At the southern end of the 444-mile-long Natchez Trace to Nashville, perched atop a 200 foot loess bluff overlooking the Mississippi River and Louisiana, Natchez, Mississippi is the oldest settlement on the Mississippi River.

Named for the Natchez Indians, the French settled the area in 1716; the town recently celebrated its tricentennial. The 13 square-mile town of 15,000 people is 54 percent African-American, 44 percent Caucasian.

Natchez’s proximity to the Mississippi River generated enormous wealth for its landed elite, both in fertile soil and as a means of getting the product to market. By 1860, Natchez had more millionaires per capita than any other city in the United States. Cotton was King.

I grew up in Mississippi, but never visited Natchez. I arrived ten days ago, at the start of Spring Pilgrimage, and was immediately smitten. This place just oozes charm. Columns and porches and sweet tea, oh my – Natchez is the bed and breakfast capital of the south. During my more than a week in town I have witnessed preparations for a dozen weddings. Spanish moss hangs in the trees, the azaleas and wisteria are in bloom, and the giant Live Oaks stand sentinel over it all. Natchezians are friendly, inquisitive, and genuinely desirous to stop and talk. Interactions are not hurried, or manufactured.

 

 

Among the rare Southern towns spared the Sherman torch, like Savannah and Charleston, Natchez is truly unique because of the concentration of antebellum buildings in such a small area. Some are still private homes, and some are owned by the town, the Daughters of the American Revolution, or the two area garden clubs.

The historic district is a total of 221 acres. More than one thousand structures are listed on the National Register of Historic Places, twelve of them National Historic Landmarks.

I visit plantations and antebellum homes in my travels, but touring almost an entire community built by enslaved Africans is peculiar indeed. I approached the mansions from an historical perspective, marveling in the craftsmanship and artistry of original construction and preservation, taking in the furnishings and antiquities. I yawned my way through the tales of the original inhabitants, slave owners all. There’s nothing laudable about the way they made their fortunes. Of course they amassed great quantities of wealth and opulence, a cinch when you put a big zero in the “Labor” line item in the budget. Out at Longwood, construction was halted and plans of 10,000 square foot architectural grandeur never realized when the Civil War started.

I could not muster much sympathy for the widow and her children, forced to live on the completed ground level in nine rooms out of the planned 35. The horror! They dined in the room meant for wine storage! Perish the thought. I enjoyed learning that Longwood was used as the home of the King Of Mississippi, Russell Edgington, in the HBO series, “Tru Blood.”

Not a word was spoken of enslaved people at Stanton Hall, arguably the best preserved and best appointed mansion smack dab in the middle town, although there was a brief mention in passing to the “servants’ quarters” out back.

No spoken word of slaves, or even war, at Rosalie (it’s in the brochure), which is especially peculiar because that’s where General Grant set up shop when he hit town.

At Longwood, the family commissioned a slave’s portrait in oils. I guess that means he was part of the family, right?

Still and all, I could forgive Natchez for dwelling somewhat in its past, because the past is its bread-and-butter. Now, Tourism is King. Even the confederate statue in Memorial Park (erected during the “Lost Cause” era, in 1890) feels apropos and not born out of Jim Crow psychological terrorism.

Not surprisingly, the estate overseen by the federal government tells a more integrated story.

Melrose is part of the Natchez National Historic Park, managed by the National Park Service, United States Department of the Interior. Both the brochure and the guide addressed the issue of slaves at Melrose.

Park Ranger Barney Schoby, Jr. brought tears to the eyes of many on the tour, including mine, when he described the relationship between the estate’s subsequent owner, George Kelley, and Jane Johnson, a free woman of color, who protected, maintained, and curated Melrose for decades. Schoby’s recitation compelled me to the Natchez City Cemetery and Johnson’s grave, with a loving inscription by Kelley to his “Granny” on the headstone.

(Photo: Ruby Carman, Findagrave.com)

Things got a bit dicey at The Natchez Little Theater’s production of the comedy “Southern Exposure,” set in Natchez in the 1950’s. The theater has been staging the play every year since then. It tells the story of an aging Southern Belle, her inherited antebellum home and eccentric family, and a visit by a stranger with unclear intentions during Spring Pilgrimage. The woman playing the homeowner was simply lovely and hilarious, and it had its funny moments. However, the one main character who is Black – the maid, is portrayed as sassy and overtly sexual and provides most of the comic relief. While it is clear attempts have been made to modernize the script, Black people are still referred to as “darkies.”

Even dicier still, just down the road apiece is the restaurant Mammy’s Cupboard, built in 1940 on the heels of 1939’s “Gone With The Wind.”

You know I love cheesy Americana, kitsch, and roadside attractions, but Christ on a cracker, holy crap. The mammy archetype portrays the Black woman as an obese, happy, content, willing caregiver who loves the little white babies more than her own children and nurtures her employers like family. Mammy’s skin tone was lightened in the 1960’s – why they couldn’t just paint her pale and call the place “Scarlett’s Cupboard” is beyond me. Search Instagram for photos of happy Caucasians (and even a few Black people – okay – don’t get it, but You Do You!) mugging for photos out front.

Craving a more balanced historical palette, I sought out activities that told the African-American story. Jeremy Houston at Miss-Lou Tours took me to the home of Robert Johnson, a free man of color and the Barber of Natchez before the Civil War;

Natchez’s historically Black neighborhood, St. Catherine Street; the Forks of the Road (the country’s second largest slave market, dismantled by colored Union troops in 1863);

and the Watkins Street Black Cemetery, where, among others, many of the victims of the Rhythm Night Club fire (1940) are buried.

One evening, The Holy Family Catholic Church Choir and pianist Alvin Shelby were mesmerizing in the chorale presentation, “A Southern Road to Freedom” – the Natchez saga of African-Americans from slavery to modern times. I remained teary-eyed through the entire performance, overwhelmed by the harmonies, the great weight of history, the optimism, and the endurance of People of Color.

After a week in town I told a handful of close friends Natchez was the first strong contender for my next home after life on the road – favorable housing prices, decent tax structure, beautiful vistas and architecture, friendly people, no traffic, a small town with the amenities of a much larger city, close to several metropolitan areas like Jackson, Baton Rouge, and one of my favorite cities, New Orleans, drive-through daiquiri stands right across the river Louisiana (I LOVE them!),

passable healthcare, and plentiful opportunities for community involvement. I scoured the real estate listings and spent a day driving around town looking at properties. I imagined myself restoring an old home, volunteering, writing a novel, taking classes at the local community college, maybe even starting a business. I think you know me well enough by now to know that, wherever I land, I’ll make a darned good, productive, and contributing citizen, throwing everything I have, with gusto, into my chosen community.

Then, I attended The Historic Natchez Tableaux last night.

A brochure enticing retirees to Natchez describes the town as “A community that cherishes its past while always looking to the future. … [A] town of graceful living with a progressive attitude.”

Did anyone tell the Natchez Garden Club?

A tableau (tableaux, plural) is a living picture by a person or group in costume. The first Natchez Tableaux was performed in 1932 for tourists, and to this day it is (impressively) performed by over 100 volunteers. Back then it was known as “The Confederate Pageant,” and somewhere along the way people had the good taste to change that title. The Tableaux is always performed during Spring Pilgrimage at the Natchez City Auditorium.

The Tableaux has been described as “An unapologetic celebration of the slaveholding south.” Valiant efforts have been made to modernize it. Most recently, in 2015, famous author and native son Greg Iles took a stab at it. Striving for whole truths and not a one-sided, myopic view glorifying antebellum life, Iles added stories of the Natchez Indians, slavery and the Forks of the Road, and the defeat of the Confederacy. Apparently that went over like a lead balloon, because by 2017 the old show was back for the most part, and the Pilgrimage Garden Club declined to continue participating in the Tableaux with the Natchez Garden Club. The PGC President stated, “It is time to rethink things. The tableaux (in its current form) is not resonating with our visitors. It is obvious. … Sadly we cannot seem to progress fast enough in this changing climate.”

Mind you, I knew none of this walking into the show last night. The brochure I read described the updated version. I did the research after I left the auditorium feeling like an accomplice.

The crowd was decidedly local. Half the auditorium was empty. Lots of photos were being taken by proud parents and grandparents of their children participating in the pageant.

Things started well enough, with a rendition of “Old Man River” followed by children dancing around a maypole. The polka piece showcased young men and women dancing in antebellum period dress.

A segment about men going off for a hunt, complete with live hunting dogs, was cute despite the ill-fitting costumes, mostly because one particular dog was being goofy and unruly.

The showboat arrived, with singers and dancers. Fine and dandy. That’s when things started to go off the rails.

One vignette was entitled “A Natchez Bride For Jefferson Davis.” Apparently he married a girl from Natchez, when he was 35 and she was 17. Why would anyone be interested in this? I didn’t tour his post-war home in Biloxi, Beauvoir, and I certainly didn’t intend to be privy to his re-enacted nuptials. I sat there, flabbergasted to think that anyone in Natchez deems this to be a jewel in the town’s crown of achievement, when at most it is a footnote to history. Here is my flabbergasted face selfie:

The apex, and nadir, of the pageant, “The Confederate Farewell,” re-enacted the society balls Natchez held for their men before they marched off to war. This tableau is merely the vehicle to present this year’s yet again all-white pilgrimage court, young women in hoop skirts and young men in confederate dress uniforms.

The piece begins with a young man running the length of the auditorium with a flag. Historically it was performed with a rebel yell, and the dixie flag, aka the southern cross.

In Mississippi where, woefully, one quarter of the state flag retains the familiar pattern of stars and crossed bars, even the pageant recognizes the controversy of the rebel battle flag and no longer uses it. The flag now paraded, and hanging from the ceiling of the auditorium, is a dog whistle fashioned from fabric. Blue background, white star in the center – the Bonnie Blue – the unofficial flag of the Confederacy, symbol of southern independence, flown over the Mississippi State Capital in Jackson on the day Mississippi seceded from the union.

I wondered, why not just eliminate the young man with the flag from the program? It would have been far less polarizing.

I would love to buy a drink for the lone dissenter reviewing the Tableaux on Tripadvisor, who penned, “[A]t moments, I thought the Tableaux was one of the scariest things I’ve ever done. Think Leni Riefenstahl’s films of Hitler’s olympics crossed with Waiting for Guffman.”

I strive to understand and honor traditions. I travel to many places to observe and take part in them. Portions of the Tableaux are not merely harmless traditions. Portions epitomize how parts of the South are still so out of touch and out of step with an inclusive, progressive, evolving society. I don’t appreciate being made complicit by the purchase of a ticket and the viewing of a saccharine sweet exaltation of a shameful time in America’s history. As Tim Minchin once sang, “Just because ideas are tenacious, that doesn’t mean they’re worthy.”

Still, there is hope for Natchez. The only constant is change, and the town has made great strides. I met wonderful, kind, generous, goodhearted people with varying amounts of melanin in their epidermises. (Epidermi?)

Maybe in a couple of years, when I’m done with the road and ready to settle down, portions of the Tableaux, or the whole darned thing, will have made their way into the annals, or ash heaps, of history, take your pick.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Natchez instead told the tale of picking up the pieces after the war, pulling together as a community, protecting and elevating all of its citizens, striving to be fair and factual, and doggedly preserving its architectural legacy?

If not, Natchez will break my heart, and I’ll keep looking for that place to call home.