Southern Memoirs and Other Books Written in First-Person

I use the term "memoir" loosely here. All of the following are written in first person, and that's enough for me.

In the last post, I hinted that King would be among these. In the end, the Florence King book I was going to include didn't make the cut. It seemed a little "one of these things is not like the other." But maybe I will include it in the blog at a later date. If you want to check it out on your own, the book is Southern Ladies & Gentlemen, published in 1975 and very hard to find. (I scored a copy at a thrift store some five years ago.) Warning: King is bawdy, bawdy, bawdy. And laugh-out-loud funny. If you're looking for a genteel, mint julep, sweet tea Southern memoir, keep looking. This one ain't it.

So, let's share some memoirs, shall we?

Queen of the Turtle Derby (and Other Southern Phenomena) by Julia Reed, 2004; Random House

As Mardi Gras festivities come to a close next week, it seems only fitting that at least one Southern memoir makes mention of the celebration and the city that hosts some of the grandest parades and parties in the country.

Mississippi Delta native Julia Reed divides her time between New York and New Orleans. She says living in New Orleans is "not unlike living in the Old Testament," with flying Formosan termites, violence, sweltering heat and high humidity and mosquitoes so numerous that the city formed a 24-member Mosquito Control Board.

Like I can say anything about my family, but nobody else can, so Reed can write these things about New Orleans because it's her city. She is equally honest (not critical) about rural Mississippi and the country club class of Nashville.

She reveals the inner workings of a debutante ball and explores the "secretive, Byzantine, often fantastic culture of Mardi Gras." Debutantes and Carnival, she explains, are "inextricably intertwined."

Only in a memoir--a Southern memoir, actually--could anyone devote equal time to debutantes, tenderloins and George Jones.

Mama Makes Up Her Mind and Other Dangers of Southern Living by Bailey White, 1993; Addison-Wesley Publishing Company

Somebody broke into my house and stole my copy of Mama Makes Up Her Mind, and that's just wrong. I've looked high and low, and while I did not file a police report, know that I am ticked off. To be honest, the book wasn't mine to begin with. I just never returned it. But still.

So I checked out a copy from the library so that I could refresh my memory.

Bailey White is one of those quintessential modern-day Southern essayists whose work is solid and witty enough to be featured on All Things Considered. Born in Thomasville, Ga., White writes what she knows. But it's not that smarmy, screen-door, fried-chicken variety Southern memoir that urges you to read her essays again and again. She's above that.

The stand-alone chapters within Mama Makes Up Her Mind are, at once, laugh-out-loud funny and poetic, but you don't have to deal with the outlandish crap that makes some Southern memoirs seem unbelievable. White's tales are simply honest. And simply well-written.

My aunt Eleanor thinks I should marry her nephew Kevin. The fact that Kevin has to lie down with a cold rag on his head after an hour in my company, and the fact that I can't seem to breathe normally when I am in the same room with Kevin, and have to go out on the porch and gulp air every ten minutes, does not signify to Aunt Eleanor.

"But your families are so close," she pleads.

"Our families are the same, Aunt Eleanor," I point out.

"A little inbreeding in a strong family is not a bad thing," she pronounces with a smack. Just the thought of inbreeding with Kevin takes my breath away, and I have to put my head down between my knees.

This is just one girl's opinion--it being my blog, after all--but the key to a good Southern memoir is subtlety. Too much of a drawl, too many bug-catching, peanuts-and-Coke, rope-swinging tales, and you're at risk of crossing the line into cliché. White manages to steer clear of that line. She can let you know, for example, that her mother's favorite movie is Midnight Cowboy and that her Aunt Belle once tamed an alligator in the Georgia swamps, and you not only believe her, you want to hear more.

Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank by Celia Rivenbark, 2006; St. Martin's Press

Do I really need to say any more than what the title already says? Maybe a few lines, anyway.

Celia Rivenbark is a North Carolina humorist who either has or had a newspaper column. She writes primarily about life in the South, but she is particularly adept at pointing out things that tick her off. In the chapter of the same name, she bemoans her daughter's transition from the 4-6x department into the 7-16 area, where she determines, "My baby was growing up. And apparently into a prostitute." If you have daughters, you know how true this is.

Whither the adorable seersucker? The pastel floral short sets? The soft cotton dresses in little-girl colors like lavender, pale pink, periwinkle blue? This stuff practically screamed SYRINGE SOLD SEPARATELY.

She goes on:

Who decided that my six-year-old should dress like a Vegas showgirl? And one with an abundance of anger issues at that? ... I hope you won't take this the wrong way--you, the mom on the cellphone flipping your check card to your kid so she can buy the jeans that say SPANK ME on them.

There's much, much more where this came from, all wrapped up in a tidy pink package in hardback. I received this book for Christmas two years ago, and it resurfaces every couple of months so that I can reread favorite chapters. That's the beauty of a collection of essays: the level of commitment isn't so high. Read. Put it down. Pick it up a few weeks later.

Uh-Oh ...

Time got away from me over the holiday weekend. Blame it on basketball. And my favorite deli. And a last-minute Saturday road trip. And the sleep deprivation that followed. And another road trip scheduled for today. Maybe if I kept my rear in the chair and not in the car ...

Memoirs are chosen; blog is not written. That Monday post I promised? Look for it THURSDAY. I will make it worth your wait.

(For those who enjoy hints, the names are Reed, King and White. And maybe a surprise or two.)

And the Winner Is ...

Stephanie T. from Houston, Texas! Stephanie will be receiving a copy of Vince Antonucci's I Became a Christian and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt. I don't know you, Stephanie, but I hope you will gain something from the book and will then pass it along to someone else who can benefit. Congratulations!

Stephanie's entry in this week's give-away was one from a record number of participants. "Record number" being easy to achieve because it was the first such contest. But you loyal and kind readers have set the bar high, and I appreciate your interest in this new blog. Plenty more give-aways to come, I promise.

To the kind Canadian who sheepishly entered with an apologetic "I'd love to win this book if you're willing to mail it to Canada," I am just letting you know that as long as the USPS stays in business, I can cross all kinds of borders. Don't let geography hold you back. Throw your name in the hat every chance you get.

A reminder: Look for a new post Monday, when I review a few Southern memoirs. (Some are actually compilations of essays, but I figure if they're written in first person, I can call them "memoirs." It's my blog; I can do what I want.) And even if you live in, say, Canada, I'm certain you'll find something you'll enjoy ... if only just the titles of the books. Crazy.

Happy weekend. And if you live in the United States, happy LONG weekend as you celebrate your favorite president on Monday. Throw a barbecue, sleep in, buy some new towels and linens, whatever floats your boat.

Why We Hate Us: American Discontent in the New Millenium by Dick Meyer, 2008; Crown Publishers

The library called and said it wants its book back.

So I returned it. Twice. And then I checked it out again. Maybe I should just buy the thing and be done with it. I've read it through several times and would like for everyone in the world—or, at least, everyone in MY world—to read it and follow Dick Meyer's lead.

In Why We Hate Us: American Discontent in the New Millennium, Meyer has managed to put on paper all the problems that we have brought on ourselves, continue to tolerate (foster, even), but are unwilling to put an end to. Parents who are afraid to be parents for fear their kids will suffer; restaurant diners who can't put their cell phones down long enough to place an order; reality television; the self-marketing of teens through Facebook and MySpace; technology overload; 10-year-olds with cell phones; a self-centered society that is so far removed from what many adults grew up in yet participate in at full speed.

A reporter, producer, online editor and columnist at CBS News in D.C. for more than 23 years, Meyer now serves as editorial director of digital media at NPR. So he knows his stuff.

As I read the book the first time, I wanted to shout, "Hey, I hate that, too!" Take OmniMarketing, for example. Meyer uses this term to describe that strategy by media to get us "to do dumb things, like paying for water in labeled bottles and buying SUVs that are less safe and more expensive to run than almost all the alternatives." He tells the personal tale of shopping for a washer and dryer—something he describes as a "nuisance errand." He and his wife found the cheapest models, he approached the cash register to pay, and made the mistake of asking the salesman if this was a good deal. "Yeah, short-term. It's fine." And then the sales pitch cranked up, and next thing you know, Meyer was standing in front of the Bosch machines and preparing to fork over $5,000 for the pair, simply because the brochure indicates that these machines can maximize the longevity of his family's wardrobe. Fortunately, his wife's wisdom prevailed, as she said, "When was the last time you did laundry? Can you imagine that our happiness could possibly increase by one iota because we have a better-engineered washing machine?" This is but one example of how we are preyed upon...and how we let it happen. We find ourselves making "choices about things that never before entered our consciousness."

We reward bad behavior with celebrity; we permit our kids to listen to music with lyrics that, a generation ago, would have been forbidden; we stop the world to watch C.S.I. shows showcasing autopsies and crime scenes. We've become desensitized. And we have no one to blame but ourselves. And that is why we get on our own nerves. It is why we hate us. But Meyer is not all gloom and doom. He points out all these things for the first 228 pages as a prelude to Chapter Nine (the final chapter). He gives us hope and direction by driving home the need for authenticity. "This means constantly making thoughtful and unselfish choices about matters both essential and seemingly trivial."

To be honest, Meyer started losing me with talk of pluralism, pragmatism and radical empiricism, but I did get this part: "I believe and hope that there is a unity about why we hate us and that it might someday be channeled to shift the tone and direction of American public culture. Americans who seem at odds in so many ways share basic worries and hopes. This is obscured in the noise of politics, the flood of media, and the pace of everyday life...Lacking deep community that can make change more tolerable, we find it difficult to walk in another's skin. Americans feel attacked and have hunkered down. We emphasize differences and diversity, not a deeper unity. That is a paradox of pluralism. That's the way it is. It is not the way it must be."



I Became a Christian and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt by Vince Antonucci, 2008; Baker Books

I found a Books-a-Million gift card in a coat pocket back in November, and just before tossing it in the trash, I called the 800 number on the back to check the balance. Imagine my surprise when I learned that the card still had a balance of $5.32. So I did what any person in such a situation would do: I drove to Books-a-Million and spent just a little more than $24, minus the $5.32. It was a savings I couldn't resist.

Among my purchases was the book you see to the right.

Clever cover, intriguing title, perfect timing.

I was going through a "thing," an unfortunate and puzzling "thing" that left me confused and, frankly, a little ticked off.

Long story made short, our church and our family were no longer a good fit. But if we were the same people we were the day before, last week, even 10 years ago, then why was this suddenly no longer a good fit? It. Just. Wasn't.

Author Vince Antonucci suffered similar angst, finding Christ at 20 years old after studying the New Testament, but becoming bored with Christianity all too quickly. He was going through the motions, "playing" church, following the rules. He describes his fellowship with Christians as being part of a "boring, stale religion."

Crank that up a notch by adding frustration and disappointment, and there you have me, only a few short months ago. I was disappointed and frustrated, but not with God. I didn't claw my face and ask, "Why? Oh, why?" I knew these were all earthly problems that would somehow play out for the better. As a person who did not grow up in church (I was baptized in 1997 with a bunch of 8-year-olds), maybe I had some sort of advantage. Blind faith or ignorance, perhaps. Within days, I saw that God had different plans than what I had laid out for myself. Like the old saying goes, "If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans."

And so you can see why this book caught my eye. Good timing.

The clarity is overwhelming. I see now that the when, where and who all came together to lead me to where I need to be--physically, spiritually, emotionally. Whether this book added to that clarity is anybody's guess. Sometimes it's just nice to know that you're not the only one dealing with a bunch of crapola. Antonucci makes a bold statement: The more honest among us find ourselves asking questions like: Is this all there is? Is this really what Jesus meant when he said, "I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full?" Is this the life Jesus died for me to have? Didn't Jesus pay too high a price to buy me this life? Am I just supposed to be miserable until I get to heaven?

Antonucci asks himself some meaty questions and encourages believers to ask themselves the same:

* In the Bible, Jesus led his followers into dangerous places. Do I often find myself in dangerous places? And if not, what does that mean?

* Despite being completely righteous, Jesus attracted the worst of sinners. Are sinful people drawn to me, or are they put off by my so-called righteousness?

* Am I living in a Christian bubble? If so, why does the world scare me?

There's so much more within these pages that strengthens a Christian—how we have to break out of that bubble, how we have to shed the image that the world sometimes casts upon us, how we have to stop "playing church."

I can't give this book a wholehearted endorsement because the writing is, at times, a little simplistic and juvenile, but the message is crystal clear. Turning your back on Christianity—on God, even—may sometimes seem the easiest route. Bad situations, flimsy "souvenirs" as Antonucci describes them, and disappointing circumstances can, if you're not careful, pave a fairly direct path right out the sanctuary door. Maybe in some ways this book helps roll out the welcome mat and invite you back, so that you can go back out into the world and do what you're supposed to do.

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Now, if you've made it this far through this post, you will be pleased to learn that your time has been well spent. In this blog, I will occasionally inject a little raffle action—no tickets necessary, and you do not have to be present to win. Certain titles have served their purpose in this house and deserve to be passed along so that others can grow, learn, laugh, help keep my house clutter-free, whatever. I Became a Christian and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt is the first to be raffled.

If you would like to receive my personal copy of this book, please e-mail me your mailing address to cates (dot) amy @ gmail (dot) com. (The address is spelled out to prevent big doses of fatty, artery-clogging spam.) At the end of the week, I will randomly choose a winner and mail the book in the absolute cheapest manner possible. Like media mail. Or Pony Express. But I will mail the book. If the winner is a person I know and happens to live nearby, I may just stick it in his/her mailbox or hand it over in the carpool line. All I ask of the winner is to do the same for somebody else after you have read the book. You don't have to raffle it or host a blog. You can regift it to your mother-in-law at Christmas, pass it along to a neighbor who has the flu, or choose some other deserving recipient. Our own little pay-it-forward scheme, you see. Like a stimulus package for literacy.