Anniston, Alabama is a town mostly left behind. It seems everyone but my relatives have moved on to greener pastures. My parents always remind me of what it used to be, but that splendor has settled. It is crumbly, but in a warm way. There is not a new building to be seen, no construction taking place, a constant reminder that things used to be built to last. There are hand painted signs for long gone businesses and a story to be told for every empty lot we pass.
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As a child I remember watching from the window of the car for stray dogs, looking for the one I’d want to take home, but there are much fewer than there used to be. For the most part the city is made of only black and white people. There is an authentic Greek pizza place called Mata’s that serves it pies thick with cheese, but older people will tell you it is not what it used to be. There is no real Mexican or Chinese food, for that you have to go to its neighboring city, Oxford, where you will still probably be disappointed. It keeps up with the times as best it can. Most major fast food chains are present, even if their dine-in areas close at 9pm, just like the grocery stores, and even on Friday. There is no alcohol sold on Sunday.
It is a place of unsuspected danger, sitting like a coiled snake; you have to be careful with its mix of urban ghetto and southern white heritage. Above all it is as close to a home as I’ll find, even though if you do the math I’ve spent maybe a year there out of all my 19 years on earth. Spending a week or so there every couple years, I see only how it never changes while my parents see only how it has. For all its faults, I am never ashamed of Anniston. There is no room for shame in such towns in the Deep South. You will not see it in the small Southern Baptist churches with broken ACs in the 90 degree weather. You will not see it in cramped houses holding 3 or 4 generations under a single roof. In fact, the only thing you will find here, and the thing that makes the South so distinct, is southern pride and joy.
Texas has been my home for 10 years, but it is a very different type of southern. Texas pride is illogical and presumptuous as pride often comes across. It stems from a belief in supremacy rather than merit. Rarely is it harmful, but even more rarely is it helpful. In many ways, it just is what it is. Anniston has a different kind of pride. A pride that stems from a sense of fulfillment. There are few newcomers to Anniston, which means pride for many comes from building on what was left to them, in keeping alive the memories of before. The house may be small but it has fit many a cousin, niece, and nephew over the years. We met my father’s father’s side of the family at a park just down the street from the only house I’ve ever known my father’s mother to live in. It is a tiny house plastered wall to wall with mostly pictures of my brother and I. At the park my grandfather tells me about how he listened to my valedictorian speech on YouTube every day. His pride is exuberant and I’m not sure how to respond. He pulls out a small digital camera and gets my help to work it and begins to snap pictures. Chances are he won’t be able to get them off the camera. In fact, watching that YouTube video is probably about as far as his technological expertise goes. I know that people are proud of me, and in general that people are proud of their own families, but in Anniston it is palpable. It is a source of contentment for many that they can be proud of others even if they can’t be proud of themselves. It is my theory that this is why southern hospitality is an ubiquitous phrase- when you are proud of everything you have it is that much easier to share it with anyone at all.
Pride can also be a barrier between people. The south is proud of every historical monument, event, and symbol. White pride in particular runs deep. On the drive to our hotel we passed a woman standing at an ATM, a large confederate flag on a pole flying boldly above her. Apparently she was just carrying it around town. Later on my brother decided to visit a nearby antique store where he was excited to find a stack of large, heavy cloth flags. He wanted an old American or Texas flag to hang in his apartment and was disappointed to find it was all confederate flags, about 10 total. It felt dangerous to me to see them, like hearing your first curse word. Southern pride is a dangerous thing. This was a flag that flew at lynchings; it marked streets and houses and businesses in the south where people like me were not welcome, where countless relatives of mine were probably turned away violently. This flag that at one time symbolized a lost war and is now a symbol of hatred was being sold many times over in the same antique store where they also sold an authentic paper fan from Martin Luther King’s funeral. Those were not the only confederate flags we saw in Alabama, and one state over the rebel flag flying over the South Carolina capitol had just been removed on July 10th, a week before our arrival to the Deep South. When considering my feelings toward the flag and toward the south I felt there was a compromise that many in the south just seemed unwilling to make: to be proud of the accomplishments and sacrifices while remaining mindful of the mistakes. Though I suppose the problem arises when people don’t agree that mistakes were ever committed.
For all its faults, there is joy to be found at every turn. Walking home from the park my dad stopped to speak to a woman sitting on her porch. She didn't remember him at first but was thrilled to learn he was "Essie and Danny's boy". She mentioned that her mother, the woman who lived there was in the hospital but rather than turning a happy moment somber she seemed even more excited to be able to tell her mother that she saw my dad. Anything can be a joyous occasion, even in death. The pervasive southern Baptist beliefs mean that the dead are leaving for only the most heavenly of reasons. Funerals are opportunities for small family reunions. There was a funeral while we were there, in fact, that my father attended for my great-great aunt. Unfortunately it reminded him of how old his grandmother is getting and I got to see firsthand that she is his joy. She is the joy he comes to the south to feel.
In my daily life true joy is rare. I am often happy, I am usually content, but I am rarely joyful. In Anniston there is a little bit of joy interspersed in everything. A lot of it comes from people vocalizing their gratitude. They are thankful to see another day, thankful for safe travels, for work and for God. Joy makes the smallest good things seem big and the biggest good things seem even bigger and the dark things just a tad bit lighter. Joy is what keeps these people together even when things may be falling apart. Even if there is nothing to be proud of, there is always something to be joyful about.
I don’t see much of Anniston, Alabama. It makes it strange to see friends with relatives so nearby when seeing my family has always been a once a year trip at most. But I am proud of my parents for coming from a place where no one had much and still finding joy in where they are from and I am proud of my family for making a little feel like a whole lot. We all come from somewhere
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*All photos taken by me in Anniston, Alabama July 18th, 2015