I bumped into friend (and fellow Obama supporter) H. this morning when I stopped at the German bakery for coffee.
H. is just a few years older than I am, the son of two 60s era civil-rights activists and prominent members of the community. (H., by contrast, hasn’t ever been terribly active in politics, which irritates his widowed mother to no end.) I've known H. for over twenty years. We did a six-week temp job together in our misspent youth, had a couple of classes together, fellout of touch, fell back into touch, and like you do in a small Southern city, we run into each other every couple of months . . . say when we stop at the same place German bakery for coffee.
Of course after the obligatory "How’s your folks? Wife? Kids?" exchange I took the opportunity to sound him out about what he (and the other members of the Black community in my town) were thinking in the wake of Iowa and New Hampshire. We have a history of discussing race and politics and exchanging views, so he wasn’t shy about responding – especially since both of our cars were sporting Obama ’08 bumper stickers.
What he had to say was interesting.
When I first talked to H. about Obama a few months ago he was enthusiastic but guarded, convinced (like many of his peers) that the Establishment would never let a Black man win the presidency in his lifetime. At the time I hadn't chosen a candidate yet, and wanted his take on it back then. He told me point-blank that Obama wouldn’t break 20% in lily-white Iowa and New Hampshire – white voters just weren’t ready, he insisted. Obama would lose, but H. still wanted to support him. He was even at odds with his mother, who has been courted by the Clinton campaign since before it was an official campaign. But she’s having a hard time defending her candidate against the rising tide of Obamamania that seems to be taking hold of the Black community here, apparently. The "Rich White Lady" vs. "Intelligent Black Man" meme.
I had thought about H. right after Iowa, and meant to call him to compare notes. I never got around to it – life is hectic, in 2008. Then New Hampshire happened. So, of course, one of the first things I asked him about was how his mother was enjoying Hillary’s victory. H. laughed.
"She isn’t," he admitted. "I think she was hoping that she’d lose, and then she could go ahead and endorse Obama, like everyone wants her to. But she won – because she got choked-up about how darn hard it was. Now Mom has to stick it out until she loses again. Can you believe that? Cry me a f_____ing river! Bunch of old white liberal ladies . . ."
I was amused at his characterization, and asked about his general feelings about Obama’s chances now that Hillary was officially the "comeback kid". Was Obama doomed? Was his support wavering?
"Nah, that was New Hampshire," he pointed out. "Wait until South Carolina. Watch what happens there. Folks are pretty pissed off about the assassination cracks they made up in New Hampshire. Sounded like a threat. The ‘You’re no MLK’ b_ll__it? That pissed some folks off in my neighborhood. That was just insulting. Who the hell does she think she is? Rosa Parks? Next time it’s in South Carolina. That’s our house. She’ll cry in South Carolina too, but it won’t do any good. She’ll be crying ‘cause she lost."
And then the next thing he said had me rolling.
"It’s gonna be on like a pot of neckbones!"
Now, before anyone accuses me of stereotyping, racial anything, yadda yadda yadda, let me explain to the Yankees in the crowd that in most places in the South even highly educated folks – of both races – will occasionally lapse into dialect for dramatic effect. It’s in our cultural nature. Our braided culture has its universal roots in agriculture and poverty. Neckbones are poor-folks’ food, or at least they were in the days before the $.99 fast-food menu. You buy a bunch of them, put them on the stove to boil all day, and mix the result with greens or other culinary elements to turn not-much into mmm-good. It will get you through a week between paychecks. The smell pervades the house with the sweet perfume of cooking pork. When a pot of neckbones is on, there is no doubt about it.
No matter how well-educated you are (and, despite popular opinion in the less-enlightened areas of the nation, there are plenty of well-educated folk here in Dixie) almost all wise Southerners want to be able to speak the rural dialect and use the colorful metaphors associated with it, when the occasion warrants. If, for no other reason, to point out the fact that you are not in fact a Yankee – the "just folks" attitude that Bill Clinton and George W. Bush affect so well. This was one of those occasions. H. has a college degree and a professional career, and speaks almost as eloquently as Obama himself. He entertained joining the clergy at one point (the money wasn’t right). Normally, he speaks plain Broadcast English with just a hint of grits. And neither one of us has likely had neckbones this decade.
But when he dropped that little gem in my lap, he was just as serious and intent of purpose as if he had written an op-ed essay on the subject. He managed to capture, in one sentence, the defiant and tenacious mood of the typical Obama supporter in my town. New Hampshire may have been a bump in the road, but that hasn’t diminished the fervor with which Obama supporters are dedicated to the cause. Quite the contrary: now they’re pissed. And when they realize how many of them there are, they will also realize how strong they are. Even if Hillary manages to squeak out Nevada with more emotional displays (she may have used up her allowance for the month), she’s going to lose South Carolina. And if she lasts until Tsunami Tuesday, the South will belong to Obama. Because it’s on, now, and the gloves come off.
We jawboned as long as we could get away with it, then said our goodbyes and went our separate ways to work. But that phrase was ringing in my ears, and I had to diary it.
You’re on notice, Hillary: in South Carolina, it’s on like a pot of neckbones.