I'm not just a Yankee. I might be the worst kind of Yankee by most standards. Born in the newest of Yorks, one of those Liberals that believes himself more 'middle of the road', and from a long line of - shall we say - uppity Black Folk. That is to say my family owned land, were well educated, and were from about as far south as our kind could be and still accomplish all they had. Virginia to be specific.
Now I'll say this right up front... Race is not a part of this story so you can keep reading without concern for my particular politic, but I thought it important to provide a little context. What this story is about is how I learned about the burden of “knowledge” and how sometimes - just sometimes - it might be better to forget than forgive.
You may click this or any image to see a larger version.A few years ago, my wife and I registered for an industry conference in Atlanta, Georgia. It was our second year doing this conference and this year we chose to drive from Florida, where we live, so we could squeeze in a trip to visit a friend in Huntsville. After perusing the maps we decided it was best to stick to main roads, which meant we’d go from Atlanta all the way up to Chattanooga Tennessee and southwest into Alabama. Needless to say, this Yankee was NOT pleased by this idea, but my wife had her heart set on seeing this part of the country and what my wife’s heart wants, it gets - most of the time anyways.
It was beautiful! The drive, the locals, the landscape… I was so nervous about this trip that we drove from Atlanta to the Tennessee state line without so much as a bathroom break. But when we finally did stop at a McDonald’s just over the state line I began to realize that the stress and anxiety I carried all this way wasn't the fault of these places. It was a burden I’d willfully placed on myself.
It was Sunday, late morning and my wife and I walked into a crowded McDonalds to find every employee was black and nearly every patron was white. A clear line in the sand to my mind and supporting evidence that all my concerns were well founded. So there I stood, on the wrong side of the counter, with clinched jaw and fists and my white wife, waiting for what was surely inevitable - and here it came…
A man and his wife ahead of us in line turned and gave us a look. “I always say we shouldn’t come after church because the line is so long,” he chuckled. A minute or two later my wife and I had become part of the standard McDonald’s post prayer platitudes I imagine everyone else in the place was accustomed to. This was the first in a chain of interactions that would make it clear to me that the heaviest bag I’d packed for this trip was the one in my mind. Somehow, I had opted to pack up all the ugliness I’d ever heard or read and bring it with me. I didn’t call it what it was. I called it caution or preparedness. I may have even called it safety, but all it really was was a giant, heavy sack of fear, and I knew that if I kept carrying it I would ruin this entire trip for my wife. So I resolved to lose my baggage before I sent foot in Huntsville so that I might see the place instead of my miserable expectations of it. And that I did…
The Central Florida aesthetic is all palm trees and giant oaks with a deliberate smattering of crepe myrtles for color. Huntsville is oaks and dogwoods and cherry trees and so much more.
It’s a city where engineers live next to magicians, where brains and brawn are the same thing, and where stories have carbs - lots of them.
I’ve seen so many Southern Cities sacrifice their futures to preserve the past but Huntsville isn’t one of them. It embraces both with equal vigor so it has collected many pasts. From original train stations to Apollo Rockets, Huntsville’s take on history seems to be that there’s lots more to make, and it’s that sense of perpetual motion that made it so easy for me to fall in love with it. As odd as it probably sounds, it’s a lot like New York in that way.
But my wife and I's love of this place would be set in stone when we met The Duck Man.
We took a seat in a park after walking the city for a time. The feet needed a break, or maybe it was divine intervention?
There we sat at the pond when up he strolled with his companion.
"Look! That duck isn't crossing. He's walking like people," we laughed and watched these two march along with purpose. But as they continued it became clear that they weren't walking similar paths independently. These two were together!
We had to know the story of these two, so my wife approached the man while I continued snapping photos.
The Duck waited for his Human but it was clear he was on a schedule. One he intended to keep.
In the few moments the duck would allow, my wife was able to navigate a language barrier just enough to learn that The Duck Man had immigrated from Lebanon, was very happy in Huntsville, and that he was very much the Duck's pet. They'd lived together in his flat for years.
While I continued snapping away the Duck Man suddenly broke from his conversation with my wife. A look of great concern set on his face as he began to plead with the Duck who was now only inches from me. I'd assumed he'd taken an interest in me. It turned out his patience for this unplanned stop had all but run out. The Duck Man was trying to convince the Duck not to kick my ass!
Fortunately for me the Duck agreed but only on the condition that they bid us farewell and get back to the business of their day, which they did...
I often ask myself how different this trip could have been if I'd chosen to keep that hateful baggage. Would I have been so willing to walk the city or drive the countryside? Would we have stopped to talk to the Duck Man or made it to the park at all? And even if we had, would I have been capable of seeing all that beauty?
I can't say for sure. But I can say that I enjoyed this trip. A trip I dreaded when we set out.
Photos: Jon Hardison | Rights reserved.