by Steve Beisner
In 1965, when I was nineteen,
Louisiana was at war with itself, as some of its citizens marched for the right
to just be, while others struggled with their consciences in a messy reaction
to the civil rights movement. Ultimately, I'm proud to say, Louisiana's
citizens, black and white, chose the right side of history.
In
the middle of that summer, I sat with three friends, and guitars, a banjo, and
harmonica on Doctor Loupe's front porch in the town of New Roads in Pointe
Coupee Parish. We were buoyed by changing times, adolescent optimism, and our
home-made music.
Our songs were anthems to better
days ahead. Our talk was of recent confrontations that had roiled the town. We
were singing an old Lead Belly tune when a raggedy pickup truck turned onto the
street, slowed, and stopped at the curb, twenty feet from where we sat. Two
men, the driver, a local loud-mouth, and his passenger and partner in poor
choices, peered at us.
The passenger eased the long
barrel of an ancient double barreled shotgun through the truck's side window,
resting it there, pointed in our direction.
"Y'all
wouldn't be none of those northern agitators, would ya?"
There
was a long silence. No one moved. Then Joe stood up, still grasping the neck of
his guitar, and walked to the edge of the porch. "What the hell you boys talkin' about? Any fool can see
we're just sittin' here by the river, tryin' to catch us a catfish
dinner." Of course there was no river and no catfish!
I
don't know if the men were completely confused by Joe's words, or just
embarrassed, but the driver hit the gas, the tires squealed, the truck
fishtailed down the street and disappeared around the corner.
I
knew some Louisianans who mourned the passing of officially approved racism.
Some are alive today. To a person they have embraced a new champion, one who
shouts euphemisms about making America great again. But it's the same old hate, same old fear.
Last
year as the good people of the United States contemplated a racist running for
the highest office, I sat with three friends in a cafe in Santa Barbara,
reputedly one of the land's more enlightened enclaves. We sipped coffee and
talked, trying to ease our shared election trauma. The talk was consoling, not
bitter nor angry, just sad.
At
the next table, a red-faced man with a voice loud enough to ensure that
everyone at surrounding tables could hear, growled, "Damned
pseudo-intellectual liberals... worthless, just living off the fat of the
land."
Everyone
laughed.
The
only things missing were the truck and the shotgun.
Sometimes
hatred falls by its own ridiculous weight.
about the author
Steve Beisner
South
Louisiana
native
Steve
Beisner
is
a
writer,
musician, and computer scientist. He has published
short
stories
and
poems,
and has been recognized for his short fiction by the Santa Barbara
Writers Conference and by Country Roads
Magazine. Steve was
editor of Ink Byte, the online magazine for writers. He is now
working on MetaWrite, an evolution of the word processor into a more
effective tool for the writer to compose, construct, and analyze long form
manuscripts. Steve
lives
in
New
Orleans, LA. and Santa Barbara, CA.
3 comments:
..into the eye the future, through the lens of now. Your narratuve of 'back then" fits so neatly into this moment. I am not convinced that the truck was not in the parking lot with a shotgun in the back and a robe under the seat.
Loved this essay, Steve. I'm so glad you were able to laugh at the SB loudmouth. Sometimes laughter is the only thing that can save us.
Steve, this is a wonderful essay. I can just seeing the Louisiana setting and hear the people talking. And laughing. Maybe that is, after all, what saves us in the mosquito ridden bowl of New Orleans, and the rest of the sane state.
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