What's Inside Bearing Witness: Not So Crazy in Alabama

Table of Contents

Chapter Excerpts

For years, dear old mom tried find the perfect house. She went north to the Bronx, south to Brooklyn, west to New Jersey, and east to Long Island. The houses were either too old, too small, too far, the neighborhoods too rough, or the school systems too inadequate.

After years of fruitless searching, my mother decided that she wasn't going to find her dream home in NYC. She would head home, south to Montgomery.

Oh yes, she would have a house. She would be one of them - a member of the sorority of homeowners. No longer the changeling.

She talked about it all the time - the house. Showed me the blueprints like they were some kind of an ultrasound. The house was her baby all right built from the ground up. On a plantation no less.

Oh it's true. I saw the sign as we pulled into the subdivision from the airport - "Liliefield Plantation" right there chiseled in cement, surrounded by brick, complete with up-lighting and freshly planted pansies.

For a moment, my heart stopped. Read More.

She looked at me and paused.

"You don't look like yourself," she said as we walked down the stairs and out of the building.

I was meeting my friend Lila for lunch one day at her state job in a bland rectangular building on a corner in downtown Montgomery. We were on our way to grab a bite to eat - a bite was all that I could have eaten that day since I was recovering from the stomach flu.

I know. Too much information.

Lila is a special person. I really mean that. She is from Rome and has a glorious melodious accent. Every vowel is wonderfully elongated. She makes saying, "Hello" sound...well...truly fabulous.

We met in the world of books at Barnes and Noble where she also works.

She also works in the world of municipal government and just took a hiatus from her work in the world of theater. She has so many jobs, she would put a Jamaican to shame.

No one can accuse Lila of not being straightforward. So when she made that comment, I immediately took it to heart.

I knew what she was talking about. She had only seen me at my most casual best - bandanna tied around my head like a kerchief, sweat pants and sweat shirts, sneakers or sandals.

Here I was, wearing a long skirt, well past my ankles, a nice maroon sweater zipped up the front with a high collar, and a WIG.

Yes, it was a reddish brown mop of a thing that I had tried hopelessly to style into something resembling modern but a long way from "hip."

I hated that wig and it knew it. Never, never did it look quite right. And adding insult to injury, it made me look OLDER.

But that wig was a part of my formal, public persona. I wore it during openings for the cultural institution and even in the classroom. But as soon as those occasions were over and I went home and stepped across the threshold, I snatched that thing off and flung it on the nearest piece of furniture. Read More.

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