Alafuckinbama

I’m here & I begin my sequestered attempts at finishing my book, But What Can I do?

My journey began at the San Francisco airport last nite when I attempted to get on the last direct flight of the day to Atlanta.

When I got there, about 7 people were in front of me with 9 seats available – but people not on the list kept being cleared as the number of seats available slowly diminished.

By the time the plane left at 11:15, there were 3 peeps in front of me… I didn’t make that plane.

The next plane was going at 12:30am to Minneapolis – 13 seats and I’m number 11. I got on and got a window seat – I had forgotten how much easier it is to sleep a little in a window seat as I normally fly with Mujasi who HAS to have the window seat.

I arrived at the gate in Minneapolis at 5:30 and my plane for Atlanta was leaving at 6:15 – I had to hurry thru a couple of walkways but made it to a half-empty plane. This time I got a large "oversized" seat by myself in the row of 3!

Arriving in the terminal the red white & blue is almost blinding. If I had spaced the 4^th of da lie day, it certainly wasn’t for long.

Pushing thru the starred and striped crowd, escaping onto an almost empty Marta I’m suddenly overwhelmed by a large extremely boisterous group of mostly white people all decked in red, white and blue, with permed hair, caked make-up running in the heat like uncooked batter, and smelling like cheap aftershave and avon lotion.

I curse myself for bringing so much luggage making it impossible to easily navigate the crowd and seek another car. I comfort myself with the thought that it’s only 6 quick stops.

I buried my head in my book, determined to ignore their ra ra ra god love amerikkka freedom cries...grrrr unless they stepped over the line.

Finally at my daughter's, I hang out with her and my grandson, stock up on vitals for my isolated writing home, and share our last meal together before I leave.

Driving thru Atlanta to get on the freeway north, several cars honk and wave. Quickly leaving the city behind, I try not to see the infrequent but gigantic confederate flags on buildings, back of pick-up trucks, and front lawns, the frequency of which increases the closer I get to womyn's land, as my heart sinks rapidly.

Turning off the freeway and navigating thru the mountains that share a border between Alabama  and Georgia, I’m further disheartened to see brand new signs “Pray For Our Nation” with a Corinthian? chapter and verse under it. I remember seeing these signs when Obama was elected & I'm thinking they went up again when the Supreme Court legalized gay marriage.

Pulling onto the last stretch of the country road that will take me to this womyn’s land, huge confederate flags mar the beautiful lush green forest – one house even has a flag pole in the middle of a giant pick-up truck with a confederate flag that must drape over the windshield when the driver slows down…

I wonder instantly if the white womyn of this land even notice their neighbors hostile signs and racist flags.

And I wonder about coming to the south to finish my book.