I’ve often heard that the South was full of ghosts. I suppose the idea that long-forgotten Civil War dead are roaming the countryside animated by nothing but resentment and anger is too good to resist. I was born in the South and live here now. While I have never given any thought to long-lost soldiers wandering the hills and valleys, I do know that the South is haunted.

It is haunted by memory. Not always significant memories–like recollections of battles won and lost–it is haunted by a perfect recall of everyday hurts, jealousies and frustrations. Nothing is forgotten here and everything is personal.

When I first settled in my small Southern town, one of the questions put to me was, “What’s your name?” This is a simple enough question, but they didn’t want to know my name–only. When my answer didn’t provide the data hoped for, the questioner got to the point: “Who are your people?” You see, they needed to place me the social hierarchy and flip through their Rolodex of past wrongs to see if their grandfather had been mistreated by my grandfather or if some other long-ago slight should push us apart. I’m not making this up. This questions is put to me regularly–typically by gray-haired men and women who pride themselves on their pride.

For years I’ve read about Southern honor and pride, but I always thought that was over-romanticized sentimentality. I now know I didn’t recognize it because in daily life it is not displayed as noble or high-minded piety; rather it is petty, common and exercised by both those in high standing and the lowest of the low. I did not recognize it because it is everywhere.

There is something special about the South. The land may not be haunted, but the everyday memories of its many residents are.

Tags: The South

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