It's Friday, as I have been doing all week, running late for work. I stopped by the coffee shop close to work only to find a line of other sleepy heads trying to get their caffeine fix before heading off to work. Myself being no exception. I park and jump out of the car rushing in in hopes of being the only one there. Not so today. I go to the back of the line and wait my turn. I see the list of coffees for the day and one of them is from Papua New Guinea, a medium roast, I decide I would order a small cup and a tropical peach/apricot smoothie for breakfast. Meanwhile, I look around at the decor, it's funky and eclectic, reminding me of a few of my favorite places in Maine, where I lived for 15 years before moving back to where I am. It also reminded me of my cafe which was definitely eclectic with a little bit of everything. I had a good view because the line stretched to the back door, where I stood. Meanwhile, my creative juices were coursing through my soul as I looked around this little hippie shop with its creative offerings. The line began moving and I was grooving to the feel of a place that reminded me of my own funky, eclectic and creative musings, and then, without warning, an accent that cannot be ignored, cut through the sound waves into the atmosphere of my funky, creative mind. It was the sound of a older southern white male, sipping coffee and talking with his friend, bringing me back into the realty of where I was and where I had temporarily escaped in my mind. I 'm in Mississippi, Jackson, Mississippi, right smack dab in the middle of the capital of the state.
Suddenly, the booming sound of the voice reminded me of where I was, changed the scenes in my mind from pleasantries to the reality of the ugly truth about Mississippi, and the negative history it held for me, a black woman, who had been raised in Mississippi but left after high school and lived away for 35 years before returning. I finally reached the counter, ordered my coffee from Papua New Guinea and my tropical smoothie, at least I could escape somewhere else, even if it was in what I chose to order. I shook myself and remembered that while many things have changed some have remain the same, there was a time when I would not have been allowed to stand in this coffee shop with whites and other blacks, feel safe, and order coffee in Jackson, Mississippi. I can't even imagine what it would be like to be told to "go to the back of the line or bus or anywhere", but that was the reality for many blacks for most of their lives; because it was their reality and they fought for freedom, it is no longer mine. Thank God!
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Janice Swinton
A radical Christian and follower of Jesus Christ, trying to walk and live out a life uncompromised in this world; being informed and conformed to His Image. Author, writer, independent scholar and wife to James for over 35 years. Archives
September 2013
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