, not just the South. The destruction and the abandonment of Reconstruction restored many of the evils of slavery under the new Jim Crow and Black Codes. The Klan rises. The false replacement history of the Lost Cause, the false legend of Bobby Lee (as pointed out early by James Kelly), and the false legend of a noble war of good people resisting an out-of-control central government soon fill our textbooks and school lectures. The truth is lost (and seems to be the focus of the current government, which is again raising this false story).

Aside: Sorry if these words are a bit unfiltered. I wanted to capture my feeling and my understanding of the story I was told.

The long bus ride includes a nap for me and Dondrea (and others, I am sure). DeSean takes up the microphone again and covers the post-war horrors of the Memphis and Clinton Massacres. We arrive at 9ish for a later dinner served to us by a local group in Selma, By the River Center for Humanity. There, after a plain but excellent pasta with white chicken sauce or a ground beef tomato sauce. I have both.

Anika Jackson, also serving us, is a leader in nonviolence here in Selma. She tells us some of her words: “Truth is not to be argued,” “We are not sure we are right and so we argue,” not white/black but our history, “Once I love myself and my people, I can love others,”  and when I remember I am the servant and not the savior, it works.

We were all tired, dazed, confused, and angry. She had us dance and sing, and that helped. It wrapped those hard feelings and weighty topics in music, dance, and fun.

Soon, we were in yet another hotel, and I was happy to slip under the sheets and dream of nothing, as only tears and screaming were possible in those dreams. Pure calming darkness was welcome.

Thanks for reading.

 

 

 

 

I rose today at 6:45 and was ready for the breakfast bar provided at the meeting. The food was good; New Orleans never serves anything that is not good. I had finished the blog and slept, waking a few times.

DeSean and Frances from Telos were there, and DeSean gave us a PowerPoint presentation over the next couple of hours entitled “Belief, Brutality, and the Business of Slavery.” There were a few points of input and discussion, but mostly it was, in many ways, a depressing and harsh look at Slavery and also the fate of the indigenous people.

DeSean used words like “continue grounding ourselves,” “grief of the reality,” “legal fiction and out of the ether” for truths we think we know, our place here in the city in a state in the USA, but also a reality of being Chitimachu Tribal Lands, “empires say we don’t see culture and divine,” to kill people first redefine people to be associated with the land, “what we do with this knowledge is to peel back the reasons,” and “slavery was engineered,” and needs tools (religion, laws, trade and commerce, and story and narrative).

DeSean describes the fate of native peoples as a lesson on how oppression works. He calls out the book The Great Evil: Christianity, the Bible, and the Native American Genocide by Chris Nunpa as supplying him with this story. He then listed some quotes that hinted at slavery, and we guessed their sources, including John Locke and the USA founding documents. One of the participants quoted, “Every accusation is a confession,” and we thought that fit well with these quotes. I had not heard it before, to my recollection, but in a Google search, I learned it is a well-known saying, not a quote.

We then covered Code Noir, which is the Spanish rules for slavery. The purpose was to establish regulations that offered hope and some rights to the enslaved. It mainly was, according to Desean, a method to prevent uprising. Oppression mixed with religion. DeSean said that slavery was profitable, and during the days of slavery, the state of Mississippi had more millionaires than any other state. “This is a serious system. It takes this kind of seriousness to work these injustices,” DeSean concluded.

Note: I don’t usually tell someone else’s story, but this time I think it is appropriate.

We boarded our bus and soon headed across New Orleans to St Roch Community Church to meet Jerome and Robyn (may be ‘Robert’ and I heard wrong). They were wrongly convicted and jailed for years. They described their story, and I tried to follow along. I was not close, and the sound system did not improve my hearing. What I took away was that both were undereducated and, with no real opportunities, turned to drugs and crime. They were in the area of a murder, and were scapegoats, or in the words of one judge, Robyn told us, said, “the evidence is confused, but you look like the kind of kid that would do this.” Both were legally convicted without real evidence, and questionable tactics were used to assemble witnesses to identify them (these tactics are no longer legal).

Jerome told his story first, and he said to us, “Making the world better will take all of us.” He could not believe, as he was brought into the facility for a life sentence, that folks were manually picking cotton. He spent years getting an education and finally got help to exonerate himself.

Robyn said he had finally gotten himself a GED and an education and finally connected with folks to help him. But the legal system still continued to pursue charges against him. It took long years and money from his family to finally be declared innocent. “Allegiance to the truth and not being motivated by fear” is how to live and survive tragedy.

Both Jerome and Robyn told us they both knew they were innocent and believed, at first, that the mistake of conficting them would just be corrected. That the system of justice would naturally exonerate them, but it did not. It took years, and they had to get an education and help to get released. In the end, they said, we are human and we must help each other. Their foundation is here.

I have often wondered about the work of Prison Ministry, and the story made me think about how I could help. I am unsure if I can fit it into my life or my church’s work. Michael R., Dondrea, and I talked about it later at dinner. Hmmm.

Next, we stopped by Dooky Chase’s for lunch, which was listed in the Green Book (here, if you don’t know its story) as a safe place for people of color to dine. I had the fish and it was divine. Dondrea tried the fried chicken, which was good. I have always wanted to try the place and experience the ambiance of an institution that is now. The gumbo was excellent, and the sausage in the soup was spicy and clearly local. Outside, carved in stone were the names of presidents, Supreme Court Justices, famous actors, and people who have all eaten there. And while I don’t expect to be added to the list of names outside, I did feel like I checked off something on my list.

 

Cancer Alley is a part of St. John Parish that is full of more than a dozen chemical plants that have the highest cancer rate in the USA, according to Tish Taylor and activists who live there. We picked her up on the bus as we entered the area. She explained that folks of color were redlined out of other places, but they all felt lucky to get a lovely home in beautiful St. John Parish. The old plantation land was being offered to them. They did not know that the chemical companies were also provided the land, and that their land was considered sacrificial, to be polluted by waste and leaks from the plants. The community was built, and soon after, dozens of chemical plants were built.

The homes and area are lovely, and the green of sugarcane is everywhere, right up to more than a dozen petrochemical plants and other chemical plants. Many buildings I saw were boarded up, as were some homes, but most were bright and looked like perfect places to live. According to Trish, the toxic chemicals are often 400 times more than the recommended safe levels here. The local government has stopped enforcing any controls. One plant is finally closing—a win for people like Trish—after boycotts and various documentaries made it financially untenable to keep it open.

Trish took us to a ramshackle graveyard to meet her family (the ones who have passed), and she showed us the graves. The plants are up against the graves as the chemical plant companies bought and demolished the church. The noise and smell, and later a burning sensation (which may have been psychosomatic), made the visit unpleasant. She told us she wanted to feel the plants’ impact on their lives. It was a forlorn place and terribly sad. I nearly cried.

For me, it was a terrible story of betrayal. It is worse to stand on the land and see the graves of the families trying to make a living there and demanding that the chemical plants stop harming them. Trish was friendly and funny, but you could also hear anger and exhaustion.

(Tiny, lovely flowers I spotted at the edge of the graveyard)

The trip back was long, but soon we were getting off the bus at Plates for dinner. This was another included meal, and we spent some time there chatting, eating, and thinking about what we had heard today. This mix of reality—some dark, alternative, hard-to-be-there reality—and good food and chatting is a good way to balance. I remember DeSean saying that balance was important. I am beginning to understand.

Dondrea and I decided to walk back to the hotel. Kathy took the bus (Doug was ill today). Michael R., Seth, and Pastor Ken headed to Mahogany Jazz Club. It was not as cold or windy, and we enjoyed the walk. We skipped out of the sketchy, dark street and soon were in a shopping and legal section. We went to Lafayette Square and then found our way to the hotel. I wanted to see this area in more detail.

After about thirty minutes, we reached the hotel.  In the lobby, we met the folks from our group and chatted for a while. Tomorrow is a hotel change, and Dondrea and I decided to work and pack. I spent the next couple of hours writing and packing.

Thanks for reading.