Notably, so called black cemeteries that were abandoned because those “folks just don’t care” was disproven. When the plantations folded during the depression, auctioned off and petrochemical plants took over the land – especially along the transportation corridor of the Mississippi River – graveyards were cut off from their communities. Former white plantation owners family plots were bequeathed to remaining blacks, in hopes they would persevere. Thus, forensically it was just as likely to find white burials in an old cemetery that was once a white plantation or church. Many blacks fled to northern states or were forced to leave through segregation well after emancipation – they did not willingly abandon their ancestral burial grounds. Of note, most cemeteries were either black or white, but some community and prominent cemeteries had a black section which was far more interesting in grave marker design – segregation after death persisted. And don’t get me started on the “heretic” cemeteries – protestant burials that could not be inside the City limits of New Orleans, repeatedly abandoned for higher ground on the outskirts and built over as condos or the Superdome – nothing can stop the machinery of development once the profits have been calculated, remains of coffins raised as the pylons are driven down.
Often abandoned black graveyards were destroyed or cut off inside the levee while the same Corp of Engineers levy project built around a nearby white church and cemetery – they are paying the price now when there is cemetery revetment. White cemeteries were often established on top of levees or mounds, that is prehistoric Indian burial mounds – identified by Kniffen in the 1930s as a currently in use cemetery but in the 1990s abandoned and showing the signs of like of care. Old southern blues lyrics lament the loss of heritage, a connection to a graveyard or burial – a sense of belonging and keeping “daddy’s grave clean” – typically due to flooding but the past 50 years reveal another culprit is to blame for a lack of “perpetuity” in placing the dead for which we pay a high price. A sense of belonging is something that our modern culture lacks altogether – a lack of space, speed over distance on the interstates, and time to visit are limited to Memorial Day if everyone is buried in the same cemetery. In the past, people would picnic in cemeteries. Graveyards are my favorite places to walk the dogs, to ruminate about the past and speculate about the buried and their relationships based on their position, proximity or marker and its statement about them. Cemeteries make great neighbors!
Black persons in the South continue to experience hardships through segregation, i.e. in schools. They still live in shot gun houses which are named for the layout like a saltine cracker box for which a shotgun blast through the front door would exit through the rear. Many generations of one family were living in tight quarters in these 800 square foot wood structures. They were passed down through the generations for more than 100 years, descended from slaves. Inadequate transportation services, driver licenses and insurance restrictions limit access to amenities for blacks, and perpetuated segregation. During the 1960s, public pools in this sweltering hot place were filled in with concrete rather than share with blacks. By the time I left, the public golf course allowed blacks to join but schools were still segregated to the extent that people would leave the Garden District plantation style homes to keep their kids in a white school.
While surveying cemeteries in a rural area, I drove past an abandoned looking weather worn old wood house that had a front porch and elevated on stilts for the air to pass under and alleviate the dead heat. It didn’t seem possible that anyone would inhabit this house, but in the evening when I returned, there were several people sitting on the porch in the coolness of the slight evening breeze. Often, as I passed people would wave, not knowing whether they knew me or not just a simple southern congeniality.
I lived on the border between the upper class Garden District and lower class former slaves housing, in a small World War II house – perfect for a graduate student – owned by a middle to upwardly mobile black landlord. My class status was low – single white poor female and I didn’t belong, but I adopted a Southern accent out of self defense which was obvious but as I was told appreciated – ‘you gots to roll and drag out that “R” in Orleans til it no longer sounds like an R, let it roll over your tongue lazily and drawl it out, either do it right or don’t insult us, yu’awl.’
The generosity of southern blacks, to mow my lawn because I couldn’t come to terms with the whole lawn thing – a never ending task in the south. Or, in another one of many instances, offering road side assistance although I prepared to defend myself with a tire iron or flee into the swamp and take my chances with the alligators (or is it crocodiles? In either case I never saw one) when two large black truckers approached my disabled vehicle. They changed the tire in spite of my protests, and had me back on the road quickly, with a flat refusal to be paid for their time and effort as it was their Christian duty. I met several black men with gold insignia on their front teeth – one a champagne glass, another spelled P-E-R-C-Y – one letter per tooth. Like mine once, a shooting star, some kind of kindred spirits in free expression. And, was invited to several barbecues but not some of the more incredulous festivities, such as a pig hunt that lasts 3 days including the eating of it.
In the South, I felt strongly my lack of belonging or having any identity with their hundred year requirement for acceptance – I would never make a debutante which by the way still exist but are talked about less, essentially a rich man’s daughter’s coming out party or the equivalent to the Mexican quinceanera. My Australian shepherd/cattle dog Buddy and Pete the Frisbee catching Border Collie were my only companions and eagerly served in cemetery pictures as black and white scale tools – posing on decaying and opened burial crypts. And I never felt so panicked as I was driving into a town that had a banner over the main street for a “Spank Fest” that evening, as in no limit on “spanking” anyone I suppose or Spanky the Little Rascal? I didn’t wait to find out . . . southern humor is tricky, sweet like molasses but deadly as a fly strip.
An addict popped up once in a cemetery and scared the beejesus out of me. And, in one of many times, I was trapped on the Atchafalaya Causeway due to an accident, five hours in, the bucket brigade made its rounds for the “ladies” to relieve themselves. As people got comfortable, they began playing musical instruments and dropping fish lines off the bridge, I heard a banjo playing Deliverance in my panic-stricken head, just as the freeway opened. (I took advantage of the generous offer of cell phone use to leave a message for the dogs to hold their water, I’d be home soon!)