2002
There is a huge Confederate Flag waving from my neighbor’s front lawn. I mean huge. Must-have-special-ordered-it huge. Gigantic. You can see it the second you turn at the corner by the city ballpark. The lush, green soccer field is teeming with little children in bright red and blue and orange uniforms. They kick a black and white ball across the grass while their parents yell encouragement and over them, glowing red like the backdrop of a Radio City Music Hall show, is the flag on a hand constructed wooden structure, swaying in the breeze. The Stars and bars used to hang in the place of honor from a pole by their front door. But it’s overshadowed, now, by its radical cousin, which rises insistently from its frame in the middle of the front yard. It demands to be seen. It is making a statement. I just don’t know what it is.
You see, these are more than just neighbors. We’ve known each other for years. These are the folk I’ve shared day-to-day banalities with and the quirky twists of daily living. Mrs. Waring, arthritic and diabetic, barely able to catch her breath from her front door to the mail box, hand-crocheted queen-sized blankets for each of my children when they were born. When she could no longer walk across the street, we’d stop in to visit her. Once when her feet, insensitive due to the diabetes, were accidentally burned in a hot bath, my grandmother went across the street to help dress and bandage them. When the burns wouldn’t heal she went back into the hospital. She didn’t come back that time. We missed her.
Two of the grandchildren are the same age as our children. My husband and I commiserated when the second granddaughter was born with a congenitive heart disease. And we prayed together for her recovery when the surgeons opened her tiny little chest. She’s fine now, though small for her age.
Mr. Waring is an old WWII vet. Every morning around 6:00 a.m. before he retired from his job, I would hear his old sedan beeping as he backed out of the driveway. Once he retired I’d still see him daily, patrolling the neighborhood, his large belly in its thin undershirt hanging low over his pants, held up with suspenders. “How you doin’ today, Mr. Waring?” I’d ask whenever I saw him. “If I was any better, I’d be dancin’ a jig!” he’d say every time. Even when he’d buried his eldest daughter. Even when his wife died. Even when his own health began to fail. “See you later, Mr. Waring.” “Have a great day today and a better tomorrow!” he’d reply. Each time. A cheerful man.
His son resembles a big bear. I’d see him sometime down on the waterfront with a shrimp net, his dingy shirt stretched to the limit of its cotton fibers, playing hide and reveal with the hairy mountain of his stomach. Hair poking through the holes on his back. Grime on his hands and on his face over his beard. But he was warm and friendly whenever we met. His wife was straight out of a Flannery O’Connor novel. Bland, blond, a little blank. But neighborly all the same. We loaned them our little Chevette for a while when their car was stolen from a local parking lot. They’d stop by our porch and we’d talk about our kids.
The daughter Karen was the one my kids really loved. They even called her Aunt Karen like her nieces did. Talk about affectionate. Whenever Karen saw one of us in public she would stop what she was doing and wrap us in a hug, even in the check-out line at Wal-Mart where she worked in the plant and yard care department. No matter what, she loved to see us and we could count on a hug whether we wanted one or not. Karen was the one who brought over birthday presents or walked Grandma’s dog when she was ill or who watered the garden when we were away. She once told me that they had never lived close to colored people before but we were the nicest neighbors she could ever have. I accepted that in the spirit in which it was offered. We thought they were pretty nice too. Even when we moved to a larger house in a nearby neighborhood, we maintained our relationship. We still owned the house across the street and the Waring’s still looked out for it. And no matter where she saw us, Karen still greeted us with a hug.
So, yes, we were good neighbors, if not best friends. We respected each other and looked out for each other in the way that good neighbors do. So I did not know what to feel when I turned the corner and saw the flag, so big and so bright it could not be missed.
In South Carolina that flag has many meanings. As the battle to remove it from the State Capitol heated up, they began to proliferate: on bumper stickers, lapels, flag poles. For some it represents slavery, oppression, racism, intolerance. For others it is the heritage of their ancestors, States rights, old family tales. And for some, I assume, just a reason for a battle. Any old reason would do.
All I can say clearly is what it means to me. What it feels like. My breath always catches when I see it. My pulse jumps. The feeling is fear. It is visceral. I have to make a conscious effort not to recoil. I’ve heard the arguments, “Heritage, not Hate.” When my daughter asked me what the battle was about I tried to be even-handed in my explanations. To talk about history and loss from both perspectives. But my body knows differently and will not succumb immediately to my logic. I am wary of approaching homes with the flag flying or drivers whose cars boldly bear it. I do not know who they are. I do not know what they see when they see me. I am braced for rejection or antagonism and must foster my energy to hide my reaction. When I can, I avoid such situations. I try to live Confederate Flag free as much as possible. But this is the Waring’s house. My neighbor’s flag. I’m not sure what to do, because I know these people. Did they become different people when they hoisted the banner over their yard? Did I become a different person when I saw it?
I hadn’t seen any of the Warings for a few months before the flag went up and more time passed in which I didn’t encounter them. The flag on their lawn still occupied a corner of my mind, though, like a prod from an aching tooth or a dull headache. One day, as I was rushing through Walmart to buy a few things for my shop, I decided to pick up some new plants. As I was heading out the backdoor of the garden section, my cart heaped high with potting soil and geraniums, I ran into Karen. My heart skipped. “Hi Karen, how are you?” I asked. I always do.
“I’m good.” She said, “How are you and Ron and the kids?”
“We’re fine,” I answered.
“Well, tell them hello for me.”
“I will,” I responded. “And give your Dad my regards.” She didn’t hug me. For the first time in years she didn’t hug me. I moved past her to the parking lot, pushing my cart into the hot Carolina sun. The thing is, I don’t know who held back. Did she? Or did I?
