NC Poet Laureate Kathryn Stripling Byer has featured the Dead Mule on her Poet Laureate site as a part of her celebration of National Poetry Month. Read Kathryn’s poems in the Mule, when she was our featured poet laureate in 2007. And just think, none of this would be possible, if Valerie MacEwan hadn’t started [...]

Southern Legitimacy Statement:

Twenty years ago, I moved with my family to Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina one month before Hurricane Hugo made landfall. Our home and almost everything we owned was damaged or destroyed. As the landscape resurrected and we slowly rebuilt our lives, my emotional connection to the Lowcountry was profound. My poetry embodied that connection. Despite the destruction and damage surrounding us, there was something about the landscape that seemed to match my interior landscape.

In “Prince of Tides,” Pat Conroy wrote “My wound is my geography.”

Perhaps this statement is true for everyone, but it is particularly true for southerners. The larger wound has to do with the legacy of slavery, which created enormous wealth and socio-economic disparity in the Charleston area. Now, as rapid development rubs against a traditional place where a sense of history is palpable, the resulting contradictions are inherently fascinating and continually inform my writing.

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Editor’s Note:

It has been my experience—over the past three years, in soliciting poems from Poets Laureate of Southern States—to have encountered some of the kindest, most genteel Southern poets that I know. The Dead Mule looks forward to publishing one Southern Poet Laureate each April.

Please welcome our third Poet Laureate Mule Poet, Marjory Wentworth, South Carolina Poet Laureate.

Southern Legitimacy Statement:

I was born in Oak Ridge TN; my family were a mix of Indiana corn farmers and New England teachers, and my folks were in Oak Ridge because my Dad was a physicist who worked at the labs after WW II. We moved north to Cleveland when I was two, and then to Massachusetts when I was twelve, but some summers we would go back to Oak Ridge, drive the Blue Ridge Parkway and I understood the Appalachians stretched from Georgia to Maine, and that when I was in the Berkshire Hills, a long way south the same ridges fell away towards the shore.
I started back south when I went to UVA, a place more blueblood than Southern if you ask me. My son was two. When I finished my course work I moved south to Durham NC, and I’ve lived in Durham since, fifteen years now, longer than I’ve lived in any town, and I don’t see myself moving soon. My son graduates from UNC this spring, and when we met my wife’s relatives (who live in Oak Ridge) and had some barbecue, her step-grandfather watched my son eat and said “Well, he’s a southerner. I like the way he looks you straight in the eye.”
When I’d lived in Charlottesville, which never felt like home, I kept having a dream I was back in the Connecticut Valley, spinning around the streets of an old mill town, so happy to be under that sky—ecstatic really—and then I’d wake up, and while it was grim to see I was in Charlottesville, I was also glad, because there is no going back in life.

And then, when I moved to Durham, I suddenly felt that what had been happening was that I’d been dreaming of a future town I was going to live in, but had had to use the only image I had then to say it, that old town I’d left and wasn’t going back to.

Somehow Durham looked right, all its shambling and mix of houses, and red clay. And maybe its because the same people—Scots and Scots-Irish settled here as settled in Western Mass—and so there was the same practical approach to things. A lack of pretense and getting about things, and a bit easier too, winters without hats and camilias in December.

I came here to put a root down; I’d been sick throughout grad school and I’d spend my first four years here disabled, but the root took. Ground—stubborn, surprisingly generous red clay—let that root drop deep, then way tap roots do. This is the place I’ve healed and where my work’s begun, and where my son’s become a man.
In July and August, we’re blessed by another alien that’s flourished—crepe myrtle—throwing its color out spectacular despite the heat as if to say “it doesn’t stop blooming, it doesn’t stop”, and it is a satisfaction to see that.

And then I think back to one of the first nights we were here. I was driving with my ex-wife and we got lost and turned around. I was looking for signs and it was June and I saw a tree with thin frond-like leaves and pink tasseled blooms, and I pointed to it—I’d never seen one before, and I am not a botanist—I pointed to it and the name just sprang to my tongue, “That’s a… mimosa.”

And so something about me and who I was was recognized.

Southern Legitimacy Statement:

Pennsylvanian by birth, I came to North Carolina almost 14 years ago by way of Key West, where I had lived for the previous three years. So I have a few claims to being an authentic Southerner. One is that by living in Key West, I lived as far South as you possibly can and still stay in the United States. Another is that by vowing never to live further North than I am right now, I have staked my claim to the South as my home for as long as I live. In Key West, where residents call themselves “conchs,” you’re considered a “freshwater conch” if you live there for seven or more consecutive years. I hereby deem myself a “born-again Southerner” for living happily in North Carolina for 14 years!

Southern Legitimacy Statement:

Although I was born in the state I call the most Southern of the Northern Midwestern states—Indiana—Southern Indiana—I was born in Johnson County (Franklin) I grew up in rural Florida—southeastern Hillsborough County, in a place called Riverview. Actually, we lived on 20 acres, and had no neighbors for years. Just a gravel road, and horses and pigs and chickens and goats lots and lots of dogs. German Shepherds. And we lived on these 20 acres in a mobile home, and yet we attended a great parochial school in a very urban area of Tampa called Ybor (pronounced e-Boar) City—Our Lady of Perpetual Help—and nearly everyone there was Cuban. And so we ate biscuits with gravy, grits, and often, fried rabbit, fried quail, or even fried squirrel for breakfast, and then lunch at school was a Cuban sandwich and black beans or the Spanish dish, picadillo (ground beef, bell peppers, rice), or chicken and yellow rice. And this makes me incredibly Southern, because we are this weird amalgam, aren’t we–of grits and biscuits, and fried animals, and Catholic schools and people who fled Castro, and relocated Northerners in the state that I say “has no personality” (Florida) because I keep asking, “everyone is from somewhere else, there really is no ‘real’ Florida, is there?”

The creek near us was called Bullfrog Creek and my Daddy held Mud-Boggin’ races, where folks raced vehicles in–you guessed it–the mud. And I’m certainly Southern now that I’m able to call myself a “native Atlantan”. I made up the rule that after you’ve lived here–Atlanta, the bosom of the South–at least 5 years, you get to call yourself a native. I’ve lived here for almost 25 years, and I cannot imagine having a party without a Coca-Cola cake (a chocolate cake made—Southern-style—with Coca-Cola).

Southern Legitimacy Statement:

Birthed in the border state of Missouri, I crossed that border as an adult and never looked back. With the exception of five years in Alabama, I lived my entire adult life in Louisiana.

Southern Legitimacy Statement:

Once upon a time, there was a handsome young man named Henry*, who was legitimately born and raised in the South. He liked this beautiful girl named Betsy*, who, incidentally, was also legitimately born and raised in the South. They got married (in the South, of course, since that is where they were legitimately born and raised.) Then, they moved to a place called Greensboro, North Carolina (no doubt, in the South.) A few years later, they had a baby named Susie, while they were already legitimately married, so I suppose this makes Susie legitimately born in the South too. Although Susie (which is almost her real name) was raised in Florida, which is even further south than the South itself, she decided she wanted to return to the South and go to a place called UNC-G. With some legitimate southern hard work, she graduated with a degree in Mathematics and Spanish, and subsequently got a job. A little while later, Susie got married—to a Northerner, but he is a very nice fellow, and the South seems to like him, so this makes him southern by adoption—and they had a cute little southern baby (legitimately, of course.) All along, Susie even wrote stories, essays, and poetry, all in a place called the South. So, all told, I suppose the logical conclusion of this silly little story is that—if there is anything logical about this story—Susie legitimately likes the South, and is quite legitimately a Southerner at heart. The End.

*Names have been changed to protect their “Southern Legitimacy,” not to mention their privacy, and the fact that they might not want to be associated with such a silly person.

Southern Legitimacy Statement:

I went to graduate school in the sunny South, in Charlotte, N.C., and had a wonderful time, eating my first okra (I had no idea what it was when it appeared on the plate, but grits I had an inkling) and learning that yonder is a perfectly suitable direction (a bit of which I explore in one of my submitted poems) and that ya’ll includes everybody (the PA Dutch equivalent of you guys and the Philly equivalent of yous). There is definitely a soft spot (and a slew of fond memories) in my heart for the land below the Mason-Dixon.

Southern Legitimacy Statement:

We hunted here where I live now, between Cleveland School (near Clayton) and Benson [NC], my rural route. And I was born at home in a three-room plankhouse just restored. It’s out in the pasture, home to bluebirds and martins (when they come in end of February).

In “Playing Dead,” a possum I made up is based on the years my father and brothers and I hunted the possum for my mother to barbecue. And as the years went by I wanted to give back to the possum, our only native marsupial. My father had 35 dogs, foxhounds, and one named Butler was a good possum dog. He never got off track.

I hope my possum is a kind of every person, trying to get through the day. And the mother? She could carry up to 22 or so little ones on her back. Think of that!

Southern Legitimacy Statement:

I bought my first pair of Ray-Bans in Miami, lost them in the Miami River.

Dove in the Miami River, lived on the water in Key Biscayne.

Counted windows on the liners tugged up Government Cut.

Got strangled by my best friend outside a bar in Coconut Grove.

Shot bad pool in the Lucky Strike on SE 5th Street.

Named “Honorary Rebel” by Willie Morris in his inscription to my copy of North Toward Home.

Drank bourbon with Willie and Deanie Faulkner and Jaybird.

Tubed the Tickfaw with wait staff from Maspero’s.

Gave blood at a Camp Street plasma bank.

Made groceries at Schwegmans, drank martinis at Cosimo’s, fell down on Dauphine St., passed out on Bourbon, saw the Fleshtones at Jimmy’s, Boozoo at Richard’s, Doopsie at Slim’s, Fess at Jazz and Heritage.

Took pictures with Syndey Byrd, posed alongside Big Chief Ferdinand Bigard.

Lost a first cousin in a motorcycle accident on the streets of New Orleans.

Southern Legitimacy Statement:

5th generation Texan. Born & raised in Houston, Texas; survived Hurricane Carla (had a crawfish boil) after Tropical Storm Allison came thru, & 19″ of rain, another crawfish boil… Hurricane Ike, no crawfish, no gas, no lights… So I decided to move up to the Hill Country. aah hills. Now it’s tornadoes, year long burn bans, & cedar pollen. Not sure about any kind of fish population, for the moment; all of the lakes are mighty low around these parts. My Grandmother went thru Galveston’s 1900 storm, at the age of 18; held on to an Oak, along with brothers & sisters. Great Grandmother Brummerhop, I’m told, was waving a shovel at the clouds, as the storm roared by. I use mine for snakes.

Southern Legitimacy Statement:

I have lived in North Carolina my whole life (except the first 6 months of it and the first 6 months after graduation from undergrad when I lived as far away as Virginia). I grew up in Pasquotank and Perquimans Counties, went to college in Greensboro and ended up in Charlotte.

My great-grandfather was supposedly Cherokee. But his last name was Driggers AND he may have changed it to hide from the law. So . . .

And then there was that time in high school when I said “ya’ll” in front of a German exchange student and then had to explain. Good thing he didn’t ask me the name of what I was eating and drinking at the time. Heaven forbid I had to explain an RC cola and a moon-pie.

Southern Legitimacy Statement:

Despite being born in central Texas, I was raised among the wheat fields of Oklahoma. Where the lazy hawks swooped through tornado alley and we all would get sick from eating too many crab apples. The land of the Indians, the outlaws domain, and the center of Big XII football was my home for 10 years of my youth. Now, living south of the Red River, I enjoy the winter season in shorts and sandals, a snow cone while Christmas Caroling, and wonder why anyone would want to shovel snow. If that is not enough to prove my southern legitimacy, please note: my grandparents are second cousins!

Southern Legitimacy Statement:

I, Corey Mesler, though born on the Northern border of our country, in a honeymoon city, am married to the South. I have lived in Memphis, Tennessee, since I was five. I grew up in the suburbs where the sweltering heat did not keep us off the streets, nor make us think twice about our corkball games, our street football games, our forays to the gas station for Grape Nehi. In 6th grade I was taught to play the drums by the drummer of The Gentrys. Something in me was set to percolate. When I finally grew up, sometime in the last decade or so, I was Southernized to the full extent allowable by law. I have been churched by Reverend Al Green, schooled in prose by Shelby Foote, colorized by Bill Eggleston, and sent to hepcat heaven by Big Star. This is my South, the one that parented me as surely as did my soft-in-the-middle Northern Dad and my glamorous Canadian Mom.

Southern Legitimacy Statement:

I am southern because I live south of the Mason Dixon line. I am southern because I love the chicken dumplings at Cracker Barrel. I was born in Pittsburgh, PA and will always argue against the label of southern, which by default makes me southern.

Southern Legitimacy Statement:

Born in GA, raised in MS, and VA, I’ve benefited from a long line of hardheaded peckerwoods who didn’t care what anybody thought, tempered with Southern intellectualism, and blessed with living on the Eastern Shore of VA, which is like living in a fishing/farming area in the 1950s.

Southern Legitimacy Statement:

The truth of the matter is this: The minute I open my mouth to speak, I give away that I’m Southern to the bone. Yankees laugh, correct my Southern speech and make me mad as heck! I feel as though my IQ has been lowered 20 points by the time they get through with their remarks about my accent.

I am a native of the Blue Ridge Mountains of western North Carolina. I grew up surrounded by Appalachian heritage and mountain people. Granddaddy Ledford plowed the cornfields with a mule, I helped Grandma Ledford churn buttermilk, and sat at Mama’s knee and watched her stitch scraps of cloth into a patchwork quilt.

My family used home remedies such as putting snuff on bee stings, wearing a lard and sulfur rag on your chest for a cold, and taking a spoonful of moonshine and honey to ‘bust up’ a cough. We also took our Saturday night baths every week before going to church on Sunday.

So I’m Southern to the bone and might proud of “hit”.

Southern Legitimacy Statement:

Even today when my energy is low because of a cold I see my Aunt Nina coming at me with the bottle of Vicks Vapo-Rub. How I hated that sticky ointment and the statement I knew would come out of her mouth, “If you would quit going outside with your hair wet, you wouldn’t be sick now! Though I now live in Oregon, I have infused into the people who work for me the knowledge of, “Lit up like Levi’s.” This was a department store in downtown Louisville, Kentucky that at the turn of the century had a LOT of lights. People used the expression, “Lit up like Levi’s,” whenever they saw what to them was a preposterous amount of lighting. Every time someone left on a trip the words hearken to me from long ago, “Don’t watch them out of sight, its bad luck.” WE still have our superstitions. If you drop a fork, a woman is coming. If you drop a knife, a man is coming. If a bird gets in the house and sings on you’re bed, God help you.

Even though I was born in Northern Indiana frequent visits from a seemingly endless amount of cousins kept my accent skewed towards the South. I remember my first year of school when I had to explain to Mr. Rust, the principal of West Township High School that someone had stolen my towel. “Mr. Rust my taaal is missing.”

“You’re what?”

“My taaal.”

“What is that?”
“The thing you dry your self on after gym class.”

“Son that’s a Ta-wool. ” I don’t think even he had it quite right but communication improved gradually.

Every summer we returned to Louisville (Loo-eh-vuul) to visit our relatives. My mom would take us to Cherokee Park and show me the great rock in the river that supposedly had three bodies under it from when it fell. She showed me the big hill they used to wait by, when they were roller-skating. Now they were not at the top, but waited at the bottom for a car to slow for the turn onto the hill, and grab its back bumper to ride to the top. Many skinned knees and hilarious stories came from those times.

My cousin’s house in Corydon, Indiana, which was just across the bridge from Louisville, was up in the hills, past the church with the blue Iris’s. I would have so much fun there. They did not have running water, but they had a cistern. They grew tobacco and had cows. The cows were a never ending source of pleasure as they often “got out.” “Russell, Cherry is out agin’.”

Motivation was not a top priority in my family. Their extended fence was a single line of barb wire around several acres. Russell would yell, “Get ‘im dogs,” and charging out from under the porch (I swear to God this is true) came a bunch of dust and dirt covered dogs, barking ferociously, heading straight for poor Cherry. She knew the game and hopped the wire and the dogs returned bearing their heads high with Southern dignity.