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Reckoning With our Racist Southern Heritage
This is our moment. It’s time to do the hard work of changing the stories we tell ourselves.
Growing up and living in the South is like living in a fishbowl. Every day you swim in the water of racism. You can’t escape it. You can hide in the little pink castle, but the water is still all around you.
I was born in 1962 in a little rural town that was in the shadow of downtown Atlanta. Mine was the South of magnolia blossoms scenting the summer air, riding bikes until dark, church potlucks of fried chicken, potato salad and peach cobbler. Manners and propriety were the rules of society. Ladies wore gloves to church, children were to be seen and not heard, and if adults wanted to insult someone they always said “Bless her heart” at the end.
Mine was also the South of segregation and racism. The South I grew up in was dominated by whites, with blacks merely playing a supportive role. It was a somewhat gentler version of slavery. It was the world I knew, and I could not help but be indoctrinated in the covert belief system of white supremacy and white entitlement. It wasn’t called racism. We were taught it was “proper.” As long as everyone knew their place, things were fine.
