Do Say It

 In several parts of the country, including Mississippi, there is a movement to eliminate any mention or suggestion of homosexuality from undergraduate education.  In Florida, it surfaced as the much talked about "don't say gay" bill.  Their goal here is to protect children from ideas and influences that can harm them--without any proof that these ideas or influences actually do harm them.

I am a product of that kind of education.  Until I went to college, there was never a mention of homosexuality in any of my educational experiences.  We learned that Pangloss lost the tip of his nose due to syphilis, but there was never any mention that a man could love another man in even the most remote fantasy.  I was a product of that kind of education, and at sixteen, I tried to use it to ruin a man's reputation and destroy his career.

I've written before about the troubles I had with my headmaster, David Hicks.  David called us dolts, degenerates, and worse.  He was making, what seemed to be, a specific effort to push half my friends out of the school on charges that could have applied equally to others but didn't because David Hicks never touched the kids who he imagined had fathers who earned more than the rest.

My efforts to discuss the situation rationally with David went nowhere and were evidently irritating him.  By the spring of my tenth-grade year, it was clear we were headed for a collision course, one that I would lose.  My dad agreed to sit in on one of my meetings with our headmaster.  It was generally his policy to let me fight my own battles, secure that his reputation was enough to help aid me along the way without having to show his face.  That he went in person to this meeting was most likely my mother's influence.

Although my father had little to say, David Hicks was not impressed by him, by me, or by anything either of us had to say.  I could tell by the look on my father's face that even if David Hicks didn't kick me out of St. Andrews, I wouldn't be returning the next year.  He had had enough.  

Desperate to turn the tide of this battle and give me something to use against Hicks, I blurted out, "Professor X is a Gay!" hoping to prove to my headmaster that the true degenerates were on his side of the field, not mine.  It's not important that you know who Professor X is.  More than forty years later, I haven't any idea if he was actually "a gay" or not.  I do know that my friend had said he was and I should be careful, or he'd look at my butt.  He said it often enough that, in my moment of desperation, that's what came to mind.  

Keep in mind, this is the same friend who said I should put my "mule" on the overhead projector in the hall and shine it into Peppermint Patty's classroom because it'd be funny. When I pointed out that it'd be just as funny if he projected his own "mule" into Peppermint Patty's classroom, he told me to shut up.  I should have remembered that before using his reference to try and smear another man's reputation, but I didn't.

The truth is, at sixteen, I had no idea what homosexuality meant.  It was in none of the books I read, none of the movies I saw, no teacher ever mentioned it, and I had yet to meet a single person who was willing to say they were gay.  I was as shielded from the concept as Ron Desantis wants the students of Florida to be, and I tried to use my ignorance as a weapon.  

The truth is, I was actually surrounded by homosexuals, but nobody ever said it.  A fair number of my classmates would come out by the time they were thirty.  Several of the shows I watched on television had people like Paul Lynde, Charles Nelson Riley, Rock Hudson, and Raymond Burr in them, but it'd be another fifteen years before I had any idea of this.  Paul Lynde even sued a reporter who said he was gay once and won!

All I knew about homosexuality was that it was something you really didn't want to be, and this Hicks character was endangering us by forcing a teacher on us who might look at our butts.  Of all the times David Hicks ignored what I was saying when he shouldn't, this is a time when I'm glad he paid me no mind.  Accusing a teacher of being a homosexual in 1980 could have been a career killer.  A few years later,  there was an extremely popular professor at another school who made the mistake of admitting to his students what he was and was shortly thereafter shown the door with no recourse.

My ignorance could have really hurt somebody.  I wasn't a mean or vindictive kid, but the kid underground told me these people were bad, and they were bad for us, and nothing in my experience gave me any positive information about homosexuals to counter that.  

Let's amplify this situation a bit.  At the same school, there were several kids who would eventually tell the world they were gay.  There was even one of us who was transgender.  Neither society nor our school gave us any way to conceptualize this situation as anything but negative stereotypes.  One woman I know who eventually told us she was a lesbian was one of the meanest kids I knew.  I never understood that at the time.  She was so pretty.  Now I understand that she was mean to protect herself from us.  We were unintentionally being really very cruel to kids we didn't mean to hurt simply because we didn't know any better.

Psychologists tell us that up to ten percent of the population doesn't fit into the traditional heterosexual description.  In the late seventies, our upper school was around two hundred kids.  That means that twenty of them weren't heterosexual.  That means that, had they been found out, twenty of them would most likely have been bullied by my friends and me because we didn't know any better.  We were told they were aliens.  We were told they were this odd combination of very weak but also very dangerous.    It means that there were at least twenty kids at our school who couldn't tell us a very fundamental thing about themselves for fear of how we would react.  

That's a dangerous and painful situation, and it could easily have been avoided by an education that treated homosexuality as a human condition that should be discussed at least as much as the Syphilis that Pangloss died of.   That's the world these "don't say gay" bills create.  Children who are ignorant and uninformed can be vicious and hurtful.  I was.  People say they're very tired of having the "gay agenda" rammed down their throats, but I lived in a time when nobody said gay, and there was a genuine cruelty about it, cruel because homosexuality does exist and it exists without taking any victims, but without guidance, people can easily fall into victimizing them.  

Myopia

Many people choose to see nothing in the world beyond the tip of their nose.

It's a matter of self-preservation.  Blinding yourself to the troubles of the world gives you more time, energy, and resolve to deal with your own.

Shortening our vision creates a deficit because we can't see threats as they approach, so we pay people to go out into the world and report back on what they see.  There once was a time when we could rely on these reporters to simply tell us what they saw.  Men learned there was money to be made by reporting back what they saw, but from a particular perspective, and then the reporters became unreliable.

Because we cannot see who our enemies truly are, there's money to be made in telling us who to hate and who to trust.  Telling people they have enemies to fear makes them very loyal and their generosity very dependable.

Finding things out for yourself is a difficult path, but in the end, who else can you trust?  In the world there are many more people who are afraid then there are people to fear, but the only way to know who is who is to find out for yourself.

The Face Of Erasmus

When I tell these stories, there will be times when I will not name all the names or tell all the details.  I'm sorry if this offends.   My objective is to illuminate a time, cause a smile, sometimes a tear, not to stretch the reputation of anyone who was probably too young to be held responsible for what they did anyway.  If you know the names of any of the people in this story who are not named, please keep it to yourself.

I love my old school.  My experience there didn't end the way anyone thought it would, but I loved my time there and the people who travailed and matriculated with me and especially the poor souls who taught us, fed us, coached us, and sat with us while we waited to see the principal.  

St. Andrews aimed to provide small-classroom instruction on a classical liberal arts method, offering advanced education as far as the student could stretch.  Early on, they provided special attention to students with communication and reading issues like mine, long before the public or other private schools did.  For an example of how advanced, in our ninth-grade literature class, we were taught Beowulf (both translated and untranslated) and Candide (translated) and the historical placement and environment of each.  We were one of the first high schools in the state to offer Advance Placement courses, although my learning disability meant I wasn't ever a candidate for them.

Trying to do all these things in the 1970s in Jackson, Mississippi, wasn't without challenges.  There were cultural sea changes happening in every area of life, in many ways equal to those after the Civil War.  Some have called the years between 1960 and 1980 our Second Civil War.  

At its heart, St. Andrews was a parochial school, and as such, its board generally appointed Episcopal Priests as our headmasters.  There was a steady stream of fathers such and such leading us, and nobody ever really thought much of it until one day, a student in our newly created high school was arrested for selling drugs, to wit, marijuana.  Not enough to get him sent to Parchman or the Raymond School for Boys, but enough to cause a tailspin in the adult community guiding St. Andrews.  Our priestly headmaster was replaced by a layperson who himself was almost immediately released two years later, and the school's dean, also a layperson, was assigned as Acting Headmaster while the board searched for a permanent headmaster.   

There were adventures in those years waiting for a new headmaster that I've written about before.  At the time, I thought we were fairly well-behaved and normal kids until one day, the board was to present us with a gentleman who we understood was seriously being considered as our new headmaster.  In his address to us in the courtyard of the second upper school building, this new man said to us something I'll never forget.  

"It's my understanding that you have a problem with drunken degenerates." 

Others would, in time, call me both drunken and degenerate, but at fifteen, nobody ever had before.  We all thought there was no way this guy would get the job after being so rude to us upon our first meeting.  He didn't even know our names yet.  We were wrong.  Come the next fall, David Hicks was our new headmaster.  Apparently, there were members of the board who agreed with his assessment of us and thought he was the perfect solution to changing our wanton and degenerate ways.

Before school even began, several boys were expelled.  They were expelled before they even met the new headmaster.  I'm not even sure how this process happened.  Were they given a hearing?  Was there testimony brought against them?  I really don't know.  What I do know is that if he was seeking to cut off the source of the drug and alcohol problems at St. Andrews, he picked the wrong guys.  The boys he expelled were no saints, but they also weren't the source of the problem.  He also hadn't yet proven (to me, at least) that we had a drug and alcohol problem that was different from any other private or public school in Jackson.    

Once Hicks was installed as our headmaster, several boys were given the choice to either be expelled summarily or attend an experimental drug rehabilitation program in Atlanta.  This was not too many years after Betty Ford had made international news for receiving rehabilitation for her alcoholism; dependency programs were still pretty rare.  Again, if Hicks was trying to attack the problem at its source, he was picking the wrong boys.   These boys were troubled, for sure, but they were hardly the cause of the problem that I wasn't even entirely sure we had.

At sixteen, I decided it was up to me to try and talk Hicks out of this course of action for the good of the school.  I began regularly meeting with him to discuss these matters.  While he never refused my meetings, he was clearly getting irritated by them.  Our relationship began to become adversarial.  The more his actions troubled my classmates, the more I was compelled to confront him about it, and the more irritated he became with me.  By Christmas, we were clearly adversaries.  I've written before about how that didn't end well for me.

Small and large acts of protest began to spring up.  A newspaper was formed.  We were allowed one printing before getting shut down.  Whispers, coughs, and dress code violations became common.  The teacher's lounge mysteriously burst into flames one night.  The war between David Hicks and the students continued.  It became clear that there was an income threshold beyond which Hicks would not question any of your actions, but should your parents not earn enough--boy, were you in trouble.

One morning, we came to school, and the greatest act of protest I'd ever witnessed was revealed.  I won't say who did it, but I know it was two people, and the fact that two people had done all this in the middle of the night, by themselves, without getting caught, amazes me even today.

Every flat surface on the upper school held some level of spray paint.  I've used Krylon spray paints many times.  I know how far a single can will spread.  The culprits must have purchased a case

Most of the school's faculty, staff, and administration were much loved by us all and were spared any comment by our midnight sign painters.  But, those few who were considered traitors to the cause found themselves immortalized and pilloried by teenage wit, presented in letters large enough to be painted by a spray can, all over the upper school walls along with David Hicks.  Every upper school wall.

During this year of our discontent, a phrase had sprung up.  Every student from the fifth grade on up knew it.  It was scribbled on desks and book covers and shouted from cars.  Someone even wrote it in ballpoint pen on the back of my blue jean jacket while I piddled in my sketchbook on the bleachers one sunny afternoon.  Hix Sux.  It became our war cry.  The heroes of our story, on their midnight run of protest and spray paint saved the large brick wall to the right of the gated entrance into the upper school building for the last.  There, in letters several inches thick and seven feet tall, they painted:

                                                            HIX
                                                            SUX

I'm not even sure how they did it.  Maybe they brought a ladder with them.  Somehow they painted what we were all thinking as a two-story protest sign on unsealed bricks for us all to see when we came to school the next morning.

By the time I got to school, Jessie and the other janitorial staff were already at work trying to wipe away the graffiti that was literally everywhere.  By the end of the school day, our three janitors and one coach had either scrubbed away or painted over all the evidence of our midnight revolutionaries, all but one.  Remember the unsealed bricks I mentioned before?  Attempts to scrub the paint away from the surface of the bricks just drove the paint deeper into the grain of the brick.  HIX SUX was slightly dimmer now but wider and still very, very visible from the lower school playground.  Several chemicals were tried, and none worked.  St. Andrews closed out my tenth-grade year, my last year, with HIX SUX still quite visible on the upper school wall in two-story letters.  

Over the summer, the decision was made to paint over the offending remark with the same paint used on the metal gates.  Now we had a giant, windowless wall painted flat gray.  Hicks entertained suggestions, which included painting a large mural.  The students were consulted about what the subject of the mural should be and given several suggestions.  I wasn't there, but it's my understanding that Erasmus, who I had never heard of, was chosen democratically to be the subject of the mural.  The school's art teacher, Mrs. Mitchell, suggested Lawrence Jones, a former professor at Jackson State, to head the project, which he completed using students from her class. 

Forty years later, the painting of Erasmus still presents on the wall of the now primary school building, but its history was seemingly lost in time.  Underneath the philosopher's intractable visage remains evidence of a sixteen-year-old revolutionary fighting for the honor of his friends who were called degenerate.

 You've probably heard about a lot of Southern chefs; most were from New Orleans, and some were from Savannah, but the biggest innovator among Southern chefs and the one with the longest shadow was Bill Neal.   Neal elevated the status of Southern food that wasn't from Galatoire's or Commander's Palace to the rare air Southern food appreciates today and makes places like Dooky Chase's and Elvie's eligible for consideration for Beard Awards.  (One day, I'll tell you the story of who James Beard was and why he was important.)

Of all the dishes Neal cooked and all the dishes Neal wrote about, none were as famous or as far influencing as Shrimp and Grits.  Like most of Neal's recipes, shrimp and grits find its origins in the Afro-Caribbean influence of the Tidewater region and feature two of the Southland's most famous ingredients, shrimp and grits.

For Southern chefs of a certain generation, Shrimp and Grits is a dish they simply must get right or not offer at all.  Damien Cavicchi, formerly from the Country Club of Jackson and now the much-talked-about new owner of Hal and Mals and Campbell's bakery, is a chef, I'm convinced, will at some point be a Beard nominated chef, if not a Beard award winning chef.  

The menu at Hal and Mals is iconic and delicious, but it's also almost forty years old.  Chef Cavicchi is tasked with the considerable challenge of updating the menu, making it his own, but also keeping the flavors and experiences Hal and Mals is known for.  

One of the dishes he added to the menu, to accomplish these goals, was Shrimp and Grits.  Hal and Mals is famous for Southern staple food, and Shrimp and Grits is a perfect match for that.  It's not an elevated, gold-rimmed plate version of the dish you get at some places, like City Grocery (which is fantastic) but maintains the Hal and Mals blue plate, meat, and three level of cooking, while seriously raising the stakes with the flavor.

Shrimp and grits are three elements that must balance and must be right.  Plump gulf shrimp, which are more difficult to cook correctly than most people realize, creamy and flavorful grits, cheese, and garlic are preferred, and perhaps the most important element, the sauce.  Cheft Cavicchi nails all three, especially the sauce, and he does it with hearty portions that you could easily share with a sweetheart if you wanted to pair with their famous gumbo or seafood bisque.  

If you think you've eaten at Hal and Mal's a million times, and it offers you no new experiences, you're wrong.  There's a new chef in town, and he's bringing it on home while keeping the favorites you've come for, for the last forty years.  

The downtown renaissance is happening, and a vibrant young chef at an established classic location can't help but anchor the effort.  There are several other exciting elements of the new Hal and Mal's menu, but the Shrimp and Grits is my favorite.