Cow House

Being in the American South, it didn't come as a complete surprise to me that one would find artifacts and stories about a white Roberts family in Paducah as well as a black one, nor that there was some kind of relationship between the two, black and white. I'm talking about this relationship in this indirect some kind of way for two reasons. First, as of this writing, I'm still in the discovery phase of my research so I don't know for a fact that the Jack Roberts who bequeathed two slaves, Charles and Jane Roberts to the Catholic Church in 1850, is the progenitor of the white Roberts families in the town today. Second, I'm procrastinating. Of course I don't want to deviate from my orignial destination -- compulsively I need to touch the gate first. I need to be satisfied that the people buried in Mount Carmel are indeed my people. I need to know why my grandfather left. But really, I am just not ready to look into the face of another living human kn

After I'd lain for a while on the lawn at Mount Carmel, I got my car to drive back to the hotel, aiming to decompress. It was then about twelve-thirty in the afternoon. Around nine that morning, I'd stopped for gas, water and cash before heading to breakfast at I-Hop. While waiting to pay, I was taken aback by this guy in front of me in line with scraggly mouse-colored hair, cheap-looking tatoos, sun-raw white skin and a denim shirt with cut off sleeves. He smelled like cigarettes, lawnmowers and sweat. No mask and a cocky posture, his disposition toward the older woman behind the counter was impatient. Typical , I started to think. But then I was struck by the snap nature of my own bias. The guy might have just been hot and really have to pee after working all morning behind a lawnmower. True, he might have been in the aryan prison nation. But, he hadn't spoken a word to me. All this was in my head. I had mapped what part of me had wanted to see over his reality. That sa

After standing there for another minute, I was now the one pacing around on the side of hill like a nervous squirrel too far from the safety of a tree, akwardly not knowing where to stop or stand, wanting to stay, wanting to flee, really not knowing what to say. For sure, this was a pick-your-battles moment. I wasn't here to do an ethnography of the white American South, plus I have reasons not to alienate this guy, regardless of his possible attitude toward me. There was the data spread out around us on and in the ground. And really, he seemed more convicted and conflicted by my presence than defensive or angered. I didn't want to make assumptions, but I didn't know what to do. The journey I was on had started at least two years if not longer ago and it was deeply personal. I'd invested some time to get here. My goal was to learn as much as possible about my mother's African-American family story to balance out this sort of lopsidedness I'd always felt insid

You'll come into the main gate to a circle. You can go right. You can go straight. You want to go left. Keep going for as long as you can then hit your brakes. Look out your left window. You'll be looking at it. I'll meet you there at eleven. It is late morning, bright with spring, and it couldn't have taken more than ten minutes for Sanders to start digging and prodding toward a conversation that I don't think he really didn't want to have with me. He is speaking as if we speak the same language. While I am very much American, I am neither Catholic nor am I white. I am certainly not from around here. Wait, I guess that last statement is not true. That is in fact why I am standing in this grave yard maintaining patience and trying to listen with an open mind to this old, kind of frail, medium-sized white-haired white man in canvas shoes and 80s style jogging pants explaining things to me. We are near the top of a gentle hill. It really is a beautiful day. Whil