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Closer Than Ever

The Mississippi Earth Everywhere

By GeekGalPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 5 min read
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Closer Than Ever
Photo by Justin Wilkens on Unsplash

I finally joined a book club during the lockdown, something I've wanted to do for too long. Anyway, that's how I found out about Jesmyn Ward and the book I'm currently reading, "Sing, Unburied, Sing." Before that, I was unaware of this African-American author from Mississippi. So I dived into Google for a bit and found that she has also won a couple of notable awards.

As a newcomer to North America, the Black Lives Matter movement has inspired me to learn more about what it means to be a black person in modern America. So, I thought I would start my education by reading the works of black writers. In "Sing, Unburied, Sing", Jesmyn Ward takes us on a journey through the lives of her characters, as she explains, informed by the people in her community.

And although I grew up in a small town near the Pyrenees on the other side of the Atlantic, those traits resonate in an unlikely memory. Our family was one of the first immigrants to settle in a small town in the region. Both my parents are from different countries, just like their parents. In addition to Spanish, my family spoke other languages ​​and prepared traditional dishes from at least three other countries, separated by oceans and tectonic plates. Such edibles did not leave any of my friends indifferent, and that look on their faces! But that's not the point.

In a way, we were representative of that "citizen of the world" notion, long before we knew the term existed. As I write now, I hear these words "because a citizen of the world is a citizen of nowhere” a citizen of nowhere, I wonder, is that even possible?

However, I can see how for people like us, who lacked the perks of social cohesion, a network of friends and acquaintances, and all that comes with geographic proximity, you know, a kind of afternoon complacency to see you safe and secure, those words discharge rays in the guts. And I don't think they have to make the front page of political commentaries, because there is nothing unintended in politics, or is there?

Reading Jesmyn Ward's novel, like I was going through generational racism, is not my claim. But I've seen those ripples close enough to know that they can engulf a single human being. Her work is fundamental to me because it allows for reconciliation. I can understand racism as a broader phenomenon that has profoundly affected entire populations in the United States and elsewhere and continues to do so. This is how, as a reader, I momentarily become part of that story. The story opens up in Mississippi, at Pop and Mam's house, near the chicken coop and the goat pen. Pop is tired and hunched over from years of hard work at Parchman Penitentiary, and Mam is breathing heavily in her room, barely making it.

Suddenly, I start hearing that southern accent, y’all know what I'm sayin’, and I think I can speak it too ( though I will never get rid of my accent). And I don't care because what matters is that feeling of belonging to a bigger-than-me-story. Because Jojo's fight could be a brother's, and if I could sneak Pop a hug, surpassing the limitations of skin colour, education or socio-economic background, I would. And if the soul of that tortured young boy, Richie, could slip through my rib cage, I’d hear his premature wisdom, over and over again: " Home ain’t always about a place…” “...Home is about the earth. Whether the earth opens up to you. Whether it melts and y’all one and it beats like your hear…”

Thanks to Jesmyn Ward for allowing me to be a part of that story and sharing universal truths about what it means to be human. The 13th-century Persian poet Rumi says in the opening of the poem "Hear the reed-flute" that the story of the crying flute, which makes men and women cry, is the pain of separation, below are the first four verses of a translation by Jonathan Star ( 1997):

1. Listen to the song of the reed,

How it wails with the pain of separation:

2. "Ever since I was taken from my reed bed

My woeful song has caused men and women to weep.

3. I seek out those whose hearts are torn by separation

For only they understand the pain of this longing.

4. Whoever is taken away from his homeland

Yearns for the day he will return.

For us, that’d be the longing of not belonging to a would return-to-place. But as I delve deeper into "Sing, Unburied, Sing," my pain lessens for those who cry are never alone. At this stage, does it matter we didn’t enjoy a diaspora to celebrate festivals ? or find support in a small provincial town that saw us grow?

What matters again is that our experiences did not prevent us from being part of this world. And this is a matter of choice, which is also a recognition for all those with whom we share our humanity. This is a citizen of the world, to me, it has nothing to do with politics or a panel of fierce intellectuals who enjoy sinking their bloody fangs into arguments like rabid dogs.

And, just one more thing, folks. The way stories travel freely beyond geographic and mental boundaries, reaching further, closer than ever, is something else to add to that idea of ​​"citizen of the world." Don't you think?

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