Cow House

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