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Wednesday, 27 May 2015

The Deep South was NEVER on My Itinerary as Queen of Hipi Road

By Morgana Sage

I was blessed to be a born Navy Brat, at the end of the post-war Baby Boom, the eldest child of a submariner.

We traveled the country in a 1954 Blue Plymouth station wagon, attending eight different grade schools - from Tacoma, Seattle, Arco Idaho, Vallejo, Great Lakes, and San DiegoX2 to four years in an Imperial Beach Catholic High School on the beach within sight of the Bullring by the Sea.

There I married a sailor from a Pennsylvania hometown 40 miles north of the Mason/Dixon Line, where I studied feminist political science with the yankee colonial and still revolutionary, Women of NOW’s Eastern Seaboard Ethics and Americana Movement, to Ratify the Equal Rights Amendment, without the help of the Confederate States (by fiat, if necessary.)

I stood at Lincoln’s knees in Washington, D.C. and was introduced to Sojourner Truth and Harriet Tubman, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony and strange fruit hanging from southern trees.

I’ve witnessed televised apartheid in the deep South and except for an occasional radical sojourn into southern streets, I have boycotted the modern confederacy these last 30 years for not ratifying the ERA.

But retirement, for me, obviously means hiding out in my sisterfriend’s house in Macon, Georgia, for the duration of my 60s, I guess. I am lucky that we need each other to survive in peace and love but I can hear the screeching hellions mingling and thrashing behind closed doors, the hissing racists under every rock, the red-neck menace trashing the collective peace of mind, the angry boredom of the children.

There has always been a viable reason for my presence along the Way, so in spite of my discomfort with the BUGS of Hell and the fouled English, I have to believe that my witness is important enough to publish as testimony that’ll maybe earn me a hall pass at the Pearlie Gates.

I’m blessed with access to the World Wide Web and I hope I survive into my 70s, so I can live again and die a floater in Tecopa’s hot springs, south of Death Valley.

[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 05:30 AM | Permalink | Email this post


What great expressive writing. I look forward to more Morgana!

Wow! Morgana this is a dynamic piece-thanks for expressing your feelings to us!

Be well...Elle in Oregon

I wiped my brow. I wiped my eyes. I took a swig of cold Dr. Pepper to refresh after this read. Your witness is important. As such a great observer, all the more so.

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