Montgomery: Birthplace of a movement, hometown to a hillbilly…

You can run your fingers through the water, across the names, places, and dates, starting with the Supreme Court outlawing school segregation in Brown v. The Board of Education in 1954 and ending with the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. in Memphis in 1968. There are no signs telling you to do so, but just about everyone who visits the memorial is instinctively drawn to wet their hands in the thin layer of cold water that pours off the edge of the inscribed tablet. Just up the hill from the black, slick, wet rock of the Civil Rights Memorial is the infamous Alabama state capitol building— the White House of The Confederacy, longtime home to George C. Wallace, and stage to many significant moments during the fight for equality. A mere stones-throw from the steps of the capitol building is The Dexter Avenue King Memorial Baptist Church where King preached from 1954-1960 and “officially” began his quest for civil rights. All of this seemed like a lot grasp at 9 o’clock in the morning after a measly continental breakfast and pungent hotel coffee…

I was the only person in the Civil Rights Memorial building connected to the Southern Poverty Law Center in downtown Montgomery, other than two docents and a security guard who gave me a good pat down upon entering. Because I was the lone visitor at the time, I had my own personal guide through the small, but emotionally powerful exhibit that is dedicated to the people and stories inscribed in the black stone in front of the building. The docent asked if I was an architecture student, which I am not, and was pleasantly surprised that my purpose of visiting was simply to visit. Apparently, the center had opened just weeks before my visit, which was entirely by chance, and the place had been swamped with students of all sorts, reporters and photographers, and city officials. The center has a theater, classroom, interactive history stations, and a 20 by 40 foot “guestbook” called The Wall of Tolerance. I contributed my name to the wall, which, “records the names of people who have pledged to take a stand against hate, injustice and intolerance,” as described by the center, so if you are ever there add your name and look mine up. I left the center and memorial in a very contemplative sedation, and was quite satisfied with my decision to come through Alabama, because although the history of the state is tainted, revisiting that history is quite a remarkable experience.

The Hank Williams Museum, much like the Civil Rights Memorial and the streets of Montgomery, was eerily empty. The department store front, cubical style organization, and homemade, collage-esque exhibits made me feel bad for the operators of the place. It was depressing to see that the baby blue Cadillac that Hank had died in, some of his most famous stage outfits, and loads of original lyric and music writings were being so poorly displayed. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated the effort that the museum curators put into the collection, but I just felt as if the legacy of Hank could have been better served. Simply put: The museum is well worth the five dollars entrance fee, but the legendary artifacts inside deserve a better resting place… such as The Country Music Hall of Fame in Nashville. Elvis has Graceland, while Hank Williams has a space that would be better suited for a Woolworth’s. The gravesite and public statue of Hiram "Hank" Williams were also surprisingly discreet for the world’s most famous country star, but as people close to the man have been quoted saying, “That’s the way ol’ Hank woulda wanted it to be.” Its as if the legend of “Hank” outshines the actual history of Hiram Williams.

The day in Montgomery passed quicker than just about any other day on the road. I don’t even remember eating that day until I arrived at the Dew Drop Inn in Mobile for ice tea, cheeseburgers and hotdogs. Note: According to Roadfood, Dew Drop Inn’s hamburgers are the source of inspiration for Jimmy Buffet’s song, “Cheeseburgers in Paradise.” In addition to the burgers, Mobile was a satisfying place to finally arrive in because it is where I would pick up Interstate 10, which provides a straight shot to the PCH and Pacific Ocean. Oh, the comfort of familiarity.

As I sat on my makeshift bed in the back of my car, parked in a rest stop somewhere between Mobile and Biloxi, I couldn’t help but think about the day that lay ahead. Tomorrow I would drive through the heart of Hurricane Katrina’s wreckage. For those of you who may have forgotten the details: On August 29, 2005, Hurricane Katrina flooded 85 percent of greater New Orleans, killing more than 1,800 people, causing more than $81 billion in damage, and leaving over 100,000 people homeless. It spooked, but excited me that in a few hours I would be driving across Lake Pontchartrain’s 24 mile causeway heading directly into New Orleans’ 7th, 8th, and 9th wards, the areas devastated most severely.

“My head is so full I don’t think I can sleep…”

A Belated Road Home…

By now I’m sure some of you are wondering what happened to me. Most know. A few probably don’t care. But many still believe Memphis is just a quick shot up the interstate from highway 17, with little in-between. I apologize for the confusion. The fact of the matter is that once home, in Santa Cruz, there no longer exists those empty, dark, solitary hours that must be filled with endless ramblings and jettisoned communiqués from my wandering soul to the outside world. I am here! Not there. I feel as if this writing is no longer as important as it was when it was my only method of transferring my happenings — always hopeful that the next rest stop, hostel, or coffee shop would provide the miracle of wireless internet. But as the time has passed, I feel that the importance of closure has gained priority in my conscience. So, allow me to finish…

You can read endless historical accounts and view numerous movies and pictures that attempt to recreate the essence of a place, but honestly it is impossible to absorb the true attitude, texture, and aura of a location without visiting in person. I remember learning about the Civil Rights Movement early in elementary school, but feeling even into my time as an undergrad that Alabama, Mississippi, and Little Rock in the 1960’s was such a foreign and far-away place. At first, you learn about the people: Martin Luther King Jr., Rosa Parks, Malcolm X, and what these names now mean to a people, generation, and country. Then the places and movement’s activities: Birmingham, Montgomery, Selma, bus boycott, sit-ins, marches. The story is moving and captivating, heroic and tragic, but to a white kid from California, very abstract. As I headed from Memphis to Birmingham all I could think about was all the appalling things that had gone down within the city limits of Birmingham and Montgomery. The Drive By Trucker’s lyrics, “A church blows up in Birmingham, four little black girls killed, for no god-damned good reason,” rattled around in my head, and I couldn’t shake the negativity that I felt towards the cities and the state.

Birmingham has all the characteristics of an archetypal southern city, but it possessed a prevailing melancholy connotation, which made me feel as if I was returning to the scene of a crime… perhaps many crimes. It was strange to me that the only location that I could think of off the top of my head to enter into my GPS was the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, where on September 15th, 1963 four young girls and a boy, aged 11-14, were blown up while attending Sunday school — considered the most cowardly, inhuman and reprehensible terrorist act of the Civil Rights era. Not far from there is the city’s plaza and city center where the famous pictures of black men and women being attacked by German Shepherds and fire hoses were taken; proof of the hatred and viciousness that was brewed and bred in the city and state by the hands of “respected” officials like Eugene “Bull” Connor and George Wallace. I had difficulty finding a comfortable moment while in Birmingham. Even the friendly faces of the staff at the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute, directly across the street from the Sixteenth Street Baptist church, couldn’t shake my uneasiness or expunge the deep, simmering feeling of guilt that had been burdening me since I got out of my car. After just a few hours in the city I felt I had to move on.

There is not much to see on the drive from Birmingham to Montgomery, but there is a hell of a lot of football jabber to listen to on the radio. From the few hours of sports talk radio that I could handle, it appeared that the rivalry between Auburn University and University of Alabama exceeded that of any that we possess in the western states. Its hard to believe, but I think that it must be harder to get a full sentence in on an Alabama college football radio show than it is on The View with Rosie O’ Donnell. Its quite comical how the show host will introduce a question to a particular person and before the answerer can get two syllables of their response out three of four other voices are yelling in chaotic Tuscaloosa twang about the quarterback throwing like a pansy and the running-back’s sexual preference. It was all gibberish to me, and as far as I can remember not one caller ever made a decisive football statement — the calls were always intended to enlighten everyone about how dumb and/or homosexual a previous caller is. Fascinating.

I drove to Montgomery, the capital of Alabama, to see two things: The Civil Rights Memorial at the Southern Poverty Law Center, and The “Official” Hank Williams Museum. I did have some presumptions about Montgomery, but nothing quite as negative as those for Birmingham. I arrived at dusk and gathered a sizeable stack of tourist information from the Visitor Information Center to read up on for the following day…