Twisted Roots

Tuesday night, I watched the three-part PBS series Southern Storytellers. The series features a broad spectrum of creators: novelists, poets, songwriters, screenwriters. The first episode contained so many nuggets, I have to watch it again!

During and afterward, it had me thinking a lot about what it means to me to be from the South, how much of my identity is tied to this place. Over my lifetime, I’ve vacillated between shame and pride about being a Southern girl.

I’m firmly planted now, and forever, on the side of pride for the things I love most about it: the Appalachian and Blue Ridge mountains, the cultural heritage, the music, the language, the rich storytelling history, the food (pinto beans, cornbread, and sliced tomatoes, anyone?). I cannot precede any of these with ‘our’ (our music, our heritage, etc.); the South is far more diverse than most people see us.

None of the aspects of the South that I’m proud of deny the shameful parts, though. The parts that are hardest to acknowledge or understand, hardest to speak of or write about, but which must be known and not forgotten—those are why I am a writer.

The South is complicated. As a child, I was surrounded by confusing contradictions, just as Libby, the main character in my novel, is. None of the adults in Libby’s life will help her sort them out. Unraveling those contradictions is her burden to bear.

Prompt: Every place has light and shadow. List five aspects of the place you call home that fill you with pride and love. Then list five aspects that evoke shame or discomfort. How have each of these elements--the good and the bad--contributed to your overall understanding of who you are?