over the winter holiday my mother introduced me to the woman she credited for convincing her to move to Birmingham from Washington. I smiled, shook this woman’s hand, looked her dead in the eye and said, “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
Then I punched her dead in the face.
My mom always worked during the day, so I occasionally went out into the wild, wild world of ‘Bama.
Getting a pack of cigarettes, going to the grocery store or library – everything was always a challenge. Like being in a foreign country without the flashy tourist spots.
I couldn’t understand what store clerks were trying to say; they couldn’t understand why I gave them a passport when they asked for I.D. Which I have to do because ‘Bama is one of three states where the smoking age is 19. I’m sure I must have sounded just as weird to them, distinguishing my syllables from one another.
When communication failed, I was forced to rely on body language, literally doing an interpretive dance at times.
I always think I have it bad, but my sister has it worse.
About two hours from Birmingham lies a town called Selma. Once a thriving town during the emotionally charged days of the civil rights movement, today drugs and corruption have turned Selma into a shoddy, run-down Hooverville. This is a town where dog fighting is considered an honorable sport, and where Applebee’s decided not to put restaurant because they feared it might be bad for their reputation. Everyone in the town was so outraged that Dr. King’s march across the Edmund Pettus Bridge took a back seat of importance in the town’s history.
My sister lives in Selma with her husband and five dogs, the most neurotic of which is named Bear. One day she let Bear out in the backyard, while cooking a chicken stir fry and noticed that Bear was chewing on a bloody spine, resembling a lion on the African savannah.
Prone to eating disorders and social anxiety, Bear vomited all over the house, mostly on the bed and carpet.
Sarah was resting on the sofa that evening with Bear moaning in the corner and started feeling a funny sensation from inside her shirt. She looked down to see a mouse crawling up her side.
Five months pregnant, the last thing she wanted to worry about was disease. After a long shower, she returned the kitchen to find Bear lying on his side and groaning next to a chunky pool of vomit …
Which bore a remarkable resemblance to their dinner.
Her husband was offered a job in Atlanta the next day. Sarah left so fast, I think she broke mach 4.
I think my brother had the right idea when he avoided the Gulf Coast all together and moved out West.
With spring break looming in the horrible horizon, I’m pepped by my deep-seated hatred for Lynard Skynard and grits. I’m ready to face another encounter with ‘Bama and whatever it may bring, because ‘Bama can be an enjoyable place just as long as you’re on mood elevators and have a steady supply of bourbon.