In the wake of the death of famed singer, songwriter, actor, philanthropist, businesswoman, and veritable earthbound angel Dolly Parton at 80 years old, I must have read several dozen think pieces about the Tennessean-turned-international-icon’s massive (and by seemingly unanimous agreement, overwhelmingly positive) impact. One essay in particular caught my attention, not for what it said about She of the Coat of Many Colors, but for what it seemed to propose about the United States of America and its people’s conception of “whiteness.”
The essayist, whose name I neglected to write down, lost as I was amid a sea of heartfelt tributes, was somewhat perplexed that so many people from so many different walks of life were not only willing but eager to celebrate Parton, despite her wealth, her age (read: certified Baby Boomer status), and her supposed embodiment of the aforementioned concept of whiteness.
To those points, I say that no one in the so-called “younger generations” resents Baby Boomers because of ageism, but because, as a group, they seem unwilling to accept that the world has changed dramatically since the time they went into the workforce. Similarly, it’s not whiteness that Parton wore as her public persona, but a whole-hearted embracing of her Appalachian roots, albeit with a very Nashville-flavored, rhinestone-encrusted twist.
Parton is an example of an unapologetic and, more importantly, healthy appreciation of her heritage. She was true to her Tennessee mountain roots, but in a way that never stopped her from proudly declaring that, “Black lives matter.” Don’t believe me? Look up the video.
That example could be of some use to white Southerners looking to divest themselves of the language and culture of white supremacy. Celebration of one’s whiteness, and whiteness alone, leads directly to white supremacy. There is a way forward, though.
I’m sure that, in the long line of Davises and Etheridges and Plunks that came before me, there have been some awful people. I don’t have to celebrate them, though, and I won’t. Instead, I celebrate my great-great-great-grandmother Anna Henrietta Plunk, née Gage, who became so frustrated with the lazy young men of McNairy County, who apparently preferred to idle instead of start work on a proposed church building, that she “picked up an axe and led the way,” according to the obituary of her husband, Calvin Plunk.
A propensity for hard work and a can-do attitude? That jibes with what I see as the admirable aspects of Southern and American cultures. I can own that, though it’s not even the best part.
Anna Plunk was a spy for the Union Army during the Civil War. On her frequent trips from McNairy County to Nashville, where she dropped off food and needed supplies to her three sons stationed there, she noted Confederate troop movements. She then passed that information on to the Union Army. According to family lore, she was once robbed by Confederate traitors, who even took her donkey. Apparently, her oft-repeated joke about the near-death experience was that the dern Rebels were so greedy, “They left me afoot.” They took her means of conveyance, you see. I suppose it sounded like they only left her a single foot. I’m not sure. Maybe you had to be there.
Her work as a spy earned my great-great-great-grandmother not only a place in my heart, but a visit and a commendation from Gen. Lew Wallace. My point is, I choose to celebrate the courage, loyalty, and humor of my ancestor. That, to me, is what it means to be a Tennessean, an American, and a Davis. All the rest is of no interest to me, and I don’t mind leaving it where it belongs. In the past.
I think also of the time before my older cousin’s wedding, when Grannie pulled me aside to tell me that one of my cousin’s groomsmen was gay and I better not treat him differently than anyone else. It was God’s job to judge, not mine, she said, and anyway, she had never met a gay person who was anything but nice to her. Most importantly, since the wedding party originally met in her small home in the hills of Tennessee, he was a guest — and guests are to be welcomed.
Of course, I didn’t and I don’t think that there’s anything to judge, but that was pretty damn progressive for a little old lady in West Tennessee some 20 years ago.
We may not get to choose our history, but we can choose what to honor and celebrate. Celebrating an arbitrary lack of pigment is not only asinine in the extreme, it’s dangerous. Memphians are in danger simply because of the color of their skin. It was not 121 white folks who were rounded up by ICE, zip-tied, and put in vans to who-knows-where after the Sunday-night raid on the El Corralón nightclub, but it is our responsibility to speak out against those unconstitutional and immoral actions. They need to be brought home.
If you disagree, I would issue a warning. No red hat or white hood will protect anyone if the powers that be decide they deserve a ride in an unmarked white van. It’s long past time for all people of good conscience to step forward and speak out. Take off the white hoods. Take off the red hats.
Jesse Davis is a former Flyer staffer; he writes a monthly Books feature for Memphis Magazine. His opinions, such as they are, believe that if your heritage celebrates another person’s disenfranchisement (or worse), it’s time you made that heritage history.
