Letter from the Road #3

Detour

Kentucky was not on my original routing for the drive west. That changed after I sat next to a husband and wife on my flight to DC. I think her husband was quite happy for me to be engaged with her so he could play black jack. After describing my upcoming journey to her, she recommended Lexington and the surrounding region for consideration of places to hit. Coincidentally, my friend Peter reminded me that Lincoln’s birthplace was in Kentucky. Wanting to bolster the notion that this was truly an unscripted journey, I took their advise. I made a righthand turn at Oak Ridge and headed north to Lexington and Frankfort. From there, I would turn south towards Nashville, passing through Fort Knox and Hodgenville.

Lexington is the horse breeding capital of the world, as I imagine you know. Prior to the Civil War and the early years of Reconstruction, the Belle Meade Plantation near Nashville was the leading thoroughbred breeding spot in the US. Most winners of the Kentucky Derby to this day can trace their linage to Bonnie Scotland, a racing champion and prodigious stud. Bonnie Scotland not only won prestigious stakes in the United States, he traveled to England and won Epson Downs in England. The horse farms surrounding Lexington seemingly roll into one another across the gentle hills of the northern Kentucky. Lexington is a clean and relaxed city populated by comfortable red brick houses. I visited Daniel Boone’s gravesite in Frankfort. For a state capitol, I was expecting something more button down. Sadly, it really appeared down on its luck.

In advance of visiting Fort Knox, I made the mistake of doing insufficient research. I took a 30 mile detour to visit the fort. Ever since James Bond rescued our bullion from Goldfinger, I’ve wanted to see the vaults for myself. Arriving at the U.S. Army fort, I entered the visitor center expecting to walk out with a pass. The Military Police Sargent informed me that there were no tours. And to my disappointment, the circular brick building made famous in the movie, had been torn down years before. So, I asked, “where’s the gold?” My innocent question, was left unanswered leaving me to speculate it had been traded for bitcoins or traded for favors with despots. Or, just maybe, Goldfinger really did abscond with the bullion and Pussy Galore. The only thing I could reasonably conclude with my unanswered question was there would be no going back on the gold standard.

President Abraham Lincoln, perhaps our greatest president and the one arguably from the most humble background, has been honored with an impressive monument marking the place of his birth. Located on Sinking Spring Farm, near Hodgenville, Kentucky, the site was dedicated in 1911 by President Taft. John Russell Pope, famous for designing the Jefferson Memorial, designed the Greek Revival granite structure. The sturdy and simple building is fitting of the man who saved our union and ended slavery with the Emancipation Proclamation. However, I am troubled by one aspect. Inside the monument sits what at the time was believed to be the log cabin where Lincoln was born. Carbon dating has since revealed it wasn’t, dating the cabin to 1843, well after his birth. Displaying a fake cabin in the monument to someone who was anything but fake feels disrespectful. The cabin should be removed and something truly authentic replace it. One of the original duplicates of the Emancipation Proclamation documents gets my vote. After all, his birth made possible the first major step in the long march for civil rights in our country.

Special Note

Nashville and Memphis were unexpectedly emotional. Rather than providing a separate travel narrative on each city, I will share with you the set of experiences that moved me. The themes best to capture these are Chiquita and Johnny Cash.

I appreciate the private messages I have received from many of you. I'm grateful you are enjoying the blog. Some have gently hinted I need better editing as it relates to grammar and misspellings. Finally, a few readers have engaged me in a discussion or made a travel recommendation. I take all of this constructively. It keeps me on my toes and mentally engaged. So, thank you.

Chiquita

You will recall one of my goals for this journey was to come to a better understanding of the civil rights movement including the state of play today and identifying some ideas that could help move the ball forward. Tennessee was seismic for opening my mind and heart to a different perspective. My preceding visits to Montecello and Durham turned out to be pivotal by raising questions. I cannot tell you how much the specter of alienation and apathy gnawed at me as I made my way to Tennessee. I compared them to a decease that silently eats away at the core and only identified when it’s often too late.

Arriving in Nashville, my first stop was the Frist Museum, a repurposed U.S. Post Office dating from the 1930s. Truly a handsome structure adorned with gleaming black and grey granite. On exhibit were Dorothea Lange’s stunning documentary photos from the 1930s through the 1950s that memorialized poverty and segregation in America. Originally dispatched by the U.S. Government to capture images that would justify the effectiveness of its programs, instead Ms. Lange returned with pictures of diabolical poverty among farmers and migrant workers. Later on she would capture the bewilderment and disruption experienced by Japanese Americans when they were interned following Pearl Harbor. The message was simple. The government’s propaganda had no roots in reality and was designed to create a certain perspective. How much of our history is written to pervert our thinking? This was an important observation to carry to my next Nashville experience.

I booked a walking tour of Nashville highlighting important locations associated with the civil rights movement. The tour originated at the beautifully restored art deco Woolworth building in the center of Nashville. The tour was led by Chiquita, a late 20s African American woman. I could not have chosen anyone better than Chiquita to lead the tour. Johnny Cash’s A Boy named Sue, passed through my mind as I listened to this effervescent, articulate, and powerful communicator bring alive the Nashville civil rights story. Her mother named her after the United Fruit brand. I wondered if like Sue, her name drove her to develop a compelling and powerful personality that commanded respect. Chiquita had me at “hello.”

Thinking there would be a sizable group gathered for the tour, I was disappointed to learn there would only be three of us. The other two were a couple from Adelaide, South Australia. What a statement!

It turned out the Woolworth lunch counter was ground zero for the sit-ins that began in Nashville in 1957. Six well dressed, respectful, and courageous young men took seats at the lunch counter with the intent of being served. Instead of a “Hi, what will you have?” the waitresses greeted the young men with mean and condescending tones declaring “you cannot sit there, N-word.” Over the several weeks of the sit-ins, the young men increasingly were roughed up, spit upon and demeaned. Without fail, they never returned the anger. Instead they turned the other cheek and moved on, congregating at their churches to review and adjust their strategy and returned the next day to once again occupy what was rightfully theirs.

Imagine not being able to enjoy the simple pleasure of a cup of coffee or slice of pie at a lunch counter! For a nearly 100 years after the Ciivil War and 200 years of slavery before that a significant segment of our society was denied simple dignity. I began to understand that my knowledge of the of African American experience was limited. My knowledge was in many ways choreographed much like the government attempted to whitewash reality with the intended work of Lange. This became vividly apparent walking through the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis. The previous day, Chiquita and I engaged in a conversation about race relations. I asked, “what would engender trust on your part with the broader population? Her answer, “be authentic in your actions and present our history thoroughly and not in a way that is untruthful. Be honest.” There was no bitterness in her reply.

The National Civil Rights Museum is in downtown Memphis and is co-located with the Lorraine Motel where Martin Luther King was assassinated. The museum traces the history of slavery in America with rich material, artifacts and illustrations. I walked through the museum at a deliberately slow pace in order to really soak in what was on display and observe others and how they reacted to the exhibits.

I never fully appreciated the social stigma associated with slavery for African Americans until now. It’s not lost in a generation. Behavioral patterns survive generations as they are passed from one generation to the next. Affirmative action and anti poverty programs attacked the symptom, not the social stigma and associated psychology. The museum visitors were mostly African Americans. They could not have been sweeter or more courteous as we moved through the exhibits. The stories told with the accompanying displays were haunting and disturbing. I found the juxtaposition of the exhibits and these remarkable people overwhelming.

I began to emotionally lose it observing people photographing themselves sitting in the back of Rosa Park’s bus. I could not help feeling they were reenforcing a lesser image of themselves. I totally lost it when i came to the exhibit and actual film footage of the lunch counter sit-ins. I was ashamed. My people had failed to live up to their Christian upbringing. Yet, Jesus was alive in in the heart and actions of my museum compatriots. Their loving heart had been passed down to them. That’s a real legacy. Forget the silver, I would rather have the heart.

Next

Johnny Cash and the brother of another mother.