Approach the On Ramp

But as a child I never felt as if I fit in my skin. My attentions were always on things different than me. I've worn cowboy hats and Western-style clothing since I can remember. I adored the folk music of England, Ireland, and Scotland far more than the classical music that was around our house. By adolescence, I fell hopelessly in love with Southern music, particularly old time string band fiddle tunes.

My parents supported my interests, don't get me wrong. They weren't the cause of my not fitting in my skin. It was a geographical thing, as you will see.

My passions for old time music and cowboy life traveled with me to college in Indiana and to graduate school in Pennsylvania. Also, I had traveled extensively by Greyhound, but had never spent any significant time in the South. I wanted to visit where the tunes were kept. I wanted to meet the people and learn about a place that I knew so little of, but was somehow very fond.

The South was not a topic of family conversation. I had seen its stereotypes and battles on television, but they were limited. Perhaps, however, I did experience the negative South when we lived in Bedford, Massachusetts. I was in third grade when an African American boy was a new student, and the only African American. I don't remember his name, but I remember riding the bus to school with him. Almost daily he was bonked on the head with a lunch box or asked, "Do you know the Eleventh Commandment? 'Love the nigger who has vigor'!"

Word of this boy's terror time reached the principal, who called the entire school together to call attention to the problem. Soon the boy's terror died down, most likely because his family moved out of our school district.

This wasn't just school kids being mean; this was the stereotype of Southern attitudes toward African Americans, New England style. Some 30 years later I experienced Southern attitudes, Southern style. I was visiting with a fish net maker in southwestern Arkansas, sitting with him on the porch of his house (a magnificent log structure of which he was very proud). We were talking about the community he lived in, and how it was tight-knit. The man gave me an example of how close people were: a biracial couple moved to town and rented a mobile home. By the end of their week in the trailer, the trailer mysteriously burnt to the ground. The official reason, according to the net maker, was an electrical fire. He asked me, "but you know better than that, now don't you?" In other words, the fire could have been an arson because biracial couples were not tolerated in this tightly woven community, let alone African Americans.

Such action is not highly tolerated in the South, but it does happen. It can make life scary if you are somehow different, but something about the South -- for me -- held and warmed my heart.

Since 1986 I have worked and lived throughout the South. While it is a region of incongruities for a Jewish "Yankee," I have found pockets of comfort into which I can insert myself and find that I fit in my skin. The romantic in me thinks that if I didn't live somewhere Southern, I would shrivel up and spiritually die.

Here's another story about the Jewish "Yankee" in the South. A journey, perhaps on an on ramp to a world and into it.

One Sunday in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, I attended an annual program of the Arkansas State Independent Quartet Convention. A convention is a gathering of gospel singers for the purpose of worship in song. In Arkansas, the state quartet convention promotes multi-part singing by individual groups located throughout the state. The singers are divided up according to geography into "locals," satellites that come together twice a year for musical worship.

I had been invited to the annual program by members of the Hot Springs Local. Prior to attending, I visited with the President of the Quartet Convention to get his permission for my attendance. J.W. Matthews was a lean and energetic man who had been singing quartet-style gospel since 1922. We spoke at length about his history as a singer and the creation of the State Quartet Convention. Mr. Matthews talked about the role of gospel music in Christian worship, which included community service. He told me that "when praises go up, blessings come down," and that I was welcome to attend the singing.

And so I went. I got lost, because Pine Bluff is full of streets that start, stop, turn, and start again. But I made it, finding the white building at the end of a street marked with a sign, "Pine Bluff Singing Center." The parking lot was filled with large American cars and mini-vans. When I parked my Japanese vehicle, I knew I going to be out of place.

I went inside, and beheld a sea of brightly colored suits and dresses. Big hats. Excited conversation filled the room while musicians at the front of the room checked the sound system. I found one of the Hot Springs people, Ozebie White, who greeted me with a hug, and made a place beside her on the pew.

Ozebie's first words to me were, "Mr. Matthews expects you to give words." In other words, I was expected to make a short speech in front of the convention; and I did. I explained my interest in gospel music and thanked the convention for its hospitality. Various members of the convention responded with "Amen" and "Thank you, Lord."

My presence was soon to be further justified when Mr. Matthews spoke. He welcomed me to the singing, and he told the group about my visit to his home and how I sat before him on the floor while he sat in a chair. He was impressed by this: "How many Doctors do you know who will sit on the floor and listen to you?

"Dr. Rosenberg is a Christian. Let us make her at home with us today, amen?"

Christian?! I turned to Ozebie with a worried look and said, "But I'm Jewish; I'm not a Christian!" Ozebie didn't flinch. She elbowed me in the ribs and said, "You are today."

Many friends and colleagues have had an experience similar to mine. A woman originally from Albany, New York, maintains an emotional home in Israel. Another friend, originally from the New York City area, feels her home is by the Atlantic Ocean at Martha's Vinyard. Obviously my experience is not new. But it is mine, it is in the South, and it is deep.

Do you know the difference between a Yankee and a Damn Yankee? The Yankee visits the South and then goes home to the North. A Damn Yankee goes South and doesn't leave. I approached the on ramp in New England, went South, and stayed. I am a Damn Yankee.

My friend Katy once said, "I don't know how you do it [living in the South], but you seem to thrive on these differences. She is right. While I am perhaps physically out of place, I am comfortable in my skin. I especially feel in my skin as a spectator. Like Studs Terkel said, "I wanted a 9 to 5 job as a spectator." as a student of that which is around on and off the ramp.