Many often mistakenly suppose the grotesque of southern gothic lies in dilapidationâsigns of the past clinging desperately to the present and having their soft tissue wear away as theyâre dragged across the gravelly path of time. Youâll see buildings with rusted gates and chipped paint. Youâll see black crows and ravens gathered in a mass, tasting the familiar iron flavor of blood. Graves, ghosts, and the four Gospels all solemnly endure, half-material, half-memory. But all these are all misunderstood clichĂŠs. Flannery OâConnor, William Faulkner, Toni Morrison, and Edgar Allen Poe all feared the present and future more than the past, especially timeâs forward momentum untouched by the grief of history. The haints only haunt you, the flesh will harm. I present to you, modern southern gothic moods:
The woman who married her sweetheart in college. She now makes and sells yarn-strung wall-hangings from the home she and her husband were gifted from her parents. She has one buyer who purchases dozens of her crafts at a time and she never asks what theyâre being used for. In the kitchen is a painted wooden sign that says liveâ˘laughâ˘love. She tells her friends when they come over on wine night that at any given moment of the day, she can only accomplish two out of the three directions in that list.
The âdog dadâ on tinder whose bio says, âIâll always love my three girls more than you. If you canât deal with that, then swipe left.â On the third date, he likes to show women what that really means.
The families fishing, kayaking, and laying back in inner tubes on the river. You donât recognize any of them from town. Legally, the public waterways are for public use, but does âpublicâ include nonhumans, too?
Every night new trash appears along the edge of the interstateâa shoe, a stroller, a used condom. Every night a story you will never get to hear.
When someone tells you they never read Harry Potter, you do not shame them anymore. You feel pity and wonder if they have been able to bite through the leash their parents kept them on.
If you grew up black in the south, you thought you had it hard. You knew how to be polite when you were pulled over. You knew about the parties at the state school frat houses. You knew about the white kids who said things they shouldnât say in front of you. You knew the poor white kids at elementary school who could hang and the poor white kids with that confederate glint in their eye. Attending a pwi in the northeast later on, you met hate that felt more insidious. People who went to school with one black person, who still had personal chefs and staff at their houses in Barbados (and told you they felt weird about that fact), who loved Basquiat and always wondered what your thoughts about his work were? When you go back home over breaks, you offer your family a critical theory analysis about their jobs. Your mother cries, and wonders what theyâre teaching you up there.
The rich kids on the baseball team who invited everyone to their house on a Friday night. Their house in the new development was too big, their maid had cleaned it too well, their parents were too comfortable with their kids hosting parties. The houses nearby are always being bought and quickly going back on sale.
The hibachi style restaurant where everyone celebrates their birthday. The Japanese owners also own the KFC and Chipotle franchises. Each one has a small statue of Buddha with a baby Jesus swaddled its lap. They have sweet candies you can take when you leave and slips of paper beside them with a suicide hotline number on it. Below the number it says âYou are so loved.â Everyone takes both the candy and the slip each time. The whole town knows exactly why this tradition started.
The guitarist who plays at the bar downtown. Each time one of his favorite musicians dies, their name is added to his tattoo sleeve. He is never going to be famous outside of town. He never traded his soul for anything except maybe the oxycontin he started taking after a knee surgery ten years ago. He went to rehab for a while about five years back after ODing (he was blessed, heâll tell you, that a friend carried narcan). He picks up his guitar every time he gets a craving.
Half of the town has given up sweet tea to improve their health. There is a certain sadness that lingers in their faces at mealtime.
Everyone knows the south is changing. The ghosts complain loudly. Their great grandchildren look them in the face. Some people become scared and cower. Some look right through them. Some let the ghosts inhabit their bodies, let them know the weight of skin again, as heavy as any shame. Then the ghosts step out and disappear into the cicada screams and the warmth of porch lights.
origamiaround
yousharknotpass
theartofmadeline
turnnoffyourmind
2087
