Mississippi floats like a lifeboat on a vast and friendless ocean. Because it's Mississippi, we divide ourselves into halves, despite having no place where we may retreat in this ancient and poorly equipped craft. Because it's Mississippi, one half is mostly pink, and one half is mostly brown.
Because we believe the other side is untrustworthy and insane, we hoard what few crackers and potable water we have, not trusting the other to share in them fairly. Occasionally one side will steal crackers from the other and build a volleyball stadium. (Sorry, I had to bring it up.)
Both sides know real help isn't coming, although we beg passing liners for more crackers and water. "Salvation is to the North," one side says and paddles like mad in that direction. "Our only hope is the South," the other side believes and devotes all hands toward pushing us that way.
There actually is an island to the East, but nobody wants to go there, and nobody will tell me why. I've spent years in the north side of the boat, years in the south side, and more than a few years in the middle, waiting for the boat to sink. Occasionally, a wise soul will jump over the side and swim for it. They often are never seen again. Sometimes they'll send us postcards telling us they survived and how great their island is. Rarely do they ever send us more crackers and water. Thanks, Oprah.
So, here we sit. Despite considerable effort on both sides, our boat hasn't moved in years. Our population of deserters increases, including the next generation of my generation. I love them, and I miss them, but I can't blame them. Meanwhile, the sharks play cards and wait patiently below us, knowing they'll eat soon enough.
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