SPONSOR: Adrian A.
This project compared the cultures of Southern America, specifically Alabama, and San Francisco through my personal experience. To prepare, I read different excerpts of books to gain more background before writing a short essay about a specific experience I had a few years ago. The essay explores the complexity of family and politics in a very important time for both.
My family stood in the Atlanta airport wearing black dresses and bowties. Speaking only to ask for lip gloss or mascara, I tucked collars and searched through bags for patent leather loafers in a family bathroom that reeked of humidity even in the fall. Despite our clothing and somber faces, we blended into the busy airport, full of every emotion. Tears of joy and sadness, of reuniting and of saying goodbye. Friendly southerners in eye-catching red t-shirts were eager to greet us with “Make America Great Again” and give us high fives. We all observed the celebration contribute to the chaos and cacophony of accents in silence until it was replaced by the car radio.
The day before, I rang my doorbell three times to let my family know I was home from school but was filled with worry upon opening the door. My mom gathered my family in the living room and we anxiously fidgeted on velvet couches too formal for good news. I ripped the loose hem of my pleated uniform skirt and hoped I wouldn’t hear what I was expecting. My mom’s face was revealing and her news surprised no one, but the pain of losing a grandmother shocked us all. The rest of the night was a blur of suitcases and newscasters’ voices but the counted votes felt insignificant. I pulled a simple, nondescript black dress from deep in my closet that had been given to me as a “funeral dress just in case.” I noticed the slanted drop waist, the dress’ only defining quality, with her love of sewing in mind. Even the news of Trump’s victory wasn’t able to take our minds off of the emotional day to come.
Even as it began to get dark, the energy and joy in Alabama were palpable. People sat on white porch swings with sweet tea, almost glowing with contentment and delight. I stared out the window, people watching, as my parents described our family in southern accents that were already getting heavier. “There might be some people you don’t recognize, but know that everyone is hurting.” Walking in felt like being back on the airplane; every word hushed, creating the illusion of white noise. We were greeted by somber hugs from people who vaguely resembled us and any trace of political enthusiasm was gone. We moved and spoke steadily, just as she had moved through life. I learned that she planned her kids’ birthdays so they would be old for their classes, and decided where to buy her first home based on school zones. We remembered her generosity and willingness to fill any role in her community, and her strength as she taught middle school through her chemo treatments. We even laughed about her old dog that bit everyone except her when we were growing up. Stories were told late into the night. I found photos of the dress she spent all day teaching me to sew and letters she sent me, in perfect cursive, during my months at camp. With three brothers of her own, she gave me advice for handling that chaos that I keep in mind to this day. Despite how we felt about the recent news, there was nothing but solidarity that night and for the next two days.
The following morning, I processed to the front pews of a church for the service wearing the same black dress that now felt heavier in this formal setting. Her favorite pianist, who led every hymn, brought back memories of the holidays we spent at her house with him, playing duets of “Jingle Bells” late into the night. She was the first person to sit down at a piano with me, just as she had with her children, and I still play today. My brother, only six at the time, still cannot play “Amazing Grace” without crying at the memory of her service. Her four children and husband sat in the front row as her best friend described the course of her life, wearing her favorite color: a bright, almost cobalt blue. We stood, again to sing, and her twelve grandchildren recessed hand-in-hand.
We drove immediately to my cousin’s home and the mood shifted dramatically. I was directed to the table of Chick-Fil-A on a silver platter, casseroles, and sweet tea, and eagerly loaded my plate. I jumped on the trampoline with cousins and talked about school and as we would see them for Thanksgiving. A day that had felt so formal and mournful now felt like a celebration of life that matched the feeling I had felt in the airport.
After hugging everyone goodbye, my grandfather lit a fire and I opened my phone for the first time that day to texts of support from friends. I sent them links to the hymns we sang in the service, trying to make them understand how moving it was, and they described a very unusual school day. “It felt like a funeral”, they said. Four hundred girls sat on the floor of the school gym, many in tears, wearing plaid dresses or navy pleated skirts. Instead of singing “America the Beautiful”, as we had practiced for months before, students sat for a reading of the Pledge of Allegiance by the head of school. The teachers, standing around the perimeter of the gym, wore black dresses and heels instead of their usual attire. To end the assembly, students gave each teacher a hug and were told that spaces would be provided for support. It was shocking to imagine a gym that usually held sports games and PE instead filled with similar emotions to the ones I had experienced that day.
The San Francisco I returned to was angry. “Not my president” stickers decorated Hamlin’s carpool line and my classmates ranted about “the idiots that let this happen.” Though I couldn’t say I was happy myself, I constantly felt the need to defend the people I had just left. Every conversation left me conflicted, pulled hard by two extremes. Regardless of political affiliation, it was impossible for me to feel the same anger as those around me when the people they were describing were the same people I had just hugged goodbye in the airport. The comments made my face grow hot and my chest tighten, somehow making me as angry as the results of the election itself. I grew increasingly frustrated that I didn’t fit into either extreme, with an emotional connection to my family and an upbringing with people who completely contradicted them. I put up walls to avoid complexities that I didn’t understand and today still am hesitant to engage in political conversations. I couldn’t find a middle ground that captured both the respect I had for my family and my own beliefs; choosing one felt like neglecting another part of my identity. It was one of the first times I felt like I had to decide to decide what I believed entirely on my own, but I was not mature enough to understand the complexity of that.