SELMA, ALABAMA
I meander up Alabama and happen upon Selma, thinking I should drive across “that” bridge. As it happens, the memorial park is right there, and I pull over.
The site is in terrible shape with uprooted trees, overgrown walkways and trash everywhere. It’s built in 2001 and doesn’t seem to have been maintained since.
I walk around and ponder the lives of the people before me, and the fact that the more things change, the more they stay the same.
At the Tomb of the Unknown Slave, my paternal ancestry washes over me. Had I been born in the 1960’s South, my life would’ve been totally different: Mixed raced equals Negro.
Some of the fallen trees are already sprouting new shoots, and someone has placed a small wooden sculpture at the shrine. It depicts a man grabbing his big fat cock. There is fertility in the darkest places.
I get back in the van and drive across the bridge that still carries the name of a Ku Klux Klan leader. On the other side is a visitor’s center where I am thankful to talk to one of the staff at length and try to put things in perspective. As much as that is even possible.
I buy a Green Book for continuous safe travel.
Next stop: Montgomery.
