South

Get Low

admin — Thu, 06 May 2010 16:01:00 +0000

Robert Duvall. Sissy Spacek. Bill Murray. If that’s not an easy sell, I’m not entirely sure what film would be. As expected, the acting in Get Low is phenomenal across the board. Even up and comer Lucas Black more than holds his own with these legends. The acting is the magic the movie tries so hard to make. Unfortunately, the allure of the fanciful southern folktale misses the mark. There are magic moments but Get Low fails to sustain itself consistently. Even so, it is a great pleasure to see these actors at work and tell this moral laden fable.

Robert Duvall plays an infamous town recluse, Felix Bush; Sissy Spacek plays his love of times gone by, and Bill Murray plays a funeral director. The premise is shockingly simple: the entire story centers on a funeral—only, it is for the still living Mr. Bush. If that were not strange enough, the funeral itself is no ordinary affair. In lieu of somber speeches and tears, there is an enormous party, with a raffle no less. But most surprising to me is that this film is based on a true story. A man by the name of Felix “Bush” Breazeale convinced counties of people to come to his “funeral party” by raffling off his property for next to nothing. The curiosity alone is appealing but the film presents a story the wider world needed to hear for its message on greed, love, and real life in the small town South.

Though all of these perspectives are intriguing, I somehow keep focusing on the fact that the film is couched as a folktale when really it is much more of an nontraditional love story. The intriguing part of this film is the dimension of older people in love. What would be so wrong with saying that? Is our world still that stuck in the traditional model of attractive, youthful happily ever after? Are we just not ready to think of the love lives of older people—beyond The Notebook in which we see their love mature from their youth? I think the answer to all those questions is yes.

The advertisers probably rightfully chose not to focus on this key aspect as for many audiences, it is not a major selling point. But as a feminist and someone critical of society’s scope of love, I think it is one of the most important reasons to go out and support this film.

Written by: Nicole Levitz, May 6th 2010

Southern Horrors: Women and the Politics of Rape and Lynching

admin — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 01:03:00 +0000

By Crystal N. Feimster

Harvard University Press

Southern Horrors explores the racial and sexual politics of the Post Civil War South predominantly through the political writings, speeches, and lives of two prominent female figures of the era. Feimster describes the period through Rebecca Latimer Felton, a white woman from the stately plantation class, educated and raised during antebellum south, and Ida B. Wells, a the daughter of former slaves, raised during the reconstruction era.

The author begins by describing the two women’s origins and how they came to rally around the issues of rape and women’s protection. “Protection”, in this context, is what would be, in modern times, included in the definition of women’s suffrage. It was a push for women to obtain the right to own property, have a bank account, inherit estates, and seek justice for wrongdoings or violence done against them. Both Felton and Wells were revolutionary in their own ways, challenging and breaking through the gender norms and expectations of the era. However, their experiences were staunchly different and in many ways based solely upon their racial identities.

I found it intriguing that Feimster chose to follow both a white woman and a black woman to describe the sexual and gender violence embedded in early twentieth century politics. The strategy definitely helped to paint the entire picture of the conflicting struggles of the Southern reconstruction. On the one hand, there was a push to preserve traditional Southern norms; on the other, pressure from the black community for inclusion and equality.

Both women were particularly fascinating, especially in their approaches and ideologies. Wells highlighted that the threat of rape and sexual assault was used as a tool of control, a justification of violence against women, and a way to maintain white male supremacist power. She was a radical voice and decades ahead of her time; her ideas were characteristic of activists of the women's movement in the United States in the 1960s. Felton started her political career by advocating for rights and protection for all women, regardless of race or class, but later completely switched her views to better appeal to the male audiences and supporters.

My initial reaction to Felton’s shift in politics was outrage. I was terribly disappointed, though not surprised, in her neglect and discarding of black women’s issues. I saw a parallel of second wave feminist activism and marginalization of women of color in Felton’s shift. Her lack of conviction was frustrating and left me wondering how history may have been altered if she had held true. The text also discusses more general ideas of Southern white masculinity, black masculinity, the convict leasing system, the politics behind lynching, and both women’s involvement in and victimization of lynching.

I admire and respect the way in which Feimster presented the two women. Her analysis of the events was critical and highly thought provoking, and I often found myself sitting lost in thought after finishing a chapter. While not a leisurely read, it was enjoyable overall. There was quite a bit of material to process and think about, and I often found myself wishing I had someone to discuss it with.

While it is relatively easy to find people to discuss the issues of race and class in the South in general terms, to really engage in the material presented proved more difficult. This book would be an excellent basis of discussion on early women’s movement and the intersections of race, class, and sexuality. It also presents many hidden histories of the South, which can be shocking and intense at times.

Written by: Liz Martin, February 7th 2010

The Southern Woman

admin — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 17:02:00 +0000

By Elizabeth Spencer

Modern Library

I grew up in the so-called New South, where there are sweet tea and skyscrapers, Gone with the Wind screenings in posh movie theaters, and Faulkner reading groups, but no stereotypical southern drawl and no cornbread. In an age where regional identity yields to interstates and chain hotels, can I still call myself a southern woman? After reading Elizabeth Spencer’s collection of short stories, I think I can.

Spencer’s South is not just a location; it is a kind of voice, a way of thinking and of speaking. “She was one of the old school of Southern lady talkers,” Spencer writes of one of her characters. “She tried to protect you from even a moment of silence.” So goes the conversation of Mrs. Harvey in “First Dark,” a story about a well-to-do Mississippi socialite struggling to come to terms with her daughter’s undistinguished suitor. In a volume that shifts from the bayous of Biloxi to the piazzas of Florence, voice, as much as setting, becomes the guiding force of Spencer’s fiction. Nearly all of her protagonists are women, and their voices—funny, shocking, anguished, and strange—propel the reader through story after story.

The Southern Woman is split into four sections: “The South”; “Italy”; “Up North”; and “New Stories.” Many of the stories in “The South” deal with rural landscapes, religious orthodoxy, and the legacy of slavery. In “Sharon,” a young girl first learns of the relationship between her White uncle and his Black housekeeper. Sexual awakening is the theme of the sultry “Ship Island,” about a girl from a poor family coming of age among Marine Club boys, eccentric millionaires, and a raucous adult Bible class. Spencer’s heroines are never dull; they break horses and chase ghosts through small towns and back roads.

The narrators in The Southern Woman often wrestle with family conflicts, and stories across all of Spencer’s geographies feature runaway relatives, errant husbands, and anxious parents. One of the most touching pieces in the collection, the novella “The Light in the Piazza,” tells the story of an American woman, Margaret Johnson, who brings her daughter Clara to Florence. Clara is permanently brain damaged from a childhood accident, and when she falls in love with a young Italian man, her mother learns to see her daughter as an adult for the first time: “a warm, classical dignity had come to this girl,” her mother realizes, “and no matter whether she could do long division or not, she was a woman.”

Spencer is not afraid to take risks in her writing, with mostly superb results. In some of the stories, particularly “The Business Venture” and “The Cousins,” the narrator’s voice is so intimate it becomes almost cloying. Spencer’s quirky characters are fascinating when they waver between the real and the fantastic. “The Finder” tells the tale of a man with a supernatural ability to find all lost things everywhere, and “I, Maureen” tells the story of a woman whose life changes after she experiences a vision in a flying piece of glass. Both of these stories exemplify Spencer’s dreamlike sense of comedy—a humor that both laughs and thinks.

Whether strolling through Southern farmlands or European squares, Spencer’s characters are fresh, funny, thoughtful, and, above all, honest. You’ll find someone to like in The Southern Woman, no matter how regional—or region-less—you are.

Written by: Barbara Barrow, December 4th 2009

Out in the Country: Youth, Media, and Queer Visibility in Rural America

admin — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 17:49:00 +0000

By Mary Gray

New York University Press

The town I grew up in—Athens, Georgia (pop. 100,266)—is generally known for two things: indie music (a la REM, Elephant 6, and Kindercore) and the University of Georgia, both of which play a major role in maintaining the town's liberal leanings. However, Athens doesn't lean too far. It's still a place where college football dominates from Labor Day to Christmas, and if you're not in church on Sunday morning, you are assumed to be riddled with sin.

Coming up in an environment rife with contradiction, I learned a lot about peaceful co-existence through plausible deniability. (He's not gay; he's just eccentric.) Sure, we had an annual human rights festival where the young and old listened to people like UGA law professor Eugene Wilkes speak about the need for student activism to combat the world's ills, but mostly they were there for the music. One can only ask so much from a small town in the South, and once my identity as a radical queer feminist began to set in, Athens began to feel stifling. So as soon as I was able to, I did as gay rights icon Harvey Milk instructed, and fled to the nearest city.

The city, however, was not the activist paradise I'd imagined it would be. I did find a lot of feminists and socialists and anti-racists and queers with whom I could link arms and "fight the good fight," but I lost that sense of community I'd always known at home. What good was knowing someone would show up at a protest if you couldn't count on them to show up when your car dies and you need to get to work? What good were late night conversations about Spivak when you couldn't tell someone you were late with the rent (again)? I knew I'd lost something in the transition from small to large, and while I was happy with what I'd gained, I still questioned whether it was enough. I wondered if it were possible to reconcile being in a place where no one is a stranger with the benefits one gains when one is able to be anonymous.

Enter Out in the Country: Youth, Media, and Queer Visibility in Rural America. I recently interviewed Mary Gray for WireTap Magazine after reading her groundbreaking new book about the myths and mysteries of being queer in small town America. The book resonated with me deeply, as Gray (herself a former queer rural youth) explains how the current gay rights movement excludes rural LGBTQ issues and constructs a queer identity that increases rural queer invisibility. She provides strategies for altering the course to address their needs without requiring re-location (a luxury that is not always attainable or desired) or conformity to a falsely homogeneous queer standard.

Out in the Country was like a breath of fresh country air—just what this Georgia girl needed.

Cross-posted to Bitch Magazine's On the Map blog

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, September 4th 2009

Frankly, My Dear: "Gone with the Wind" Revisited

admin — Tue, 26 May 2009 17:05:00 +0000

By Molly Haskell

Yale University Press

When I was about ten years old, my mother sat me down one Saturday afternoon and said “Sara, today we’re going to watch Gone with the Wind. You just need to see it.” That was over a decade ago, and I’ll never forget that cinematic experience, even if it did just involve sitting on the couch in front of a thirty-two-inch television and eating cherry turnovers with my mom.

I’ve always loved movies, but seeing Scarlet O’Hara (Vivien Leigh) taunt and toy with the people around her and demand what she wants had a profound effect upon my views of womanhood in both cinema and the rest of the world. Gone with the Wind remains, to this day, one of the few films I feel the need to re-visit on a yearly basis. And, despite her flaws, I still look up to Scarlet O’Hara with her green velvet curtain dress and “fiddle-di-dee” mentality.

If you know anything about classic Hollywood and the studio system, you’ve probably heard of the monumentally challenging efforts it took to bring Gone with the Wind to the screen in 1939. Its entire production, with the two year search to find the right Scarlet O’Hara, fifteen different screenwriters, and five different directors, is flat-out legendary. The film never should have worked on any level and yet, somehow, it did and still does for this generation. If adjusted for inflation, Gone with the Wind is the highest grossing film of all time, and it continues to be played regularly on television, DVD, theatrical revival circuits, and in the near future, Blu-ray.

In her latest book, Frankly, My Dear: "Gone with the Wind" Revisited, feminist film theorist Molly Haskell succinctly analyzes the history and hubbub of the landmark production as both a movie and a novel. She traces the film’s success, in terms of both box office gross, and at times, cinematic art, back to its three pillar figures: author Margaret Mitchell, producer David O. Selznick, and actress Vivien Leigh. Haskell sorts through their lives and their methods as if she were looking at pictures in a personal scrapbook and re-living the memories. Their towering personalities were the primary contributions to this melting pot of a film that made it work. As a classic film geek and fan of woman’s pictures, my favorite parts of the book dealt with the placement of Scarlet O’Hara as a feminist icon and heroine. Is she or isn’t she? Everyone feels differently.

A significant number of film theory/history books feel mundane because of their intense dedication to evoking every possible fact and foible. Frankly, My Dear, while still intensely dedicated, never feels monotonous or burdensome. Haskell, as a real Southern belle, feels at home in dissecting the step-by-step moments of Gone with the Wind and understanding the flaws and virtues instilled in its pages and celluloid as both a true-blue woman’s picture and racially confused melodrama. She’s as passionate about Gone with the Wind as Scarlet O’Hara is about her beloved Tara. And like Ms. O, Haskell digs deep into what she loves and won’t let go.

Whether you like the film and book or not, I think anyone who’s interested in history or pop culture will find Frankly, My Dear: "Gone with the Wind" Revisited remarkable because of Haskell’s passionate account and for the sheer enjoyment of learning about something bigger than life actually being made for mass consumption. Like Gone with the Wind, I’ll definitely return to Frankly, My Dear on a regular basis and happily place it on my bookshelf right next to my other favorite film books. And if you don’t like that, I don’t give a damn!

Written by: Sara Freeman, May 26th 2009

Terror in the Heart of Freedom: Citizenship, Sexual Violence, and the Meaning of Race in the Postemancipation South

admin — Fri, 03 Apr 2009 17:16:00 +0000

By Hannah Rosen

University of North Carolina Press

Hannah Rosen's Terror in the Heart of Freedom is an essential historical document. This text is a detailed analysis of the connection between gendered rhetoric, sexual violence, and the oppression and resistance of freed people during the reconstruction era. Rosen demonstrates a thorough understanding of gender, race, and power dynamics and how these issues are employed through politics on different levels.

Terror in the Heart of Freedom is not light reading. The subject matter is intense and often disturbing considering the brutal gendered and racial violence that occurred during the reconstruction in the United States. Rosen builds a virtual theatre for these events, illustrating the antebellum attitudes of many whites, the social and political situation of southern urban areas after the civil war, and the radical reclamation of public space by Black citizens at this time. The extreme discomfort that White people felt during this Black reclamation of space was palpable, and the violence that ensued was a reassertion of power on the part of White men. Hannah Rosen extrapolates on these events, displaying White men's recreation of a racist rhetoric that was used to oppress the newly freed population, and explores how much of this rhetoric was, in fact, based in gender.

One of the most poignant points that Hannah Rosen makes is in noting the repercussions for Black women speaking out about the sexual violence they experienced during this turbulent time. Rosen extrapolates on this further, explaining that these women were not only articulating their experiences, but were reframing the common narratives of Black women's sexuality, while also claiming their space as women and citizens. Indeed, as Rosen points out, in this process, they also challenged the conventional way for women to handle sexual assault.

Aside from the implications of sexual assault during the reconstruction, Hannah Rosen very concisely handles the intricacies of federal versus local authority at this time. This is no easy task, as the actual written law, and the de facto law of the time were often so contradictory. Rosen leads the reader through these complications rather gracefully, not allowing them to snag on the details. The grit of policy is extremely relevant here, and aids in explaining the dynamics of this very specific social atmosphere.

At 384 pages, Terror in the Heart of Freedom has over 100 pages of notes and footnotes. The text stands out as a meticulously-researched, well-written, and, most of all, vital historical document. Hannah Rosen has written a detailed analysis of the convoluted relationships between power, rhetoric, race, and gender during what could have been a period of victory for equality in this country. Consider it necessary for your history reading list.

Written by: Kate Wadkins, April 3rd 2009

Sweet Tea: Black Gay Men of the South – An Oral History

admin — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 00:50:00 +0000

By E. Patrick Johnson

University of North Carolina Press

The African-American community and the gay community have come under scrutiny since the passing of Proposition 8 banning gay marriage in California. Black voters reportedly came out in unprecedented numbers to support the ban, furthering the stereotype of rampant homophobia among the black community.

Northwestern University professor E. Patrick Johnson has compiled an excellent collection of stories and interviews with gay black men from the South in Sweet Tea: Black Gay Men of the South. A strength of this book lies in its ability to highlight the relationship between the gay community and the black community as well as the relationship between the gay community and the South.

Johnson has chosen to keep the interviews in the original transcribed versions. This ensures that each narrative is distinctive. The conversations are often lyrical and musical, particularly with the older subjects.

The stories inspire a varied set of emotions and responses—many are heartbreaking, some are infuriating, and there are a few that will leave smiles and chuckles. This text is extremely readable because Johnson steps back and allows for the narrators’ voices to shine through. For the uninitiated, a helpfully glossary of Southern or gay phrases is included.

Oral histories are important in the African-American community. During the days of slavery when it was illegal to teach black people to read, narratives were handed down to generations through oral histories. Johnson links his stories to that tradition by using idiosyncratic voices of his subjects.

The book is organized into different topics, which creates some confusion because the reader has to remember interview subjects who make appearances throughout the book. Topics range from growing up in the South, the "down low", and AIDS/HIV. Most laudable is Johnson’s inclusion of transsexuals and transvestites—a population that often is ignored.

This is an important book because Johnson provides a forum for a topic that is often shrouded in misinformation, cliché, and prejudice. Black gay men have the unfortunate burden of straddling two subcultures that are sometimes at odds with each other. After reading this book, readers will also learn that the South’s reaction to the gay community is more complicated than just "Southerners hate gay people."

Written by: Peter Piatkowski, January 22nd 2009

When Push Came to Shove: Mormon Martyrs in an Unrelenting Bible Belt 1821-1923

admin — Thu, 06 Sep 2007 23:21:00 +0000

By William Whitridge Hatch

Inkwater Press

William Whitridge Hatch originally started writing on Mormon relations in the South as a graduate student, and his work has become a life-long quest. In When Push Came to Shove, he studies the uneasy relationship and culture clash that Mormon missionaries working in the Southern states had with the local Southern “Gentiles” (the word used for any non-Mormons, including Jews).

Briefly, the book tells us that Mormons (particularly their pastors/leaders) were persecuted in the South after the Civil War. The author links this persecution to the “Mountain Meadows Massacre” – an attack by Native Americans led by Mormons on a wagon train from Arkansas headed to California where all men, women and children that could speak were killed. Part of the “Mountain Meadows Massacre” incident that was highlighted as particularly horrific was the killing of the women and children. It was the men who were at the front carrying the weapons and organizing the attack/defense, so the women and children were most likely unarmed.

The Church of Latter-Days Saints does not substantiate the claim that Mormons - including, most notably, Brigham Young - were involved is in the massacre. The author finds this denial suspect and points out other cases of violence. The largest incident involving a woman has to do with Parley P. Pratt. Pratt was a charismatic Mormon leader. A woman fell in love with him, left her husband and followed Pratt to the South. Her husband tracked her down and murdered her.

The book is thoroughly researched, and the author does a decent job in being unbiased since he places the massacre in a historical context where Mormons and “Gentiles” were by turn the persecutor and persecuted. While informative, the book is not particularly entertaining. It’s a bit of a dry read, and it was the first-person accounts that are occasionally used that were the most enjoyable. Women are given a backseat in most of the events that took place, as they likely were from 1821 to 1923. I would recommend it to scholars or historians, but few others.

Written by: Kristin Conard, September 6th 2007

Entitled to the Pedestal: Place, Race, and Progress in White Southern Women's Writing,1920-1945

admin — Wed, 06 Jun 2007 20:37:00 +0000

By Nghana tamu Lewis

University of Iowa Press

I have to be honest. This was not the easiest book to read or absorb. It reminded me of a book that might appear on a required reading for a college literature course. The author covers a lot of ground in her analysis of the construction of “the myth of white southern womanhood.”

In her extensive analysis, Lewis reviews the works and autobiographical histories, private correspondences, essays and lectures of five female southern white writers over a period of twenty-five years (1920-1945).

The five authors Lewis shines a spotlight on are: Julia Peterkin, Gwen Bristow, Caroline Gordon, Willa Cather and Lillian Smith. Not being familiar with the works of female southern writers also placed me at a disadvantage in reading Lewis’s critique, but inspired me to add Willa Cather and Lillian Smith to my reading list.

In her painstakingly researched critique, Lewis offers a new perspective on the role these female authors played in the reinforcement of plantation mythology and the position of white women in the complex structure that was southern society at the time. In introducing her thesis to the reader, she writes: similarities and differences among these writers not only deconstruct the white southern womanhood monolith, they also lay bare in this myth and the Plantain mythology a yet unrecognized heterogeneity…it is obvious to me that without the presence of white southern women of means, the social economies and gender politics born out of the myth of White Southern Womanhood and Plantation Mythology neither happen nor endure.

Lewis ends her book with her last chapter “Old Sites of Authority,” in which she describes how the film industry and popular culture continue to reinforce and reinvigorate these myths and stereotypes with films like Bringing Down the House starring Queen Latifah and Steve Martin. She points out that the blockbuster hit earned an estimated $31,680,000 and a number-one rating in its premiere week at the box office.

Written by: Gita Tewari, June 6th 2007

Firstlight

admin — Tue, 03 Apr 2007 12:09:00 +0000

By Sue Monk Kidd

Guidepost Books

When I read the introduction of Firstlight, Sue Monk Kidd’s new book, I was disappointed. I neglected to read the flap in the bookstore. After all, this was Sue Monk Kidd, author of The Secret Life of Bees, one of my all time favorite novels. I learned as I read that this book was a collection of inspirational writings from her early career, and these writings had been previously published in Guidepost, a magazine I related to my grandmother because the newest copy could always be found on her coffee table on any given visit. I almost closed the book without reading another word; this just wasn’t my kind of book. But my eye caught the explanation for the book’s title, _Firstlight _(all one word), a word she used to describe the light that comes just before dawn. I had to give the book a chance.

I did not make a mistake. This little book of early personal essays allows the reader to glimpse the foundation on which the author wrote her bestselling novels, which are acclaimed for both their simplicity and intricate details. The writings in _Fristlight _tell the story of Sue Monk Kidd in bits and pieces. In one story, we learn her husband loses his ability to speak clearly from a complication during throat surgery. The author tells the readers, in her early thirties, after reading Thomas Merton’s “The Seven Storey Mountain,” she knew she wanted to be a writer. Sue Monk Kidd takes us back to a front porch in the old south as fireflies dot the sky and folks just watch in no hurry. We are among the attendees at her grandmother’s funeral on a warm spring day in South Georgia. We struggle with her as she deals with the trials of being a mother and a writer in the seventies.

This book gives a positive take on life, and it lends the reader a sense of hope in times that dwell in the negative.

Written by: Ann Hite, April 3rd 2007