
At the age of 74, novelist and travel writer Paul Theroux toured the Deep South in 2012 and 2013. It was research for his first travel book on his own country. What he found was “kindness, generosity, a welcome.”
Back home in Cape Cod, he wrote, a stranger would look away if he tried to make eye contact. In the South, a stranger would be likely to say “hello”. Strangers, black and white, were quick to offer help and advice, even without his asking for it.
He greatly driving back roads in the South. He enjoyed Southern cooking and the music in Pentecostal churches. He made more trips than he originally planned.
But he was shocked by the dire poverty in regions such as the Mississippi Delta, which reminded him of what he saw traveling in Africa.
The difference was that, in Africa, he frequently came across American missionaries, philanthropists and foreign aid workers trying to alleviate poverty. Poor Southern communities, in his view, are own their own, so far as American corporate executives, politicians and philanthropists are concerned.
I read Theroux’s travel book, Deep South: Four Seasons on Back Roads (2015) as a followup to the writings of David Hackett Fischer and Colin Woodard on the origins of American regional cultures.
Theroux skipped big cities such as Atlanta, which he said are little different from Northern cities, nor what he called the Old Magnolia South, the South of horse farms, historic preservation and gracious living. He did not interview prominent politicians or anybody whose name I’d heard before.
Instead he concentrated on the small towns and back roads, and talked to people he met in diners, churches and gun shows.
The bulk of the book consists of reports of conversations, with roughly equal numbers of whites and blacks. In most cases, he did not specify the race of the person he was talking to, and I somethings had to read quite a few paragraphs before I could deduce the race from context—which, significantly, I always could do.
Many Southern white people think Northerners see them caricatures, based on how they’re depicted on television and in the movies. One man told Theroux he gave up watching television because he is tired of programs that only show a smart black man and a stupid white man.
Theroux thinks a certain type of Southern regional writer is partly responsible for this stereotype. Writers such as Erskine Caldwell, Truman Capote, Flannery O’Connor, Carson McCullers and others depicted poor Southern white people as freaks—albinos, hunchbacks, 12-year-old brides, colorful con men and degenerates.
Not that their tall tales have no merit as stand-alone works of literature, but their approach was a way of not dealing with segregation, chain gangs, sharecroppers and lynchings, Theroux wrote. Only a few white Southerners wrote about everyday life in the rural South in the kind of way that Anton Chekhov wrote about the frustrations of life in rural Russia.
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