In The Land of God & Gullah (Shannon Scott Quoted)

In the Land of God and Gullah

God and Gospel meet African tradition in the South Carolina Lowcountry

“You sure you want to drive out there?” an 82-year-old farmer warns when I stop to ask for directions on a dusty, rutted road in the Lowcountry of South Carolina. “Ahead are the Gullah islands,” he says, shaking his head. “They’re a peculiar people with mighty mysterious ways.”

As I voyage over a gauntlet of bridges and down winding, sun-dappled back roads, past lazy pastures and homespun ma-and-pa stores, decades peel back as St. Helena Island, the center for Gullah culture, emerges through a gauze of saltwater marshes.

The descendants of African slaves, the Gullah today live mostly on the remote barrier islands of South Carolina and Georgia. Neglected during much of the 19th century by their slaveholders — who fled the islands frequently for the cooler inland climate — the Gullah often governed themselves. As a result, they’ve preserved significant elements of their West African culture, such as their African-based Creole language and their expertise in sweetgrass basket-weaving.

But perhaps the Gullahs’ most enduring African legacy is their commitment to a spiritual way of life. “Church is more important in St. Helena, South Carolina, than anywhere else in America,” says Robert Middleton, an 80-year-old island tour guide, driving past a row of single-room churches under a canopy of moss-draped oaks.

As gospel music crackles over car speakers, Middleton, a deacon of a local church, says 90 percent of the people on St. Helena go to church weekly. An impressive figure, considering Gallup recently found only 42 percent of Americans regularly attend church.

The descendants of African slaves, the Gullah often governed themselves. As a result, they’ve preserved significant elements of their West African culture, such as their African-based Creole language and their expertise in sweetgrass basket-weaving.

“Like in Africa, we [Gullah] have always centered our lives around faith,” says Middleton, mopping his glistening forehead with the back of his hand on a sultry afternoon. For example, Middleton says, until not too long ago, the religious and community leaders of the island resolved most quarrels among themselves.

Middleton remembers an incident in the 1950s when two men involved in a shooting on the island were brought to the local Praise House — a small building used for local religious meetings — to resolve the dispute. When the shooter agreed to pay for the wounded man’s injuries, all was forgiven and the men became friends again. “The Bible tells us don’t go to bed angry,” he says, fishing for a key to open the small white clapboard Praise House.

“The Praise House back then was our community center,” Middleton explains, “where we regularly met, danced, stomped our feet and shouted out to the Lord. But today we have our modern churches,” he adds, standing alone in the quiet, century-old, hand-hewn wooden room, where he once attended jubilant services as a boy.

Middleton says that with God’s help, the Gullah culture will endure. “Our roots run deep here,” he says, stepping outside the Praise House, amid live oaks that have stood sturdy with the Gullah since slavery and the Emancipation Proclamation.

Gullah Grub

Setting down a bowl of crab soup and a plate of fried shrimp and shark with red rice, the ebullient Oshi Green, 28, says her family restaurant celebrates their Gullah heritage by serving traditional fare and offering a local hangout.

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From the sweet-creamy aroma of fish chowder wafting from the kitchen to walls lined with colorful Gullah paintings and shelves boasting wooden African figurines, Gullah pride radiates from the Gullah Grub Restaurant.

Gullahs embrace an African culture that honors God by fishing, hunting and gardening, Green says, standing under a large painting of her father hunting. “Living close to the land has long defined African and Gullah culture,” she says.

But as the threat of posh golf courses and tourist-laden resorts closes in on the prize island real estate, many St. Helena residents fear the worst. “This has been our home for over 300 years,” sighs Green. A picture at the cash register says the rest: An African-American woman labors in the fields with the caption, “Gullah Heritage. We won’t give up our land.”

Green says African and Gullah practices often exemplify Christian principles. For example, barter not only provided for the Gullahs’ daily needs on the island during slavery and Reconstruction, but also underscored the Christian value of sharing. “Barter taught us to work together and look out for one another, because if we didn’t help each other, we would have perished,” she explains.

And today, Green says that sharing thrives not only in the churches of St. Helena — which often pool resources to help needy members — but also in the day-to-day life of the island. For example, Green says, when her family restaurant recently had a surplus of collard greens, they traded the excess with a farmer who had extra lettuce. “No money exchanged. It was a real barter,” she says.

Outside the wood-planked Gullah Grub, a grandmotherly Jery Taylor sits and weaves sweetgrass baskets the way West Africans have done for centuries.

Weaving baskets for over 50 years, Taylor says she puts a little bit of God in everything she makes. And it shows. Her baskets adorn the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. and galleries throughout the South.

Taylor says the care she puts into weaving baskets stems from reverence for God and her ancestors: “Gullah pride weaves deep.”

Spirit-catching bottles

Outside the gallery, a steel-limbed tree decorated with blue bottles greets customers. “That’s a Blue-Bottle tree,” Smalls says. At night, she explains, daylight-hating evil spirits roam and take refuge inside the bottles, but when the sun rises, the evil ghouls are trapped inside, where the morning sun kills them.

“You can’t get too far from superstition around here,” Smalls says.

Across the street, Victoria Smalls, manager of the Red Piano Too Art Gallery, leads the way through a labyrinth of jostling, color-grabbing paintings of Gullahs laboring in fields, fishing and attending church.

Smalls says Gullah art is practical. “You can paint on a wooden shingle or on an old wooden door. This is art for the masses, not the elite.”

She says the shout — popular in Gullah art and literature — celebrates a vital part of Gullah spirituality. Similar to the African ritual of spirit possession, the shout happens when someone falls under the influence of the Holy Spirit and sings or moves ecstatically. The line between Christianity and African spirituality blurs here, she says.

Outside the gallery, a steel-limbed tree decorated with blue bottles greets customers. “That’s a Blue-Bottle tree,” Smalls says. At night, she explains, daylight-hating evil spirits roam and take refuge inside the bottles, but when the sun rises, the evil ghouls are trapped inside, where the morning sun kills them.

“You can’t get too far from superstition around here,” Smalls says.

Gullah can preach

Down the road, on a Sunday afternoon, hands clap, bodies sway and voices rock the red brick walls of First African Baptist Church on Olde Church Road.

“If you give to the poor and have not love—you have nothing,” the Pastor declares to a packed church of well-dressed parishioners, his mellow cadence building in fervor.

With shout-outs of “Yes, sir” and “Amen,” the congregation engages in a dialogue with their pastor, a holy duet, a back-and-forth repartee.

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“Unlike white churches, preaching in Gullah churches is not a one-way lecture from pastor to parishioners,” says Shannon Scott, a local historian and tour guide. “Gullah churches — steeped in West African worship — are about getting a response from their worshippers, getting everyone involved, the community, the village.”

Working toward a crescendo, the pastor feeds off his flock’s nodding heads, swaying bodies and supportive yelps. “Salvation comes through faith in the finished work of Jesus Christ on Calvary,” he bellows. More hands clap, more shouts. “Jesus ain’t playing. No, he ain’t playing!”

Scott says the emotionalism of Gullah worship, rooted in traditional African religion, is about experiencing and feeling God — letting God touch you. “It’s not about being passive or overly intellectual like other churches,” he says. “The Gullah got spirit.”

Playing it safe

“That color is called haint blue,” says the old Gullah man pointing to the sky blue trim around a home outside St. Helena. “It scares evil away. My people still have plenty of folk tales, you know.”

The snow-white-bearded Baptist, who asked to be called Adam for this interview, says haint blue is a heavenly color, and evil haints [spirits] won’t have anything to do with heaven. “This comes straight from Africa.”

“It’s trendy now for everybody to paint something haint blue around their homes,” he says, sitting on a park bench behind a home with a bright haint-blue flowerpot in front.

Adam doesn’t put much stock in superstitions, though. “That’s just African folklore. Only Christ can scare away evil spirits,” he says as the glint of a bright haint-blue cross winks beneath his shirt collar.

The Happiest “Hippie” I Ever Knew – RIP Victoria Scalisi

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The happiest “hippie” I ever knew has left the building. RIP Victoria Scalisi. It was maybe 1991. I was in City Market Savannah and the most beautiful girl on a skateboard I’d ever seen came racing down Congress Street past The Velvet Elvis. Her hair always well past her ass and beautifully so, flew behind her like some flag of individualism and part girl pirate. I froze and watched this mini, dark haired Edie Brickell looking babe skate by and thought, “Whoa, I’m in love.” She clearly took note of my lovelorn gaze and without blinking stared right at me and said in what I would come to learn was her usual coy manner, “Why don’t you take a picture it’ll last longer!” Then came the laughter that was so lighthearted and silly and I caught site of her divine overbite. I was embarrassed. I’d been made. But before climbing into her Griswold station wagon with a giant Band-Aid sticker stuck down the side of it, she gave me those “dark eyes” with some warmth and made a funny, but sincere sad face to let me know that no harm was done. And then she peeled off. A crime had been committed. Now I was more in love than ever. Everything about Victoria was infectious. I think because she had other worldly model looks and the creamiest white skin reminiscent of white chocolate, she distracted you away from her beauty by being silly and a hyper rock chick. All of which was actually who she was but when you were Victoria Scalisi (oh and that romantic name!), people were going to stare and she was moving through a minefield most of the time of people falling in love with her at every turn. Her personality in part became her shield to deflect and yet was her way of making sure her spirit, talent and personality could cut through the superficial and be in the spotlight and enjoyed and respected for itself. Even if yes, the windowdressing of that spirit was not hard on the eyes. Oh and make no mistake here, even though I was the king of Goth kids in high school, and could roll with the Gen X crowd and anyone “rocking it,” Victoria was way out of my league and way past my spiritual pay grade. Like I could only hope to be that “free” and for most of my early and late 20s when I really saw her around, I was way too burdened with self and concealing. It took me most of my life to really express my deeper self. Victoria was way ahead of everybody in that sense. She learned all of that 10 lifetimes ago. We were all really in her classroom and learning from her as she went. And although I was not close to Victoria or part of her usual circle, she never treated me any differently or as a stranger. Nope. She knew energy and auras and when we’d have an encounter, I knew she could see my insecurities and the fact that I could not shake that love lorn look from our first encounter and so her response was always either an embrace or she’d punch me in the shoulder or do a noogie on my head or whatever it was to remind me that life wasn’t all that bad and to skateboard like there was no tomorrow. That was Victoria’s way. She didn’t have possessions to give but she gave you something special spiritually to possess. Did I mention her voice? No, not her speaking one which was lovely and child like. But her singing one. She came to front a very followed and lauded band called DAMAD in 1993. I’ve heard them called Sludge Metal or Crust or sometimes Punk which is how I thought of them in a sense. But any perception of Victoria as “happy go lucky” went out the window when she growled these deep demonic song tones and screeching vocals that were akin to a witch coven that caught fire and maybe the witches ran into a deep cave full of orcs and kicked them in the nuts. That might describe her vocals and I guess in that respect she was embracing something opposite of people’s surface perception while center staging the fact that she understood darkness and her spritely, impish personality was heeled in much pain and learned survival skills. Or possibly she wanted us to know just how ancient of a soul she was by using her voice to invoke how far she’d come through time to be who she was now. I don’t know. I never got to really know Victoria or ask her where all of that came from. I wasn’t her intimate even if I wanted to be and like all of the lives she touched in small and large ways, she wore everything on her sleeve and made you feel as if you were a great kindred. I feel so out of touch with this news of her death. I didn’t know she was sick. Hell, I didn’t even know my friend and former co-worker, Denise, was one of her great run-a-rounds but I should have as Denise is another rare and strange fruit. I’m glad they were close. I can see that they deserved each other. That’s the funny thing. We didn’t deserve Victoria but damn we were lucky to be in the same universe with her and I do thank God for the blessing in my life that she was even if just momentarily and sporadically. Which was her nature. Maxing the moment and being radically sporadic. I’d almost be REALLY sad about Victoria less to know that she’ll live forever and that like Light, her purpose is movement and traveling and while some of us grieve here, she’s breaking hearts and inspiring laughter and making noise right now in the next life. I’d even gander to say right here in Savannah where some will mistake her for a ghost. Doubtful. Its just the power of her spirit spilling back over my friends. One that will always haunt us. Goodnight Victoria. You were beautifully bad ass.

http://www.revolvermag.com/music/victoria-scalisi-sludge-band-damad-dies-after-battle-cancer/23598

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My Interview On “Doing It Different” with Tyler Martina

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When I got wind of this interview from the 6th Sense World office, I was intrigued to know more. When I saw Tyler Martina, he looked like a “too clean” Rock-A-Billy kid from California and so wondered if he was more trendy poseur or had some substance behind all of the tatts and such radiant skin. Hey, no one says you have to have clogged pores to be a greaser and who wants to be a greaser anyway? Turns out he was a real quality rocker guy with a lot of heart and intelligence and was really happy with the way it turned out. We met in the chapel at Hillcrest Abbey Cemetery and was with his family and that put a whole new light on him for me. He had a beautiful wife(?) and just darling daughter who apparently can see ghosts. And what I realized was they were really doing a neat family thing together by seeing the country and then also capturing neat characters and knowledge for the show’s listeners. It not only showed the guy had heart, but business savvy to go along with it. As I told them, the best thing my parents ever did for my brother and myself, was on summer breaks, and riding us around the country Griswold style to all of the big historic sites and National Parks across this great country of our’s and that they’d all be blessed for this as a family later in life. I think they were a tad too young to see all of that but I promise, they’ll one day be thanked by their daughter for it. Anyway, turns out I was their target character and just wanted to do a good job for them. So we talked life, death, paranormal, America’s Most Haunted City both in terms of how Savannah got the title, how I captured it formally and then went out and made a movie about it. We spoke of Bonaventure of course and one day time apparition moment I was witness to that was greatly affecting. Overall I think it turned out pretty decent and really inspired me to get back into my own podcast for 6thSenseWorld Radio more actively which hey, just ordered my new headsets and splitters today so be on the listen out! In the meantime, I hope this is entertaining and informative!

Doing It Different With Tyler Martina
Click Link For Interview

The Crypt Keeper: Shannon Scott

Help Bonaventure By Downloading The Apps

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Although I have 2 amazing Apps of my own, The Haunted Savannah App & The Savannah Historical Apps, I was very honored to be asked by The Bonaventure Historical Society to script and voice two stories for their own. I was bummed that they scrapped one of my stories as it was the hardest to write and record, but they kept in my Conrad Aiken version and as he’s a hero of mine as writer and thinker, I’m more than dandy with the fact. The Apps are $4.99 and its very generous that $3.50 of each download goes back to the efforts of The Bonaventure Historical Society and I hope you will all consider downloading them.

iPhone Users Click Here https://itunes.apple.com/us/app/bonaventure-cemetery-tour/id1154175914?mt=8

Android Users Click Herehttps://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.tb.tb614&hl=en

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A Sentimental Valentine’s Day Poem (Ode To Schiller) by Shannon Scott

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CLICK PLAY TO HEAR SHANNON READ THE POEM

If only Valentine’s Day fell upon some week in May,
with gladdened heart I’d have a wealth to say to my love,
for she and I are like hand in glove.
Rather its in February, a bleary month if there ever was!
 
Which when this ill plot was sought, was it arbitrarily so?
Surely it was coquetry, as if seriously commanded, would be contrary to poetry and reason! Rhyme left naked and abandoned!
For it only rings with tributary and when the ill fated name “February” is said,
which sinks from the mouth like lead?
People look as if you’ve summoned the dead!
 
So dread, why was May not chosen instead?
It is my contention that with May’s mere mention?
Such metaphors leap freely to this bard’s lips!
“Its a lovely day in May when the minds at play upon gay imaginings of a young maiden’s fair hips!”
 
See, its a shame that God’s calendar maker was not instead a baker!
For badly risen bread is more liveable than the unforgivable misplacement of this lover’s holiday day!
 
There as you can plainly see, that its not simply me! Not!
Moreover that THE WORLD secretly chagrins,
and only when they can sing, “Hooray for V-Day in May” will smiles part once more above their wanton chins!

An Indian Odd Fellow In My Living Room

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I am an Odd Fellow in The Tribe of Individualism and America is my Great Spirit.

Most Americans and probably most people in the Western world, have no real concept of how secret societies have truly underwritten the architecture of modern day civilization for good and or for evil. Which is not what I’m really here to fulfill as an understanding today. Nope, that’s next week! This writing is but a mere peek into a facet of one branch and my own reflection within the workings of that group.

In my own humble opinion, The Odd Fellows, were one of the more charitable in the history of such societies, and were part of what could be likened to an offshoot program of Masonic traditions but were “friendlied” up to make them more appealing to a nation full of working class people. The Odd Fellows became part of what were called The Friendly Societies and they, along with others like The Elks, Knights of Pythias, Order of Rebecca, Order of The Eastern Star, Alee Temple and dozens, became charitable arms of the nation embracing many causes. They assisted in the building of orphanages, asylums, hospitals, schools, and so many wonderful things that in my opinion, were at the height of advancement until Robber Barons captured the American dollar and in so many ways, gave control of welfare over to the government. I will also write about this in coming days to highlight how this radical and yet, subtle changing of the guard was an abysmal failure and today we have the crime, the ghettos along with the hate movements of the “have nots” to prove it.

By 1910, The Odd Fellows were the largest of fraternal orders in America, with 5 million members and raising 100 million annually in charitable revenues. The Odd Fellows were comprised of workers, actors, comedians and quite the “odd mix,” hence their name and are credited with being America’s first insurance salesman and notably, were the first whites to institutionally harbor slaves and teach them to read and write. In fact, there were black Odd Fellows who were still slaves and all of that collaboration was dangerous to say the least but shows the heart of such organizations. Furthermore, we typically hear the conventional narrative of Harriet Tubman and The Underground Railroad, but what is strangely lacking is how the The Odd Fellows were greatly instrumental to the movement and helped organize the “tracks” for which slaves could travel. In such reading? The “safe houses” that are often discussed and the symbols built into chimneys that designated them as havens for hiding were homes of Odd Fellow members. Quakers too, but lots of Odd Fellows. In fact, some of the marks on the houses were the symbols of The Odd Fellows. Every now and again, you’ll go through a Southern town and can still find those symbols in the brick design of chimneys and exterior woodwork.

Respective of myself as a storyteller in cemeteries, one aspect that is of great interest to me is that The Odd Fellows were a part and parcel to new thinking about cemetery layout in The Victorian Era, working hand in hand with city fathers as far as where they would make sense to create and how they should function in times of pandemics and the processing of the dead. Many “Stranger Sections” were courtesy of The Odd Fellows for burying indigents and “persons unknown.” It was not uncommon to find an Odd Fellows Lodge in very close proximity to a Victorian cemetery in the period. And for those who are in the know about such things, a good many of the symbols found on Victorian headstones, stem from The Odd Fellows’ canon. Their motto was, “Visit The Sick & Dying. Educate The Orphan: Bury The Stranger.” My kind of people you could say.

In part what moved me to write a few things about them today was that I unboxed my 19th century “Red Race” ritual costume and hung it up on my living room wall. Complete with quiver and arrows, a traveling bag, medicine pouch with flint rock and starter stick and then a rather creepy mesh mask that is smiling adorned with real hair, probably horse. I’ve had it for couple of years and decided while house cleaning it was time to show it off.

Seeing this costume also recalled that in a time when people didn’t have much education, a part of the role of lodges, was to give their members an opportunity to role play in order to better understand other cultures, and to learn something of the history of the world, and how certain pivotal human events became part of America. And as The Odd Fellows were certainly very Christian in their operations, and probably more diversely than the actual churches near them, role playing was also a way of teaching scriptures and their deeper hidden meanings not revealed to them in churches. By putting members in the roles of Biblical figures and letting them embody a sense of what those people did as individualists, along with some of their ritualism, they could feel more participants in the mystical world than just “average Joe” as they were outside of the lodges. Most key is that The Odd Fellows believed in teaching respect for other races and cultures, or at least in the parts of them, like any, that were worthy of respect.

All of these reflections today spurred me to write this blog because whether or not most people see it, we are living in a time where very skilled politicians and dubious social engineers who with their millions and billions, are intent on hurting relations between people and using “racism” and “bigotry” as their buzz words to divide The Tribe of America. And yes, we see the spirit of that hatred taking root in so called “educated” people who for some insane reason, probably self-hatred, are happy to brandish those concepts of ill will as their own monikers and run out to do the dirty work of such nefarious souls seeking such ends.

I don’t expect everyone to totally process everything I’m saying here. These are complicated subjects and I won’t claim to be their greatest author either! I just know that part of the goal of America, by its own history of say, The Odd Fellows, has been about We The People as a “tribe,” working together to solve our society problems. And without a largely infringing government and us running to them for the answer to every little willy nilly or major difference we have had with others. Constantly pandering to them and their media really, is to empower them with guns and force. This will only be to the destruction of us all and all “human” customs. Its actually our differences that makes us so unique in America but we have to make ourselves more self governing in our lives and deal with our brother’s like fellow members of the tribe. My message really here is that The People must be their own government more than ever if we are to really survive as a nation, and quite possibly a planet. In many ways, we must disenfranchise the government by being greater people.

So yes, I’m an odd fellow in my views, even if I believe I’m just being traditional. It is my love and understanding of history that makes me think I’m onto something not so odd here and is definitively American. Funny what unboxing a collectible evokes in one’s self. Putting it up on a wall to admire for a bit. But this is why I collect such things. They are like my flint and striking stick in the battle to survive and keep alive what is so integral in the war now and the battles to come. Especially in a time when most arguments lack historical perspectives and facts which is why everything is so lopsided between people. Many days it feels the rifts are less than a “The Haves vs The Have Nots” and is really more of a war between The Educated vs The Uneducated. I am also wise to know that we have been dumbed down to be this way by these leaders and their shadow government movements. They only want highly emotional people embattling so they can push, prod and enslave. All while claiming to be doing the collective good of course. For those reasons, this Indian costume is woeful in some ways but it also strengthens my spirit. Because of it, I cannot forget that people before me suffered much and fought hard battles for freedom so that I might inherit their spirit and live and understand them and pass it all along to others. Or as Oglethorpe duly printed on The Seal of Georgia, “Non Sibi Sed Allis” He too was fascinated by the Indians but that is another story for another writing…

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My Mention In Article “Low Country Root Doctors”

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Some people who have my personal email know that I go by the handle, Dr. Buzzard. Although I ease people minds when I tell them I’m merely a conjurer of story magic and not dark magic. Dr. Buzzard was the most historically famous Root Doctor in The Low Country South until the novel, Midnight In The Garden of Good and Evil came along and made Lady Minerva, an aquaintance of Dr. Buzzard, more internationally known. Even if they were really operating on two opposite ends of the 20th Century more or less so they each have their own distinctions. And strangely were described as being married in the novel itself even if that was just fiction. Minerva was married to Buzzard’s rival is my understanding, either called Dr. Eagle or Dr Hawk. They always have great names like that. In my lifetime I’ve met Dr. Gregory, Dr. Frog and Mama Tilda who was 102 when we met and was the dream interpreter of the people on St Helena’s Island, SC. I also have in my personal collection some very important root doctor artifacts from very important famlies of that trade, and my prized possession is one cobalt blue pair of Dr. Buzzard’s spectacles given to me by a man who knew his family and purchased some of his belongings. As I tell people, if my house was on fire and I could run out with one thing, it would be Dr. Buzzard’s pimp’n looking specs! The article by my friend Beverly Willett was originally slated to have photos of a ritual I discovered in Bonaventure and dismantled after a year right before the city workers trashed it. I knew I had to preserve it to teach others about their culture. In the end, the photoshoot where mosquitoes ate at me for awhile was a bust, but was glad the article turned out so colorful and yeah, I got a little nod . One day I’ll share more of my own adventures with root doctors and consider the inclusion good juju for my directional mojo!

CLICK LINK TO READ!

Low Country Root Doctors by Beverly Willett

The Long Cane Indian Massacre, C.1760

If you’re ever driving up 221 from Augusta to McCormick, SC and you see a brown arrow sign with a tantalizing, “Long Cane Indian Massacre Site?” If you should follow it? Better have 4 Wheel Drive. What sounds like just a jiffy up the road is actually the longest, weirdest gravel dirt road in all of the woods of these here parts. You’ll also drive over 2 rather rickety old wooden bridges praying your vehicle doesn’t plunge below. But if that’s just your cup of tea? Then you may (optimal word here), just find a surreal and tragic place in the middle of nowhere that holds the remains of 23 women and children butchered by Cherokee who felt that the camp of 260 settlers was just too close to them 40 miles away. But when warning arrived, they felt it would be wise to track to Augusta for safer living. Unfortunately there was the dreaded bog in which their wagon became stuck and camping for the night was their undoing. There were 56 fighting men on hand but when The Cherokee assailed? The gun wagon was too far from them and after 30 minutes of fighting with what they could, a hasty retreat was made. Crazily, 9 children survived being scalped to the pleasure of some wig maker in Augusta I might think, but 23 women and children remained behind. Among them? The 76 year old grandmother of none other than John C. Calhoun (All Southerners must stand and bow for a moment of silence). Calhoun placed the etched marker himself to commemorate the spot. And if you do find it? You walk over a little metal foot bridge and stand among 100ft pines and it is so remote all there is in this place is the sound of wind whipping by you and through the treetops. Not a bird, not a squirrel. Just wind and it feels like spirits at war and even during the day, like screams all around you that you can’t truly hear, but you feel the force from the beyond clawing at your soul. I’m just glad it was the daytime.20161010_013819 20161010_014650 20161010_015056 20161010_015327 20161010_015534 20161010_015655

“My Roanoke Nightmare” A Nightmare of PC Moralizing

Me screaming, "TURN IN YOUR WRITER'S GUILD CARD!"

Me screaming, “TURN IN YOUR WRITER’S GUILD CARD!”

The new “My Roanoke Nightmare” is a nightmare of PC moralizing and I predicted it months ago after both Coven and HOTEL (“Don’t Be A Vaxxer”),started the trend. Coven had all the right stuff before it started wretching and choking for air from the constant racist commentary and overkill subject of prejudices. I mean if there was a high court for artistic treason, American Horror Story writers on that series should be put in chains for forcing watchers through that misery. The followup HOTEL was really just them so high on themselves that its not even mentionable and the lousy ratings prove that decadence and depravity for the sake of not much order won’t make a delicious dessert. The key to baking is measured ingredients and same goes for complex story lines. I’m also betting HOTEL made no one run out and get the flu shot FYI.
Before the CIA or someone in Hollyweird got their hands on the hit show, American Horror Story, it was still art for art’s sake and was genuinely “An original.” But with HOTEL, we got vanity from the writers and makers and now with My Roanoake Nightmare, the PC police are clearly the handlers and the show moves like a bad dark comedy moralizing as it goes. So in the name of Modern Liberals spiritually living inside of, absolutely craving and lusting for harping on negative generalities, here’s my PC Checklist ReCapp from last night’s “horror story.”
 
1. Interracial Couple – CHECK
2. Confederate Flag Is scawee – CHECK
3. The South Is Only Racist – CHECK
4. Rednecks The South’s Only Citizen Type – CHECK
5. Cops R Useless – CHECK
6. Gun 4 Protection Locked Up – CHECK
7. Transgender Actor Insert (Sonny & Cher Offspring) – CHECK
 
Now, on the surface, these are real life things to varying degrees and can be used in stories. I agree and I agree that all art is open for interpretation. But in the context of the episode’s script, these things are obvious moralizing and just from an art standpoint, failures in the show and the show fails because of them. And yes, you could say that perhaps the characters are entitled to be written as Modern Liberals and that perhaps we’re going to all be shocked when the writers surprise us by spoofing them or showing that their twisted thinking will be their demise. If that’s the case, BRING IT ON! But I doubt that’s the temperature here. This is just PC preaching and they try to make it seem like every day logical conversation. The interracial couple is the only ambiguous one but upon reflection of the others, doubtful and more of the same. But at the end of day, its not totally indefensible. I mean there are interracial couples And I’m fine with that.
Other than more ignorance shown about The Confederate Flag via the main male, black character, and his obvious lack of education like many Americans about what The Civil War really was, my favorite PC moment was respective of the gun being locked up goodie. Any writer worth his Hollywood pants was verbally shouting at the TV last night and probably something like, “You should have your Writer’s Guild card revoked!”
Bear in mind, the main female character, “Shelby” (actress Sarah Paulson), in like a week, has already dealt with attempted murder of herself, ghosts and general creepiness in this house which is why supporting female character,”Lee” (Angela Bassett), her sister-in-law and former cop, comes to stay to begin with. We’ve already seen Sarah’s character in this kitchen scene with Lee, ask about her gun. To which Lee says, paraphrasing, “Oh they may have taken my badge, but momma still has her gun” or something to that effect where yes, only Bassett could make you feel that line like she owns that gun and can wield it. So you and I as viewers, we are then instilled with a confidence that she will protect Shelby are we not? Yes, unquestionably. So inside of the very same scene essentially, during an argument between them, they suddenly become aware that intruders may be in the house and that somehow they’ve gone to the basement. If you’ve not seen it I’ll spare you the massive holes in the logic of these scenes but you may wish to just spare yourself by not watching the show. But once they’ve stepped several steps down toward the very large and dark basement, Shelby asks, “Where’s your gun?” And yes, we as the viewers assuming that Lee would never in a million go into the basement unarmed after such a statement only moments before. Not unless of course, Lee is a complete human contradiction OR which is the only real possibility, this is where in the writer’s meeting, either some government paid jockey or Liberal nutbag with greater clout, suddenly grabbed the script and said, “Yeah, you gotta put in this line.” So what was the line of massive artifice and utter contradiction?
Lee turns to Shelby and says with the tone of explaining one putting a dryer sheet into a dryer, “Upstairs locked up where it should be!”
KA-DONG!
Really Lee? Really creators & writers of American Horror Story?
Why not just have these characters hold up literal flash card like signs when you artificially inseminate us with your moralizing drivel? I mean as a fan of the show at one time? If you’re going to rob me of your great art? If you’re going to rape my time invested? If you’re going to insult me with brevity of a handsome highway man who bows before and after stealing my wallet? At least have the decency to say you’re going to do it in such an obvious way before I tune in?
Oh, and when’s the last time you ever met a black guy named Matt? Like never. You never have. You never did and you never will. Why not just name the white girl chracter La’Shelbeeqwah? Unbelievable.
The real American Horror Story is this show thinking its passing as cutting edge or innovative or next level. Its not even basically good because its sold its substance out to politics and the worst kind of them. The series feature HOTEL was an all time ratings low and I argue because of the same confusion between art for art’s sake, and art by direction of the controllers. They might as well rename this series, DOOMED.
When's the last time you met a black guy named Matt?

The Faces of Modern Liberals or The Anti-Americans To Be Historically Correct (HC)