In a tertiary plotline in 2000’s Oscar-winning Almost Famous, Anita Miller (Zooey Deschanel) runs off with her boyfriend to become a flight attendant. As she hugs her little brother William goodbye, she whispers to him to look under his bed — that there he’ll find his freedom. William lugs from the dark beneath his mattress a large bag stuffed with Anita’s albums as the opening lines of Simon and Garfunkel’s “America” play in the background.
“Let us be lovers, we’ll marry our fortunes together. I’ve got some real estate here in my bag” has always caused my feet to itch. And Anita’s independent, adventurous nature is one with which I strongly identified with. She’s a woman whose soul isn’t satisfied with what she’s always known.
This spring, I left New York to head west, fulfilling a yearning for open air and space that had been nagging me for the better part of the entire 13 years I’d lived there.
A few months after my grandmother died rather suddenly last summer, I decided to leave the northeast for Colorado. My Southern California heart missed seeing mountains in the distance and having the desert nearby, but I didn’t want to go back. And along the way, I needed to stop in Tulsa, Oklahoma, to pick up some things my stepdad had been storing for me since college.
After Trump was elected, and liberal wings of the country were plunged into an existential and philosophical crisis, I figured now was as good a time as any to see a part of the country I’d studiously avoided every other time I traveled. Since I had to go through Tulsa, it made sense to me to delve into the South. Not necessarily the Trump-voting South; I have no interest — read: zero interest — in trying to understand the motivations of the Trump voter (not to mention there are much better journalists writing about, and trying to figure all that out, than I). I also had friends scattered throughout the South, and this trip gave me a reason to see them.
So, on March 17th, in a 2001 Volvo wagon packed to the gills, I left Queens to look for America. Here’s a little of what I saw.
Charleston, WV
A friend told me I had to stop into Taylor Books, “this awesome bookshop in Charleston.” I spent a few hours here and was charmed at every turn: from the inspirational bricks in the bathroom to the abstract painting called “The Last Supper” that hangs over the collection of mismatched, shabby chic chairs and tables in the coffee shop section of the building. The best find here: Angela Davis’ “If They Come In the Morning” for $3.
Louisville, Ky.
Not much stirs me like art made by children about the future, about equal rights, about peace and love. A “carpet” made up of this art lines part of the hallway on a lower floor of the Muhammad Ali Center in Louisville.
Memphis, Tenn.
Memphis is a very strange town, a thought I had that was later echoed by a number of people I met in Nashville and beyond. It has Elvis history and Civil Rights history, and obviously is where Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated, but it very much feels like a city that time forgot. The garden district is the wealthier section, and then you get into the poor part of town, which might be integrated, but from what I saw was very Black. So the impression an outsider gets, is that while it was once a bustling city, and was ground zero for a massive Civil Rights effort (and tragedy), it’s a town still deeply segregated. I spent my whole day at the National Civil Rights Center and could’ve spent two. It’s difficult to look out this window and not see Rev. Jesse Jackson pointing across the street. It’s difficult to look out this window and not see the world that could have been. It’s difficult to look out this window and not weep.
Nashville, Tenn
There’s a feeling of transition about Andrew Jackson’s Hermitage. The day I visited so too did a few middle school classes from Alabama, and what I thought would be a quiet day was filled with rambunctious energy. A murmur of voices during the orientation video rose to say Jackson sounds like Trump. Many of the other adults were transfixed by the guns used in the Battle of New Orleans during the War of 1812 (about which much is made). I tweeted at the Museum to update a placard stating the only presidential candidates in history who won the popular vote and lost the electoral college were Jackson in 1824 and Gore in 2000. (The man next to me, as I snickered at this and took a picture said, “Seems that should be revised, yeah?”) Tacked on toward the end is the first real discussion of slavery at the Hermitage, and across from the table featuring artifacts from the enslaved found on the land, is an engagement activity, asking what visitors learned. And here we are.
Asheville, N.C.
An amazing mural for a pawn shop (now permanently closed). Local artist Jon Graham finished this in 2013.
Columbia, S.C.
The pettiness and melodrama of South Carolina is actually exhausting. Along with an enormous statue of Strom Thurmond, a monument to the dedication of Confederate women from Confederate men (and one to the soldiers from the women), this tombstone occupies a small plot yards away from the capitol. It reads “Here stood the statehouse, Built 1786-1790 James Hoban, Architect. Burned by Sherman’s Troops February 17, 1865.” One can make points about “commemorating history” but given the context, S.C. is a veritable Miss Haversham’s Table of Confederate memorials.
Iva, S.C.
Not too far from the South Carolina/Georgia border lives this gem. I passed it, drove about ¼ of a mile, and then decided I needed to actually document the place; it’s my favorite kind of thing about back roads, and reminds me of the small towns I grew up going to in Wisconsin. Clearly a joint for locals, it doesn’t have a lot of Internet presence, but at least one Google search result suggests it’s still open. Its page on Facebook hasn’t had a post since 2012, but in the rural U.S. that doesn’t really mean anything.
Atlanta, Ga.
Atlanta was Atlanta was Atlanta. I loved everything about this city. It was nice to be in a city in the South that goes so hard for its Blackness in spite of its share of racist, segregated history. Murals abound along Auburn Avenue, in a neighborhood once the heart of Atlanta’s Black community and known as Sweet Auburn. They honor and commemorate their champions, like Rep. John Lewis, and pay homage to Civil Rights while commenting on how race continues to affect the way we live today.As someone from Southern California, this mural made me laugh out loud in commiseration.
Alabama
That yellow sign on the right warns, “Congested Area.” I would love to see what congestion looks like here. I passed through here while listening to “S-Town” on friends’ recommendations, and being in Alabama while listening to a story about an Alabama town felt pretty fitting.
Tallahatchie County, Miss.
This decrepit elementary school was tucked back between bayous on the road from Glendora to Money. The sign proudly proclaims it was a No Child Left Behind Blue Ribbon School in 2006.
Tana Tymesen is a writer and editor from the Midwest and both coasts. Her self-care includes long drives through rural Wisconsin, Instagrams of piglets, cheeses, and Bob’s Burgers. You can find more of her writing at tangentsandangles.com
Tana Tymesen is a writer and editor from the Midwest and both coasts. Her self-care includes long drives through rural Wisconsin, Instagrams of piglets, cheeses, and Bob’s Burgers. You can find more of her writing at tangentsandangles.com