The northern Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper presented an unflattering portrait of southern white womanhood in a May 1863 illustration. The depiction contrasted sharply with the view promoted by plantation elites of virtuous southern white mothers and wives who obeyed and deferred to men. The panel on the left showed southern women “hounding their men on to Rebellion.” The panel on the right depicted them “feeling the effects of Rebellion and creating Bread Riots.” The latter panel referred to the Richmond bread riot, which took place on April 2, 1862 when several hundred women frustrated by food shortages and high prices broke into shops and stores to steal food.
Source:internethistorymatters.gmu.edu/d/6745/
mom wired money after an S.O.S.

photo/srk/1966

Civil War
©1/7/02/srk

I

Pies and Bread

It was 1966

in the heat of the 12,000 BTU summer

after running away from home to Florida

at age seventeen,

on a two-week lam.

Told my parents they were “stupid,

and seventeen years too late.”

I was wedged between Seward Park High School,

CCNY,

and raging hormones,

in a rented car

next to the 18 year old man I would

eventually marry,

though both too young,

eating in diners with

signs on the walls:

“we reserve the right to deny service

to blacks and Jews.”

The formica was greased by pork,

The waitress was southern fat,

her face young and round and dumb,

she lisped when reciting

the names of pies,

so pecan pies

sound like “pecan p-eye-th”

and there were key lime pies

and fear,

because we were Jews.

The billboards reflected the

Civil War:

“Even Yankees Like Southern Bread,”

“I’d Even Go North for Southern Bread,”

And through the Everglades we went,

On to Daytona Beach,

Where I was

too young to buy cigarettes,

But not too young

For the cheap motel rooms.

or the need,

or the hunger,

for love,

for lust, or

for burgers at 2 a.m.

The author speaks:

This is the first of a three part poem, and like many of my pieces, it is confessional, and reflective of earlier years.  It’s pretty much explanatory, however I like to point out nuances that a reader might not get, to enhance the comprehension of the work.

This piece is about transitions in life, the bridging of adolescence and adulthood, a stage in life when we think we know everything and know nothing, when we make big errors and can’t find the eraser.  When we live and learn.

This was my first time away on a plane trip, fearless, invincible and astonished at how backward this southern experience seemed, so much so it was frightening. 

The carefree teen who started college thought she was old enough to act like an adult.  Here my boyfriend and I went to another state, rented a car and drove hundreds of miles.  What were we thinking?  That there was nothing wrong with it.   And after having a screaming fit at my parents, they were there for me and wired me $100.  I can’t believe I still have the telegram.

It was another country, mid-60’s Florida, one of the most exhilarating places on earth, because to a city child, it was different, exotic, exciting.  And in many ways, so primitive.

So here you have the juxtaposition of the free white kids, driving through diverse areas of terra incognito without giving it a second thought, but knowing deep down, there was a price to pay; we were in a place that had a very different reality. 

This as a closing piece.   Almost all the work I have posted since I started blogging around April, 2007; was written during a sabbatical.  The good news is, I am hoping to self publish and start sending to magazines and journals; I have a new, but small body of work I will begin posting in the near future, the theme is couples and relationships; this 3-part poem serves as a link from the past to the present.

I am not a prolific writer; I don’t pump a poem out every day; sometimes I do not write for months, and it creates high anxiety. But I think constantly, I write in my head and when it’s almost cooked, I put the words to paper. I fear I will run out of ideas, and then what?  It took me years to sit down and write the sabbatical series—it took a sabbatical and someone to report to in order to get it done.  What if I can’t pull more rabbits out of hats?

I feel like I must post an original work each week, and I will try.  But I might be busy printing and editing and researching what I feel I have to do to get “out there.” So please bear with me. I couldn’t do this without all you guys behind me.  Just think of me as the dragon fly between the window panes.

I was blessed with a memory for detail, a sense of humor, and a good imagination; I feel lucky.

But I feel luckier because I have such good supportive friends (and family )

Sue

******

~Comments from the parallel universe of Yahoo~

First, take as much time as you need with your book. We ARE behind you 100% and can’t wait to get our hands on a Sans Souci original :o).
Second, as a Southern woman born, raised, and cornbread fed in the South, I can understand your excitement when you hit the Mason-Dixon Line. By from the state of Katrina/Rita, LSU BCS Champions, Zydeco music, and New Orleans we’ve had plenty of people come to my state just to marvel at our heritage and traditions. I’m hoping you enjoyed your stay in Florida as much as they enjoyed having you, even if it didn’t feel like that at the time. Just thought I would speak up for the South LOL.
Lastly, your poem brought up my own experiences at seventeen. I was bound and determined to get married because I knew it would last and my parents were wrong. I planned to be married before he was shipped half way across the world just so I could go with him to see the world. I knew better then they did. I didn’t need college or a break from the heat of passion to see if love was real or not. I just knew I had to be with him or I would die.
Almost 20 years later, OML it WILL be that long ago in Dec. :o(, I realize I should have listened to my parents. My marriage last five and a half years, had two children. The love of my life left me for another woman. And the dreams of living happily ever after were destroyed. THANK GOD! LOL.

Your work is like an hourglass with never ending sands. I love your stories. Always here for you as you start your book…you know this. Looking forward to the read.

This was unexpected…and I don’t mean this in a bad way. What an experience to have gone through!
As usual when reading your work, I really FEEL what you were experiencing.
You succeed in conveying an atmosphere and time in your own personal history with your uncluttered and carefully chosen words.
I am glad to learn that your parents DID send you the money(I know certain parents in similar situations wh didn’t).
LOVE the greyhound racing pamphlet art, AND the old Cypress Gardens pamphlet(did you go there?)

Dear Sue, Both of us have gone to the archives for our offerings this week and a similar feeling permeates our poems. The awareness of a big, inimical, unfair world and the way that we perceive it through youthful eyes that are full of wonder, but also wide-eyed astonishment at its unfairness and cruelty. Your poem touches raw nerves, as much good poetry does or should do. Your writings often make me feel physically as well as mentally uncomfortable and good writing should do that – transport us outside our comfort zone. I look forward to the next installment.

“Where I was too young to buy cigarettes, But not too young For the cheap motel rooms. or the need, or the hunger, for love, for lust, or for burgers at 2 a.m.”
All of it is wonderful, but I love this last bit most. The primal need to satisfy hunger… with the proper food. Excellent. I’m glad your mother was able to help you when you needed it. If it had been me with my parents, especially my mother, there would have been a very different message sent to me. I’ll be watching for the rest! -janeen