(Tara - McPherson) - Reconstructing Dixie: Race, Gender
(Tara - McPherson) - Reconstructing Dixie: Race, Gender
(Tara - McPherson) - Reconstructing Dixie: Race, Gender
Dixie
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RECONSTRUCTING
DIXIE
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Race, Gender, and Nostalgia
in the Imagined South
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TA R A M c P H E R S O N
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Duke University Press
2003
©2003 Duke University Press
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States
of America on acid-free paper
Designed by Amy Ruth Buchanan
Typeset in Perpetua by Tseng
Information Systems, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-
in-Publication Data appear on
the last printed page
of this book.
In memory of
and for
Pamela McPherson
Megan Cassingham
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CONTENTS
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Acknowledgments, ix
Notes, 257
Bibliography, 293
Index, 311
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AC K N OW L E D G M E N T S
Someone observing my life from the outside might easily have guessed that
I would end up writing about the South, but the need to tell about the
South nonetheless took me by surprise. In the late 1980s, I headed off to a
northern graduate school intent (like countless expatriates before me) on
leaving things southern behind. Born the daughter of a southern mother
and a northern father, saddled with a name like ‘‘Tara,’’ questions of south-
ern identity had long both vexed and animated me, and I was ready for
a change. Still, as I studied feminism, cultural studies and critical race
theory, I often found my thoughts straying below the Mason-Dixon Line,
if only in the landscapes of memory, wondering how to join together my
southern and post-southern lives. The challenge it seemed was to recon-
cile the theories I was learning—powerful but abstract lessons for under-
standing the world—with my complex, messy, often ambivalent feelings
about daily life in the South, a life I had willingly fled. This book is my act
of reconciliation, an attempt to bring together what often felt like oppo-
sitional realities, divergent ways of being. While Reconstructing Dixie is no
memoir, my life certainly informs every word. Throughout that life, I’ve
had much support and owe deep thanks to many.
Through their examples and their insights, several fine teachers have
provided both direct and indirect aid in the completion of this project. At
Millsaps College in Jackson, Mississippi, Allen Scarboro, Michel Mitias,
and Richard Mallette demanded rigorous thinking and challenged me to
expand my narrow teenage view of the world, encouraging an interdisci-
plinary mode of thought that has served me well. At Centenary College
in Shreveport, Louisiana, Jeff Hendricks and Bruce Allen introduced me,
respectively, to feminist film theory and modern art. Without their friend-
ship and guidance, I might have ended up in law school. At the University
of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, my doctoral committee brilliantly oversaw the
dissertation upon which this book is based. A student couldn’t ask for a
better trio of advisors. Patrice Petro kept me on task, providing sage pro-
fessional and scholarly advice, saving me from more than one wrong turn.
Kathleen Woodward was a gifted reader of my work, asking precise and
insightful questions which jump-started my revisions of this project time
and time again. Finally, Patricia Mellencamp offered both intellectual and
emotional companionship, always insisting that I could do whatever I set
out to do and providing an excellent role model for feminist praxis. I
also profited from the stimulating intellectual environment provided by
UW-M’s Center for Twentieth-Century Studies and learned a great deal
from the scholars who visited there. Particular thanks are due to Meaghan
Morris and John Caughie.
Both my undergraduate and graduate education were enriched by my
fellow students and other friends. In Milwaukee, Connie Balides, Chip
Blackwell, Marie Broussard, Jim Castonguay, Elana Crane, David Crane,
Pam Michener Day, Ann Fitzsimmons, Kathy Green, Amelie Hastie, Kate
Kramer, Natalie Myers Munn, Jon Beasley-Murray, Art Redding, Cam-
mie Robertson, The Shepard House gang, and many others made seminars
more lively or winters more bearable. Jackson, Mississippi afforded end-
less case studies in the finer points of southern femininity and hospitality,
and Catherine Scallan Rimokh, Ruma Haque, and Katie Sibley Gaylord
among others have endlessly illustrated the fun and friendship born of
the region. Necip Alican shared my early love of philosophy, and I thank
him for many long evenings of bourbon and discourse. While many of my
southern friends won’t love this book (and most won’t even read it), I hope
those that do recognize that it honors aspects of the region even as it calls
many founding myths of white southern identity into question.
Other pals and colleagues have offered timely support, criticism, feed-
back, and friendship (as well as good dinner company when needed). These
include Amy Bomse, Bruce Brasell, John Caldwell, Niki Cunningham,
Cathy Davidson, Mary Desjardins, Kathleen Donahue, Anna Everett, Eric
Freedman, Anne Friedberg, Jennifer Gross, Heather Hendershot, Eithne
Johnson, Victoria Johnson, Lynne Joyrich, David Koenig, Pete Limbrick,
Steve Mamber, Anna McCarthy, Ken Molina, Lisa Nakamura, Bethany
Ogden, Edward O’Neill, David Pendleton, Chris Pomiecko, Sally Ross,
Jane Shattuc, Eric Schaefer, Vivian Sobchack, Ellen Strain, Tom Streeter,
Alison Trope, Matthew Tinkcom, Cristina Venegas, Karen Vered, Nina
Wakeford, Mark Williams, Pam Roberston Wojcik, Rick Wojcik, Patri-
cia Yaeger, and Elizabeth Young. Henry Jenkins deserves special thanks;
his early support of my work on the South and of my fledgling career
x Reconstructing Dixie
helped get me started, and I still profit from our friendship. In Los Ange-
les, the Fun Club, especially Kelly Souders, Tiffany Hope, Brian Peterson,
David Clawson, Irene Turner, Vanessa and Mikael Kreuzriegler, and Doug
McLauglin, continues to remind me that life should never be only about
work, and their gentle criticisms about the limits of scholarly life help
keep me sane and happy. Particular thanks are due the wonderful Wendy
West, who read every word of this manuscript despite her fondness for
much livelier prose.
Numerous USC colleagues have also provided friendship and support. I
feel fortunate to be a member of the Critical Studies Division of the School
of Cinema-TV and thank my peers there for setting a high bar. In particu-
lar, Michael Renov has been my avid champion all along and for that I thank
him. Lynn Spigel expressed an early interest in my work. David James and
Dana Polan have offered wise advise again and again. Todd Boyd has refined
my thinking about the South (and many other things). Marsha Kinder has
become both mentor and friend. Sherall Preyer has made life at USC much
more fun, and she and the rest of our staff improve our daily lives in enu-
merable ways. Elizabeth Daley, Rick Jewell, and the cinema school admin-
istration have supported my work with research leaves and kind words.
My interaction with students has also improved my thinking and my life;
I single out for special mention Christine Acham, Steve Anderson, Bob
Bodle, Lindsay Harrison, Evan Hughes, Dan Leopard, Sarah Matheson,
Lauri Mullens, Martin Perea, Elizabeth Ramsey, Hayes Smith, Heather
Osborne Thompson, and Ethan Thompson. Elsewhere at USC, Stephanie
Barish, Amy Binder, Joe Boone, Andi Frisch, Judith Jackson Fossett, Jason
Glenn, Bill Handley, Carla Kaplan, Paul Lerner, Vickie Mendoza, Viet
Nguyen, Panivong Norindr, Chris Robbins, Robin Romans, Vibeke Soren-
sen, Phiroze Vasunia, and Cynthia Young have read my work, entertained
me, and/or generally provided me with a vibrant intellectual and social
community—no easy task in the dispersed geographies of Los Angeles.
Ken Wissoker has waited patiently for this project over the years, and
I thank him for his good humor, his wisdom, and his friendship. Ken and
his staff at Duke University Press were right on target with guidance and
gentle reminders just when I needed them most. Thanks to the manu-
script’s readers; their trenchant criticism certainly improved the book.
The research for this project was supported by many institutions over the
years. I thank the Graduate School of University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee
for a Doctoral Research Fellowship; the Center for the Study of Southern
Culture at the University of Mississippi for research support; Duke Uni-
Acknowledgments xi
versity Libraries for a travel grant to visit the Women’s Archives; and the
Special Collections Library at the University of North Carolina-Chapel
Hill for access to Katharine DuPre Lumpkin’s papers. Huge thanks are
due various southerners who talked with me or provided images for this
project, including some whose tales didn’t quite make the final draft. These
include DJ Tennessee, Sherman Evans of NuSouth, Wanda and Brenda
Henson of Camp Sister Spirit, Ross McElwee, Minnie Bruce Pratt, Will
Shetterly, and Rosser Shymanski (aka DeAundra Peek).
Heartfelt thanks to my family, the place where I first learned (and un-
learned) southernness and from which I continue to draw emotional sus-
tenance, guidance and love. My parents Brad and Kay McPherson were my
first and best role models, carefully balancing their dreams for me with
unconditional love. They are also teachers, and I aspire to teach and to
parent half as well as they both do. My sister, Pam, and brother, Joseph,
are siblings par excellence, and their spouses and children now bring new
happiness and love to our family circle.
My deepest gratitude goes to Robert Knaack. For over a decade, he has
encouraged and supported my work while also reminding me of life’s other
pleasures. His generosity, kindness, and essential goodness have made me
a better scholar. His love has made me a better person. Finally, much love
to Dexter Knaack. His arrival near this book’s end sets the course for new
beginnings and teaches me volumes about patience and joy.
T H E N A N D N OW
An Introduction
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The South today is as much a fiction, a story we tell and are told, as it is
a fixed geographic space below the Mason-Dixon line, and thus I begin
here, in the time-honored tradition of southern rhetoric, with a story. It
is not a story intended to illustrate the truth of the South, but rather a tale
that I hope will serve to highlight some of the myriad ways in which the
South travels.
As an expatriate southerner, voluntarily displaced from Dixie, I now
live in Los Angeles, an area much recognized as epitomizing a postmodern
fascination with surfaces and ‘‘an acute disposition toward placelessness.’’ 1
I arrived already familiar with both popular and academic descriptions of
Los Angeles’s penchant for pastiche, so I was not entirely surprised to find
myself on one of L.A.’s warm spring nights squeezed into a simulacrum
of a Mississippi Delta blues joint eating sushi and barbecue and listen-
ing to the new band of an old English pop star. Standing among several
hundred ‘‘friends’’ and employees of the Japanese multimedia giant Sega,
I thought about how much cleaner this place was than any juke joint I
had ever visited in Mississippi and contemplated what an odd combina-
tion sushi and ribs made. The crowd had gathered because Sega had rented
L.A.’s House of Blues for the evening to entertain various businessmen
(and a few businesswomen) during E3, the country’s largest convention
for the electronic entertainment industry.
The House of Blues is a national franchise of music venues (owned in
part by Dan Ackroyd) that are designed to look roughly like ramshackle
Delta blues clubs. They exist in tourist-frequented areas of large U.S. cities
and, in marketing ‘‘authentic’’ down-homeness cut free from an original
local context, could be read as perfect symbols of the postmodern play of
surfaces and an insincere selling of southern culture. But such a reading
would depend on a belief in an originary and pure southernness that is
being ‘‘sold out’’ and that exists (or once existed) in an untarnished rela-
tion to outside forces. One contention of this study is that such an isolated
and ‘‘pure’’ South never existed and that, if one is to understand the many
versions of the South that circulate throughout U.S. history and culture,
one has always to see them as fundamentally connected to, and defined in
relation to, the non-South.
This move to position the South in a wider context is informed by re-
cent work on both globalism and regionalism in contemporary critical
and cultural studies and takes seriously the contention of scholars such
as David Morley and Kevin Robins that, in a world increasingly charac-
terized by global networks and information flows, ‘‘regional culture must
necessarily be in dialogue with global culture.’’ 2 In an era of increasing
globalization, the region circulates as an alternative to the nation-state,
shifting in meaning and content. Reconstructing Dixie explores a variety of
twentieth-century discourses of, from, and about the South beginning
from an appreciation of the impossibility of speaking of the region in iso-
lation, concluding with an exploration of the South’s role in the national
imaginary. The project brings together a diverse array of texts and his-
tories, straying far afield from the usual canonical suspects of southern
studies. My strategic samples encompass literary fiction, southern scholar-
ship, film, television, popular journalism, music, tourism, the Internet,
and autobiography, primarily drawn from the Great Depression forward,
an era largely recognized as central to the South’s move toward indus-
trialization and away from the period often referred to as the ‘‘colonial
South.’’ If, as Franklin D. Roosevelt maintained in 1938, the South was ‘‘the
Nation’s No. 1 economic problem,’’ the intervening six decades have seen
substantial changes in the area. I am interested in the shifting registers
of the representation of region, race, and place throughout this span of
time, in tracking the ways in which ‘‘old’’ Souths were reconstituted at the
moment of the South’s modernization and continue to be reconstructed
today.3 What role do these many Souths play for the nation?
Perhaps a further example of the mediated nature of current discourses
on the South will serve to clarify the necessity of making sense of things
southern. A recent front-page story in the Los Angeles Times recounted in
graphic detail the horrors of the South at the turn of the twentieth century.
The article chronicled the efforts of Atlanta antique dealer James Allen to
mount exhibits of the collection of lynching photographs he had obses-
2 Reconstructing Dixie
sively gathered over a period of years. In querying the mixed reactions that
the white, gay collector has received from both white and black audiences,
the piece managed both to underscore the brutality of race relations in
America, particularly in the South, during the first half of the twentieth
century and to raise questions about our continuing inability to come to
terms, as a nation, with both the period and the region. This inability was
further (and inadvertently) highlighted as I continued to read that Sunday’s
paper. Still reeling from the intense violence recounted on page 1, I was
startled to encounter the magnolia-hued face of Scarlett O’Hara staring
back from the colored layouts of the Parade section. Decked out in ‘‘that
famous green dress she wore to the barbecue at Twelve Oaks’’ was the
Franklin Mint’s reproduction of the ‘‘legendary film heroine’’ who ‘‘took
our breath away’’ in Gone with the Wind.
Together the article and the advertisement serve as a powerful illustra-
tion of our cultural schizophrenia about the South: the region remains at
once the site of the trauma of slavery and also the mythic location of a vast
nostalgia industry. In many ways, Americans can’t seem to get enough of
the horrors of slavery, and yet we remain unable to connect this past to
the romanticized history of the plantation, unable or unwilling to pro-
cess the emotional registers still echoing from the eras of slavery and Jim
Crow. The brutalities of those periods remain dissociated from our rep-
resentations of the material site of those atrocities, the plantation home.
Furthermore, the very figure who underwrote the widespread lynching of
black southern men (and women) during the era of segregation in the South
somehow remains collectible. The white southern lady—as mythologized
image of innocence and purity—floats free from the violence for which
she was the cover story, nicely coifed and safely ensconced in an ‘‘exqui-
site’’ collector’s edition hatbox, ‘‘inspired by the box that Rhett brought
to Scarlett in the film,’’ a late-twentieth-century example of the tenacity
of certain southern images in the national imagination. Reconstructing Dixie
shakes the southern lady free from the carefully arranged shelves of the
collector, examining her appeal while also exploring the various histories
her broad skirts both reveal and conceal.
This project proceeds along four separate but connected paths, frame-
works that weave in and out of the subsequent chapters, sometimes re-
ceding from immediate vision but nevertheless functioning as guides.
First, I pursue a variety of popular (and unpopular) images of the South
from Gone with the Wind to the present, querying in particular the staying
power of many of these figures, particularly the southern lady, the south-
6 Reconstructing Dixie
in meaning? We need new models of cross-racial alliance that also rec-
ognize the dangers laced through dreams of union, dreams that can all
too easily operate strictly via the desires of white subjectivity, erasing the
specificity of history and negating the oppositional power of the counter-
memories of black southerners. Notions of Americanness have long traded
on tropes of union and unity. The progressive possibilities laced through
a history of regional racial alliance must not obscure the excruciating
burdens of history. Indeed, the desire for racial unity in the twentieth-
century South often seems difficult to pinpoint amid a history marked by
lynchings, Bull Connor, and a recalcitrant separatism. Nonetheless Recon-
structing Dixie maintains that this latency does not make the desire any less
real and seeks to mobilize this past toward new models of alliance and a
reconstruction of white southern subjectivity.
Finally, I ask how this history of southern representation and feeling
underwrites particular racial logics and highlight how race is made via nar-
rative and image, examining the degree to which prevalent racial econo-
mies make understanding southern icons, feelings, and commonality diffi-
cult if not impossible. These racial logics join visual and narrative culture,
shaping how the ‘‘truth’’ of race gets produced for both the region and the
nation. The visual economies of race shift across the twentieth century,
moving from the more overt racial (and racist) representations of the pre–
Civil Rights era toward more covert strategies of imaging race, racism, and
racial difference. Whereas early-twentieth-century racial logics tended to
delineate whiteness in sharp contrast to blackness, by midcentury other
modes of framing whiteness were developing, modes that tended to re-
press the relations between white and black. I introduce new models for
understanding how race came to be figured in dominant southern nar-
ratives as the last century unfolded, explaining the varied formations of
what I term a lenticular logic of racial visibility. Put briefly, a lenticular
logic is a monocular logic, a schema by which histories or images that are
actually copresent get presented (structurally, ideologically) so that only
one of the images can be seen at a time. Such an arrangement represses
connection, allowing whiteness to float free from blackness, denying the
long historical imbrications of racial markers and racial meaning in the
South. Lenticular logics can take multiple forms, and Reconstructing Dixie
carefully tracks these variations, highlighting the stakes of these delimiting
optics. But such lenticular logics are not the only game in town. Some nar-
ratives and images break free of such a limiting schema, refusing both the
covert representations of the lenticular, as well as the more overt modes
g S T U DY I N G T H E S O U T H
Where might we find these other southerners? We might begin by recon-
figuring the discipline called ‘‘southern studies,’’ a sometimes interdisci-
plinary endeavor that often encompasses history, literature, religion, and
folklore/anthropology. There are strengths to be mined from this tradi-
tion. The focus on region and place that characterizes much of southern
studies could certainly serve to ground contemporary theory’s general-
izations and abstractions, allowing one to test the claims of theory in a
site-specific frame. The best of southern studies pays careful attention to
detail, to the specific terrain of the local, illustrating a real engagement
with things southern and marking a useful turn to the empirical. Further-
more, the degree to which southern studies usually avoids a highly jargon-
based language could provide a model for a cultural theory that strives for
a less alienating prose.
8 Reconstructing Dixie
Southern studies, for its part, could also profit from an encounter with
contemporary critical theory, particularly when one broaches the junc-
tures where the regional meets the world beyond it, or where multiple
versions of one region collide. Southern sociologist John Shelton Reed
writes in the introduction to his One South: An Ethnic Approach to Regional
Culture that his book will devote ‘‘little attention . . . to variation within
the South . . . ; to the ways it is becoming more like the rest of the coun-
try; . . . to the ‘many Souths’ that unquestionably exist,’’ and this approach
is not unlike much of southern studies.5 Though southern studies is by no
means a unified or monolithic category, a tendency prevails within the
field to preserve the South, that is, to focus on those elements that unify the
region rather than to pursue it in relation to national or global contexts.
Such an approach always runs the risk of fixing or freezing southern cul-
ture, often at its most stereotypical moments, even in work that seeks to
overturn these very stereotypes (as subsequent chapters will suggest). This
process tends to impose a stasis or unity on the South, a regional logic that
historian Nell Irvin Painter characterizes as ‘‘ ‘the South’ way of thinking.’’
For Painter, ‘‘there is seldom a [single] ‘the South,’ for simple charac-
terizations eliminate the reality of sharp conflicts over just about every-
thing in Southern culture.’’ 6 Southern studies sometimes ‘‘boutiques’’ the
South, focusing on the unique or colorful elements of the region—such
as culinary habits or speech peculiarities or southern hospitality—with-
out contextualizing these elements in relation to one another or to wider
cultures. A good example of this packaging of the South can be found in
the brochure advertising the Center for the Study of Southern Culture’s
‘‘A Mississippi Voyage.’’ The cssc is a scholarly institute affiliated with the
University of Mississippi and regularly hosts a variety of lively academic
and nonacademic events exploring southern culture, including the one
promoted in this flyer. ‘‘A Mississippi Voyage’’ was a nine-day riverboat
tour of the region designed for ‘‘those for whom the South has always
held a special fascination.’’ For customers with $1,995 to $3,550 to spend,
‘‘the excitement of personally reliving the southern experience’’ and ‘‘the
beauty of antebellum Louisiana’’ were within easy reach. At its worst,
this trajectory can resemble what bell hooks (following Renato Rosaldo)
calls ‘‘imperialist nostalgia,’’ in which ‘‘even politically progressive North
American audiences have enjoyed the elegance of manners governing re-
lations of dominance and subordination.’’ 7 Nostalgia in and of itself is not
a bad thing, for it can function as a wedge to introduce a critical distance
into cultural practices and cultural theory. But the nostalgia that often
10 Reconstructing Dixie
studies, as weighty as that tome may be. Reconstructing Dixie steers clear
of many of the canonical figures of southern studies, including Faulkner,
Welty, O’Connor, and also Cash and Woodward. Although useful insights
might still be gleaned by reading these works against the grain, we must
also turn to other southern moments, some familiar, others less so. This is
necessary in order to shake representations of the South (including schol-
arly ones) free from a possessive investment in a version of southernness
that makes it hard to account for other Souths. Put simply, we need a
southern studies that is not only for white southerners.
One might wonder why we should study the South at all, particularly
when the academy is on to much sexier topics. Why revisit these old char-
acters as they’re recostumed for contemporary consumption? Precisely
because myths and narrative impact the real, shaping not only personal
memory and perception but also our public and ‘‘official’’ histories. Mu-
seums, battlefields, and plantation homes stage sites at which the real and
the mythic collide, and representations mediate how we know the places
we inhabit. Reconstructing Dixie maintains that the mythic has also impacted
our conceptualization of academic history, our scholarly understandings
of the South. Studying the role of the South in the national imaginary and
in the works of individual southerners illuminates the role of the imagi-
nation in social life, mining the links between imagination and represen-
tation. Culture and representation become nodes in ‘‘which active links
are made between signifying practices and social structure.’’ 10 Such social
structures might be structures of dominance, but modes of cultural ex-
pression can also open the space for imagining other ways of being south-
ern. We can read familiar figures of southernness, particularly the south-
ern lady, as powerful cultural assemblages, assemblages that often serve to
make new modes of southernness more difficult to envision. Yet even the
figure of the southern lady sometimes hints at other linkages, suggesting
the contours of a desire for cross-racial alliance that might be mobilized
differently. The history of the South also points to the ways in which black
women have deployed the lady, recognizing her limits but also moving us
elsewhere. When pressured, many of the texts I consider reveal a nostal-
gic longing for familiar modes of southernness; others begin to point the
way toward alternative modes of being, both personally and collectively.
Some display a yearning for collectivity or racial unity that gets tripped
up by a lingering investment in whiteness or a narcissistic absorption in
the seductions of guilt; others seek to escape the limits of southern iden-
g O N M E D I A - M A D E D I X I E , O R J E S S E H E L M S G O E S TO M E X I C O
Old and new images of the South continue to collide in popular represen-
tations. The spring 1996 television season saw the introduction of yet an-
other Aaron Spelling–produced nighttime soap opera, Savannah, a weekly
drama that opened with the return of an expatriate southerner, a twenty-
something female reporter, from New York City to Savannah for the wed-
ding of a close friend. Owing to a string of soaplike mishaps, this budding
journalist decides to remain in Georgia, and the various plotlines of the
series trace the trials and tribulations of the young woman and her girl-
friends. It would be easy to argue that the role of the South in this series
is largely nominal and that Savannah, much like Spelling’s Melrose Place or
Beverly Hills, 90210, limits its concern with the specificity of place to a care-
fully edited title sequence. Yet the generic quality of television’s ‘‘place
shows’’ is not total.
First, the mise-en-scène of southernness that the show carefully (if
stereotypically) constructs allows the series to distinguish itself from simi-
lar fare via a distinct local flavor. Here television operates much like con-
temporary tourism, where, in the words of Morley and Robins, ‘‘there is a
premium on difference and particularity. In a world where differences are
being erased, the commodification of place is about creating distinct place-
identities’’ (119). Paradoxically, the specificity of place structures a com-
petitive edge for a wide, increasingly homogenized global market. Second,
Savannah does not reference a totally generic or stereotypical South; in-
stead, the South it images is the South enabled by global capitalism, the
post-1960s South of economic prosperity, growth, and Ted Turner. Much
of the action of the series revolves around two quintessential sites of south-
ernness, the plantation home and the riverboat, though here these images
are unfixed from their original ties to agricultural economies and refig-
ured as centers of international capitalism, particularly since the river-
boat in the South and in Savannah is now a prime location of one of the
region’s new tourist industries, the casino.11 Both this growing industry
and Spelling’s drama highlight the degree to which specificity and stereo-
type interweave, suggesting the difficulty of isolating ‘‘pure’’ examples of
regional authenticity.
12 Reconstructing Dixie
The steamboat reemerges as a
late-twentieth-century site of
southernness in tour packages and
riverboat gambling, as well as in a
television series like Aaron Spelling’s
Savannah. This brochure promises a
‘‘simple authenticity’’ and a glimpse
into ‘‘the Golden Age’’ of Louisiana’s
antebellum period, a view of the past
that must necessarily repress the
memory and legacies of slavery.
14 Reconstructing Dixie
high-tech jobs than any other region of the country in the next few years.
It already orders more take-out fast food.
The new millennium began with southerners in the White House,
southerners at the helm in Congress, and two southerners battling it out in
the presidential race. Selma, Alabama, seared into American memory for
its brutal resistance to integration, began the twenty-first century with
black fire and police chiefs and a city council comprising fifteen African
Americans and four whites. Population flows during the past two years
have consistently boosted the region’s size, and the South claimed six of
the ten fastest-growing U.S. cities in the 1990s. African Americans have
returned to the South at a rate of nearly 100,000 per year during the past
twenty years: Atlanta alone gained 160,000 blacks between 1990 and 1996,
and more than half of the African American population lives in the South-
east, a steadily increasing percentage. From 1990 to 2000, the number of
people of Asian or Latin American origin in the area increased by almost
175 percent; several small Gulf Coast towns now boast the highest per-
centage of Vietnamese citizens of any city nationwide. The 2000 Census
reports an increase in Mississippi’s Latino population of almost 150 per-
cent, and Georgia’s Latino population increased by 329 percent during
the 1990s. The percentage of Latino students in Atlanta’s public schools
has risen to 41 percent since 1991. Predictions indicate that North Caro-
lina will soon be home to the fourth largest number of Latino migrant
workers. Still, the total number of nonblack minorities in the region is
relatively small. The South remains mostly black and white.
Some aspects of Southern living have been more resistant to change.
The area consistently has the country’s weakest minimum-wage laws.
The region still leads the nation in poor educational performance. Forty
percent of Americans without high school diplomas reside in the South,
double the average in other areas. The Southeast still trails other districts
on the federal government’s National Assessment of Education Progress
tests. Of southern states, only North Carolina meets the nation’s reading
proficiency average for fourth- and eighth-grade reading. More than one-
quarter of Georgia’s preschoolers live in poverty, and Memphis’s poverty
rate in 1999 was 18.1 percent. The South also continues its long tradi-
tion of violence, with the region’s murder rate almost double that of the
Northeast. The former states of the Old Confederacy all rank in the top
twenty states for homicide, led by my home state, Louisiana. And although
minorities have made progress on Dixie’s political front, exerting some
influence in local and sometimes state offices, their inroads into federal
16 Reconstructing Dixie
recent representations of the South are not all equivalent, and they trade
on familiar images of the bygone South in different ways. They frame ide-
ologies of race, place, and gender along a varied register, and some that
might be labeled ‘‘progressive’’ (like the TV series I’ll Fly Away, Any Day Now,
and Frank’s Place) rest side by side with other, more reactionary depictions.
Moreover, many of these images are replete with internal contradictions,
too ambivalent or ambiguous to be easily ordained ‘‘Left’’ or ‘‘Right,’’ sug-
gesting that the South’s role as a symbol for the national imagination is
not a fixed or static one, even within a single film or series.19 The South—
at least since the abolition movement—has long played a variety of roles
within national mythmaking, alternating between (if not simultaneously
representing) the moral other and the moral center of U.S. society, both
keeper of its darkest secrets and former site of a ‘‘grand yet lost’’ civili-
zation, the site of both church bombings and good, old-fashioned family
values.
Still, taken as a whole, the representations of the past two decades I
have noted do signal a discernible shift from the images Kirby ascribes
to the 1960s and 1970s, a shift announcing that Dixie has not died. And
though Kirby does not suggest it, the images of twenty to thirty years ago
echo another moment in the national depiction of the South, that preva-
lent during Reconstruction, when, as Kirby notes, ‘‘the pervasive image
of the South was negative’’ (1). By the 1890s, this darkly negative portrait
of the South had largely been recast in more magnolia-hued tones, as Lost
Cause ideologies paved the way for the pro-Confederate productions of the
Dunning School historians and of popular novelists like Thomas Page.20
This plantation myth served the needs of the nation as well as those of
the South by representing the region, in the words of literary critic Eric
Sundquist, as one full of ‘‘benevolent white employers and happy, sub-
servient black laborers,’’ thus setting the stage for the North’s industrial
investments in Dixie.21 A variety of cultural critics from activist-professor
Angela Davis to historian David Roediger have recently pointed out the
similarities between our current political climate and the period follow-
ing Reconstruction, highlighting the rampant undermining of civil rights
gains characteristic of each of these moments.22
Although less commented on, it is also the case that the South under-
went a comparable improvement of its image during these two periods,
suggesting that figurations of the region serve as a symbolic battleground
in national reactions to issues of race and racial (in)justice. As the nation
struggled to reconstitute itself after the Civil War, a consensual fantasy of
18 Reconstructing Dixie
How does the South move from abstraction to specific currency, a cur-
rency that hails Americans in particular ways? How do these narratives of
the South and southernness cohere, more often than not, around certain
stock figures, including homeplace, hospitality, and the southern (white)
lady? How might we access alternative Souths, mobilizing different his-
tories less drenched in nostalgia and white racial melancholia? What les-
sons might we learn from these Souths about cross-racial alliance, possible
politics, and the relationship of tradition to change?
g D I X I E , A F T E R A L L , I S A WO M A N ’ S N A M E
Reconstructing Dixie repeatedly returns to the southern lady as a central
player in the aggrandizement of Dixie, a figure who, along with her
younger counterpart, the belle, served as the linchpin of nineteenth-
century revisionist versions of the Old South, in which the Lost Cause ide-
ology of southern nationalism conveniently fused the figure of the southern
lady onto a celebration of the rebirth of a ‘‘nation’’ defeated. The South,
responding to its own feminized position vis-à-vis the North—a femini-
zation that was both literal, owing to the loss of a large portion of the male
population, and figurative, given the South’s status as defeated—turned to
a hyperfeminized figure of the southern woman as discursive symbol for
the region, with the land itself being figured as feminine as well.23 The myth
of the southern lady (which is no less powerful for its status as a fiction) is
central to southern culture, and as literary critic Nina Baym notes, ‘‘south-
ern women, [as] embodiment of [the] graces [of the region], are what the
South as a whole has cultivated; they are Southern culture.’’ 24 Nonethe-
less the emergence of the southern lady as a critical circuit of cultural
meaning for both the South and the nation during the late nineteenth cen-
tury smooths over a complex and contested history. In Mothers of Invention,
Drew Gilpin Faust details the intricate machinations by which elite white
women came to terms with their experiences of the Civil War, forging
new entry routes into the public sphere while simultaneously holding on
to the trappings of the lady. If the patriarchal culture of the postwar South
deployed the figure of the southern lady to discipline both white women
who were enjoying the new freedoms born of wartime and the freed slaves
claiming space and rights in the public realm, many white southern women
were finally unwilling to question white privilege, buying into a return
to the pedestal on which southern femininity was popularly situated. As
Faust notes, these white women were ‘‘inventing new selves erected firmly
20 Reconstructing Dixie
between these two poles, turning to specific histories or to psychoanaly-
sis in their attempts to explain women’s investments in femininity. These
conceptualizations, at their best, moved away from seeing femininity as
‘‘good’’ or ‘‘bad,’’ ‘‘oppressive’’ or ‘‘subversive,’’ and instead attempted to
get at the problematics of femininity as constitutive of a whole complex
of social and psychic transformations. Here femininity was read both as
shaped by women and as shaping women, a formulation that my deploy-
ment of femininity reasserts. Although I want to refrain from offering a
concise definition of femininity (precisely because such a fixing of the term
is finally impossible), I do view femininity as a set of ideas about appro-
priate womanly behavior and feelings that are generally based on cultural
assumptions about female nature.26 As such, ‘‘femininity’’ is a social and
discursive construction that nonetheless has real material effects.
Central to constructions of southern femininity is a notion of masquer-
ade or performance, which has also been a key issue in contemporary femi-
nist theory, particularly feminist film theory as it builds on the insights
of psychoanalyst Joan Riviere. Although the move toward masquerade as
a theoretical paradigm to enrich feminist positions on spectatorship has
been the most prevalent use of the trope in feminist film theory, there has
been throughout this work (particularly in the germinal essay by Mary Ann
Doane) a slippage between the spectator’s masquerade and the character’s
masquerade. My own use of the term is primarily concerned with repre-
sentations of masquerade in texts by and about women, particularly to the
degree they highlight masquerade as a performative strategy, and also with
the possibilities of reclaiming strategies of masquerade (in representation
and in ‘‘real’’ life) for feminism in a southern frame.
In her 1929 essay ‘‘Womanliness as a Masquerade,’’ Riviere structures
an equation between femininity/womanliness and masquerade, writing
that ‘‘the reader may ask how I define womanliness or where I draw the
line between genuine womanliness and the masquerade. . . . they are the
same thing’’ (38). In Doane’s analysis, such a formulation of femininity ren-
ders it ‘‘in actuality non-existent’’ because ‘‘it makes femininity dependent
upon masculinity for its very definition.’’ 27 For Doane, femininity as mas-
querade is both normal and, in the case of Riviere’s patient, pathological.
Such an understanding of normal or aberrant femininity as always a mas-
querade, a performance, echoes my own claim that femininity is a social
and discursive construction, and thus its contours are always sketched in
relation to other markers of difference. But Doane’s argument that this
approach makes femininity always dependent on, derivative of, mascu-
22 Reconstructing Dixie
goal of this project is to offer up a specific sociohistorical terrain within
which regional performances of femininity can be understood and theories
of masquerade can be tested.
In her study of the politics and pleasures of feminist camp, film histo-
rian Pamela Robertson Wojcik turns to an analysis of the class politics of
the 1930s, and more specifically to the film Gold Diggers of 1933, to suggest
how ‘‘women can use masquerade not only to disavow masculine power
but also to gain strategic access to power and privilege typically denied
them as women.’’ 29 Here Robertson distinguishes between masquerade
as disavowal of the possession of masculinity and masquerade as a sur-
vival strategy. In Riviere’s model, her patient’s assumption of womanliness
works at an unconscious level: Riviere notes that her patient is hardly
aware of her ‘‘coquetting’’ until ‘‘analysis made it manifest’’ (37). Although
Robertson does not foreground this, her reading shifts masquerade from
an unconscious strategy to a conscious, chosen one, which she then ex-
plores in relation to the possibility of female empowerment via various
deployments of camp. Finally, Robertson is unwilling to reify the meaning
of camp, preferring instead to see it as ‘‘complex and contradictory’’ and
often ‘‘deeply complicit with the dominant’’ (16). Throughout this project,
I approach southern femininity and its performance from a similar vantage
point, refusing to assign it a fixed value; instead, I place femininity along a
varied register of meaning depending on its contexts. Such a strategy helps
ground our understanding of the cultural work that femininity performs
within particular regional terrains.
Robertson is not wildly optimistic concerning the progressive political
value of camp, but she does make limited arguments for the viability of a
feminist camp. I am even less optimistic about the possibilities for a femi-
nist deployment of traditional southern femininity. My grandmother was
fond of the old southern adage ‘‘you can catch more flies with honey than
with vinegar,’’ highlighting the strategic artifice of southern femininity,
but femininity in the South is historically secured in very specific ways,
and simply revealing the constructedness of gender does not necessarily
render those constructions (or the other social relations they underwrite)
any less secure. Although putting on southern femininity, that is, playing
the belle or lady, may indeed function as a survival strategy (and one that
has certainly enabled access to the public sphere for many white women),
this survival often renders invisible other powerful social relations, par-
ticularly vis-à-vis race. This is not to say that to deploy femininity is to be
the victim of false consciousness, or to deny other historical uses of south-
24 Reconstructing Dixie
that this relationship changes is not to suggest that any connection can
exist at any time but rather to insist that what relationships are visible
is less a function of empirical fact or critical whimsy than of historical
process and shifting economies of the visibility of race. I focus here on
blackness, even as the South as a whole becomes less black and white,
because the black/white axis in southern culture remains so prominent.
Indeed, as Zillah Eisenstein has argued, despite racial and ethnic diversity
in the United States, ‘‘blackness is made the bedrock signifier of race and
racial hatred, and African-Americans stand in for the multirace threat.
Blackness, repressed in the mind’s eye, threads through the process of cre-
ating ‘others.’ ’’ This American obsession with blackness owes much to the
particularities of the South’s role in national history and culture.32
In chapter 1, I detail some of the ways in which the different econo-
mies of visibility that were prevalent in the 1930s and the 1990s structure
different representations of the relation of white and black femininity in
the novel Gone with the Wind and its sequel, Scarlett. To summarize, the
earlier novel in many ways foregrounds the interdependence of its images
of black and white femininity (though critics have rarely read it this way),
if only to insist on racial difference. Scarlett, on the other hand, attempts
a dismissal of black femininity, an erasure that denies the historical webs
that bound black and white southern women (and their representations)
together during the period in which the novel is set. These two modes
of representing racial difference, which might be labeled as ‘‘overt’’ ver-
sus ‘‘covert,’’ differ in that the former brings together figurations of racial
difference in order to fix the categories whereas the later enacts a sepa-
ration that nonetheless achieves a similar end.33 Although the two modes
are not entirely distinct historically and can coexist in any one era, this
covert strategy of representation is more prevalent in the present than it
was in the pre–Civil Rights era. Moreover, these representational modes
are complexly related to politics and to forms of racist practice, structur-
ing particular ways of feeling and acting southern that expand the scope
of the lenticular from a mere visual strategy to a way of organizing knowl-
edge about the world. Reconstructing Dixie explores the workings of these
two logics in various twentieth-century triangulations of race, place, and
gender, tracing the transit loops between ways of seeing and ways of know-
ing, although I move away from the term ‘‘covert’’ as a name for this more
recent logic, preferring instead to designate this frame of reference a ‘‘len-
ticular’’ one.
A lenticular image is composed when two separate images are inter-
26 Reconstructing Dixie
race (and class and gender and sexuality; name your favorite) get tacked
onto an initial image or narrative, but without a framework that allows us
to understand the images or narratives in relation.35 Such a logic is at work
in tales like the one told in Ken Burns’s pbs special The Civil War, one sub-
ject of chapter 2. The television series Savannah deploys another version
of a lenticular narrative, a separatist one that freezes the image in its first
frame, thus erasing blackness from the South at precisely the historic mo-
ment when African Americans are for the first time returning to the South
at a rate faster than they are leaving it. The world of Spelling’s Savannah
is almost exclusively a white one, allowing the viewer to forget that the
service and tourist industry that the series’ riverboat symbolizes would,
in the ‘‘real’’ Savannah of 1996, be run on the labor of low-paid, mostly mi-
nority workers.36 In the words of scholar Michael Eric Dyson, Savannah’s
pretense ‘‘of colorlessness is actually an investment in whiteness.’’ Explor-
ing the varied economies of visibility that structure twentieth-century
representations of the South illustrates the degree to which the cultural
and material meanings of race in America are both definitive and shifting.
As such, Reconstructing Dixie is part of an ongoing project of antiessentialist
racial critique that investigates how race, an unstable category, gets fixed,
particularly in relation to gender, in specific landscapes and temporalities.
Put differently, this project explores how race is made via narrative and
image at precise moments in place and time.
The lenticular is a way of organizing the world; it structures repre-
sentation, but it also has larger moral and epistemological implications.
In post–Civil Rights America, the lenticular often serves to secure our
understandings of race in precise ways, fixating on sameness or difference
without allowing productive overlap or connection, forestalling doubled
vision and precluding alliance. Such a move limits our ability to see associa-
tion and relation or to articulate the workings of racism in the twenty-first
century. The lenticular restricts our descriptions of the places we inhabit
and of the people we meet, and we thus lack a compelling vocabulary
with which to talk publicly about race, racism, and difference, as well as
about their attendant emotional registers. Faced with racial complexity
or inequity, even well-meaning white southerners tend to clam up, often
unsure of what to say or afraid of saying the wrong thing. This silence is
facilitated by the lenticular. Think about the familiar southern admonition
to let sleeping dogs lie, a piece of local wisdom getting new play as recent
criminal trials stir up old racial troubles in the South. For instance, in the
media coverage of the trials of those responsible for the 1963 Birmingham
g REPRESENTING POLITICS
A lenticular logic is often a separatist logic, as my discussion of the neo-
Confederate secessionist movement in chapter 2 details. These twenty-
first-century Confederates stage a new visibility for whiteness as an in-
jured, wronged, violated whiteness and also underscore the degree to
which we lack compelling narratives or theorizations of successful union.
This inability to think beyond separatism also permeates more ‘‘liberal’’
accounts of today’s South. The best-selling books Dixie Rising: How the South
Is Shaping American Values, Politics, and Culture (1996) and Confederates in the
Attic: Dispatches from an Unfinished Civil War (1998), authored by prominent
liberal journalists Peter Applebome and Tony Horwitz, offer up portraits
of a still racially separate South, but they frame their tales in such a way
as to suggest an equivalence between white and black separatism, over-
looking the historical ways in which white separatism has been supported
by state institutions and given access to, and power over, black bodies. In
many ways, Horwitz and Applebome reinscribe the separatist attitudes
about which they seem so dismayed by presenting current-day segrega-
tion as ‘‘simply the way it is,’’ something that all southerners (both black
and white) really want. Although the two authors hope for a South dif-
ferent from the one envisioned by former Georgia senator Newt Gingrich
or the neo-Confederates, the stories that Horwitz and Applebome pro-
vide of the South do little to challenge the vision of the region as racially
polarized—at least partially because neither pays much attention to his-
torical or contemporary figures who are struggling toward such a different
vision.37
Finally, Applebome takes the problem of the modern South to be a
problem of absolute, insurmountable difference, with black and white
existing in different registers, in different chapters, in fundamentally in-
compatible worlds. The work is tinged with white disillusionment over
28 Reconstructing Dixie
the failure of 1960s politics as well as by an inability to imagine other
futures. It is a tone prevalent in many white southern memoirs of the post–
Civil Rights era, texts explored in chapter 4. What these texts share is a
logic of separatism that overrides possibility, a new spin on ‘‘separate but
equal.’’ This tone of disillusionment signals a failure in our critical imagi-
nations, a failure not necessarily delineated along color lines.38 It is also
a bankrupt and reactionary view, a view that willfully overlooks the de-
gree to which people of color in the South have always deployed a doubled
vision, understanding connection in both its prohibitions and its possibili-
ties. Further, it belies the reality of southern history and more than two
and a half centuries of incredible cross-racial intimacy and contact around
landscapes and spaces. Segregation masks the pleasures whites derived
from mastering black others, a mastery tinged with desire. This perspec-
tive also neglects a small minor chord of southern history, those moments
of commonality, sameness, humanity, across racial lines. It is important
to recall this history, not because what a tiny percentage of white south-
erners achieved in the name of antiracism in any way approximates the
labor of black southerners toward that end, but because we need models
of commonality across difference, of shared traditions, of productive alli-
ance. Not just any form of togetherness will do. We need a sameness that
doesn’t constitute itself via the threat of otherness, a sameness that is mo-
bile, staging the possibility for agency and new subjectivities. For both the
neo-Confederates and Dixie Rising, southern blackness and southern white-
ness become pure categories of sameness that cannot intersect, rigid and
frozen in their essential difference. On these grounds, sameness easily re-
verts to southern whiteness. We need other, less intractable ways to figure
the relationship between identity and difference, sameness and otherness,
tradition and change.
Folklorist Charles Joyner begins this process in his exploration of the
‘‘shared traditions’’ among black and white southerners, noting that ‘‘cen-
tral to the richness of southern folk culture has been racial integration.
. . . the American South was multicultural from its beginnings.’’ 39 He
teases out the circuits of exchange between black and white southerners
in music, culinary habits, religion, and political practice, underscoring
mutual modes of influence, limning common ground. Joyner’s work is
limited by his disregard of structures of power, reflected in statements
like ‘‘black and white folk southerners recognized that they were in the
same boat’’ (25), and by a tendency to romanticize folk cultures as some-
how distinct from mass culture, but his research represents an interesting
30 Reconstructing Dixie
constitutive and, in the final analysis, total, for these texts can’t ‘‘get’’ race
precisely because of the lenticular logics by which they unfold. Still, some-
times in their excesses, sometimes in their margins, sometimes in their
rhetorical strategies, these texts do sometimes long for something else,
for other Souths. From these latent expressions, we might begin to build
up a repertoire that can adequately imagine commonality and mixture.
Other works explored in Reconstructing Dixie, particularly in chapter 4,
more clearly take up the search for modes of subjectivity that are not sim-
plistically locked into the familiar tropes of southernness, illustrating in-
stead mobility and process, refusing the stasis of stagnated tradition. This
movement proceeds beyond a fixed and binary opposition between iden-
tity politics and the politics of difference, recognizing that this tired debate
is a zero-sum game. In a culture that has all too often revolved around
policing purity and guarding against miscegenation, it is crucial to divorce
identity from sameness. We need to think of the South as a dialectic be-
tween tradition and change, a relationship in process, in flux, in move-
ment. We need models of southern mixedness less rooted in the abstrac-
tions of poststructuralism and the politics of difference and more rooted
in the learned lessons of everyday life in the South, a life that is not finally
reducible to the iconic status of certain southern symbols but is instead
fluid and changeable. I want tales from the South where white supremacy
and racism are not inevitable and impenetrable, though these tales may
not be easy ones to find; we need a creative imagining that brings different
people together to move the country’s political center. The history of black
activism and agency in the South offers one vibrant counterhistory. There
are likewise brief flashes of white antiracist agency, fleeting moments that
may offer up models for change, glimpses of productive union. The South
is not inextricably mired in a familiar version of its history. That matters.
g TOWA R D N U S O U T H S
In its pursuit of the relations between representation and strategies for
fashioning antiracist identities, Reconstructing Dixie explores the South as
a region in flux, under constant negotiation, constructed and defined as
much by its excessive performance as by its geographic borders.41 My
focus is largely contemporary, though I operate with an eye always turned
toward history via a vision that is a particularly southern one, for in the
South, as William Faulkner has written, ‘‘The past is never dead. It’s not
even past.’’ 42 I pivot my examinations of Dixie on certain stock figures
32 Reconstructing Dixie
is to suffer wonderful agony.’’ McGill’s southerners are white, but I don’t
believe suffering and agony are the only ways for white folks to think about
feeling southern. Emotions provide an orientation to the world, serving
as a key nexus between cultural and political paradigms, and I am inter-
ested in how certain southerners and certain texts have, while recognizing
suffering, narrated other possibilities.
Reconstructing Dixie surveys both mass-mediated and individually au-
thored texts, examining the degree to which both can serve to reinforce or
reconstruct familiar notions of southern identity. I am interested in both
mainstream histories and counterhistories, particularly in those specula-
tive fictions and accounts of activism that reimagine southern selves. The
logic of this study is not simply to rank mass-mediated representations
with their ‘‘other’’ along a vertical axis, thus declaring the former ‘‘retro-
grade’’ and the latter ‘‘progressive.’’ Producing a list of ‘‘good’’ or ‘‘bad’’
images is less my goal than is the attempt to discern how these ideologies
connect various understandings of gender, race, and region, trading in dif-
ferent emotions ranging from guilt to melancholia to anger, and suggesting
how these emotional registers might be mobilized to new ends. In pur-
suing the distinctions between works, I take several to task, recognizing
that they do shape popular perceptions and underwrite particular views
of place, gender, and race. I am also interested in the porous boundaries
between popular versions of the past and what we might call more ‘‘aca-
demic’’ histories, tracing where they converge. The constellations of texts
and practices examined in each chapter do, to a certain degree, produce
their own contexts and defining languages, operating via a logic of juxta-
position, as I strive in each chapter to highlight the constitutive elements
in each distinct moment of southernness.
One such figure of southernness might serve to illustrate the complex
relations of southern symbols and southern identities, drawing this intro-
duction to a close. The past ten years have witnessed a heated debate across
the South about the meaning of that tenacious icon popularly known as
the Confederate flag. Actually the Confederate battle flag, this banner has
come unmoored from its origins, functioning instead as a visible sign of
resistance to a changing South. For instance, the flag was added to the Mis-
sissippi state flag in the 1890s, a tangible marker of that decade’s embrace
of the politics of Jim Crow. Georgia added the familiar icon to its state flag
in 1956, visualizing the state’s resistance to integration. South Carolina
hoisted the flag over its capitol shortly after. The skirmishes over the ban-
ner’s meaning during the past decade illustrate the volatility of cultural
34 Reconstructing Dixie
largely along racial lines. Despite the encouragement of the business com-
munity to ‘‘move on,’’ the (white) citizens of Mississippi voted to retain
their state banner.43 The move by both Georgia and South Carolina to re-
frame the controversial flag by legislative maneuver (versus Mississippi’s
popular vote) reflects the greater investment of nonsouthern capital in
those states (relative to Mississippi), as well as the appeal of their tourist
industries outside the region. (Mississippi’s Gulf Coast, known as the Red-
neck Riviera, attracts largely southern tourists.) Controversies over this
southern icon reveal the degree to which forces outside the South power-
fully shape the region, suggesting the importance of thinking of regions
as imaginative terrains that shift in space and time, shaped by relation-
ships beyond delimited borders. Regions are not homogeneous, and the
differences across regions are telling. Regions, as imagined places, extend
beyond their geographic borders, not only comprised of the mix of so-
cial and economic relations within but also in tension with those relations
outside. The identity of a place is always multiple, in flux, and change-
able, rather than fixed, unified, or stable. Such an understanding of place
is important, for it opens up new ways of thinking through place and the
articulations of place with notions of gender, race, and class, articulations
tied to notions of identity and difference. It also moves us away from a
binary logic that either overly privileges or unnecessarily vilifies notions
of place, allowing us to see places as always already relational. Thus we
can ask what it means to be ‘‘placed’’ in certain ways, what it means to be
from a certain place, and how we can be from a place in a variety of ways.
Reconstructing Dixie tracks the different ways that sense of place influ-
ences sense of self, for there are many ways of being southern. The chapters
that follow interrogate certain assumptions about the relations of place to
identity, favoring accounts that conceptualize place in its mobility. This
interrogation proceeds via a series of questions: In what ways does being
southern (of being of a place) intersect with being white, being a woman,
being guilty, or being angry? How does being southern condition how one
understands one’s home and its histories? Can southern places move us
elsewhere? A mobile view of place can help us to discern how places travel,
helping to explain the Confederate flags I see dotting the southern Cali-
fornia landscape.
The flag might seem endlessly locked in a fixed and binary circuit of
meaning if not for an imaginative repurposing of the iconic image by two
young African American men in Charleston. In 1993 Sherman Evans and
Angel Quintero reconstructed the rebel flag, casting it in the vibrant reds,
greens, and blacks of the African liberation movement. Eventually this re-
tailored banner became the emblem for their clothing company, NuSouth
Apparel, an enterprise they position as a bottom-up response to the ap-
propriations of black culture by corporate commerce. Their creations
received national attention in 1994 when a black teenage girl in South
Carolina was expelled from school for wearing a T-shirt featuring the re-
tooled flag and the slogans ‘‘The future is Da Phlayva’’ and ‘‘The past is the
past.’’ As one journalist noted, ‘‘Evans and Quintero’s shop argues for flying
even more flags—slightly reconfigured ones, Africanized ones, capitalist
ones—and in the process, slowly broadening and then altering the mean-
ing of the premier symbol of the South.’’ 44 It would be easy to dismiss this
altered flag as so much commercial enterprise, as a selling of difference
as style, a commodification of black liberation struggles that domesticates
politics. Such accusations would be accurate, but there is something else at
work here, too, a new style of dissidence that meets corporate culture on
its own terrain, mixing up its terms. This new banner remains an intrigu-
ing cipher, selling a slightly altered form of difference: alliance as style.
The company’s Web page opens with a Flash animation in which the phrase
36 Reconstructing Dixie
‘‘for the sons and daughters of former slaves’’ morphs into ‘‘for the sons
and daughters of former slave owners,’’ followed by ‘‘threads that connect
us; words that free us,’’ all dissolving into the NuSouth emblem. The main
page of the site at first appears to depict a Klansman, but closer inspection
reveals a black man in a hooded sweatshirt. The ‘‘History of the NuSouth’’
section details the philosophy of the company: ‘‘NuSouth tackles the age
old issue of racism between blacks and whites in America by integrating
two ‘opposing’ symbols. . . . NuSouth forces us to look at what makes us
uncomfortable. It awakens the mind. It generates energy, dialogue, deep
thought. It evolves as we evolve.’’ This is a boutiquing of the South with a
difference, moving us past the House of Blues.
Two impulses are at work here. First, NuSouth creatively reclaims the
South for African Americans, insisting that southern heritage extends be-
yond the imaginary borders of the region so carefully patrolled by the
neo-Confederates. Black labor built the South, and Evans and Quintero re-
claim that terrain. Second, and perhaps more importantly, NuSouth stages
a model of unity across difference, initiating an address to those in different
spaces below the Mason-Dixon line and beyond, calling them together.
As Quintero notes in an article featured on the Web site, ‘‘NuSouth is
for everyone. It’s not a black thing. It’s not a white thing. It’s common
sense.’’ In this ‘‘common sense,’’ we might read the contours of a kind of
in-between location that hints at an important doubled consciousness, a
self-awareness that transcends the politics of identity and points us toward
new Souths.
RO M A N C I N G
THE SOUTH
40 Reconstructing Dixie
This 1990 Natchez Pilgrimage
brochure promises a Confeder-
ate pageant that will ‘‘transport
the audience to the days of long
ago.’’ The ‘‘local performers in
elaborate costumes,’’ along
with the tours of antique-filled
houses, help to create a mise-
en-scène of romantic southern-
ness that whitewashes the past.
top 20 events in the Southeast.’’ 4 This affair centers around a series of tours
of antebellum southern homes and a dance recital known as the ‘‘Confeder-
ate Pageant.’’ On the cover of the brochure for the 1990 Spring Pilgrimage
is a photograph of an elaborately dressed belle standing on a large porch
covered in lush foliage. She flirtatiously looks over her fan at a young man
in period costume who occupies the lower portion of the photo. The pam-
phlet’s last pages picture rows of dancing southern couples, hoopskirts
swirling, images drawn from the Confederate Pageant. The copy for these
pages ensures the tourist that this ‘‘brilliant’’ pageant ‘‘will transport the
42 Reconstructing Dixie
Oak Alley’s brochure emphasizes
the role of the plantation venue
in creating a nostalgia for the
antebellum area, noting that the
visitor can ‘‘experience a bygone
era in the South’s most beautiful
setting.’’ A carefully orchestrated
backdrop of gentility helps mobi-
lize powerful fantasies about the
plantation past ‘‘when Southern
aristocracy ruled the land.’’ Gone
with the Wind and Scarlett also
depend on such nostalgic settings,
but race figures quite differently
across the two works.
nale for the tours, as the period’s interracial past disappeared along with
the history of slavery. My tour guide at Oak Alley repeatedly referred
to slaves as both ‘‘service boys’’ and ‘‘servants,’’ only mentioning slaves
near the end of an hour tour when she noted that the slave cabins had
once been located where the gift shop now stood. When describing the
home’s ‘‘authentic’’ and lavish holiday decorations, she often detailed the
labors of the lady of the house, noting how busy the plantation mistress
would have been at Christmastime, again displacing slave labor as inte-
gral to the plantation household. During these explorations, the visiting
tourist is powerfully positioned within a southern mise-en-scène of imag-
ined hospitality, an immersive experience underwritten both by the man-
sions’ high ceilings, ornate furnishings, and lush garden settings and by the
44 Reconstructing Dixie
southerners turned to an architectural style designed to glorify the ante-
bellum period as the ‘‘golden age’’ of the South. This newly emerging
‘‘southern colonial’’ style revamped older forms for a new era and was char-
acterized by ‘‘a large and symmetrical house [with] . . . a portico of great
white columns.’’ 7 This new housing trend was more than a mere homage to
the past. As Bishir points out, ‘‘In the South, identification of the colonial
style with Anglo-Saxon American culture appealed not only to nativist
pride but also to white supremacy’’ (29). Thus architecture became one
field in which a battle over popular memories of the past was waged.
One resident of Raleigh in 1905 maintained that these houses ‘‘re-
inforced a way of life in which . . . ‘women were fine hostesses, [and
where] the relations between old Raleighites and their black friends were
beautiful,’ for many of the servants . . . ‘scarcely knew they had been
set free’.’’ 8 This comment locates white femininity as a crucial element
of the imagined plantation home, and thus of the maintenance of racial
oppression; but unlike the lenticular postcard of my introduction or late-
twentieth-century tourist sites, the plantation mythologies of the early
twentieth century were almost always populated by the requisite ‘‘happy
darkies,’’ content to labor in the cotton fields and big houses of ‘‘dear ole’’
Dixie. These myths functioned as a kind of escape scenario, simultaneously
underwriting and disavowing the early twentieth century’s fierce lynching
campaigns, insisting on a more perfect past, where paternalistic race re-
lations ensured the good behavior of loyal servants. Slaves were figured as
natural (and content) elements of the landscape, key props in the produc-
tion of a southern mise-en-scène. Today the happy darky largely disappears
from newfangled plantation legends, clearing the way for new deploy-
ments of old southern images. Of course, neither era revealed the actual
conditions of production on the plantation, which in itself is hardly sur-
prising, but it is nonetheless important to understand the different modes
of racial visibility operative in the early and late twentieth century. Such
an understanding suggests that the racial logics of our time still operate
as cover stories, stories designed to enable white fantasies uncluttered by
the messy realities of slavery. The contemporary plantation tour functions
as a displacement, reflecting dominant culture’s inability to imagine the
traumas of slavery in a manner that connects slavery to its historic locale
and context: the plantation home and its white inhabitants.
These houses continue to carry a great symbolic weight, even after
many people have called into question the Lost Cause ideologies that
fueled their construction. The continuing reference in contemporary
46 Reconstructing Dixie
to ‘‘The Confederate Getaway’’ to the ‘‘Fiddle Dee Dee.’’ Tour guides in
period attire will happily ‘‘explain the history and significance of the an-
tiques and object [sic] d’art’’ and also point out the gift shop, which features
Gone with the Wind memorabilia. Tara, Country Inn, is located in Clark,
Pennsylvania.9
As this geographically unmoored plantation makes clear, these tourist
sites inhabit a circuit of exchange that includes other forms of southern
history, forms that range from the popular to the scholarly. These forms
reimagine the South, sketching new forms of relation between some stock
characters, including the southern lady and her home. The remainder of
this chapter continues to pursue the relationship between these figures
and various racial logics, exploring how certain southern icons repeat-
edly block new modes of southern feeling. Gone with the Wind, with its
(in)famous example of southern femininity, sketches a powerful triangu-
lation of frozen imagery: the lady, the mammy, and the plantation. In Gone
with the Wind, the belle and the lady emerge in relation to each other and
to a variety of other figures, revealing as well the changing terrains of
southern history and southern feeling. Our tour then continues, follow-
ing the legacies of the plantation and the lady up through the Sun Belt
South, tracking her longevity despite attempts in both academic and popu-
lar discourses to call the resiliency of her image into question. Although
the meanings of these icons shift across time, responding to cultural and
economic changes, the movement of the lady or the plantation is rarely
toward a progressive or multifaceted vision of race.
g G E T T I N G B AC K TO TA R A
The past . . . hangs upon Southern women as if they were dispossessed royalty.
—Shirley Abbott, Womenfolks: Growing Up Down South
Although the plantation novel certainly existed during the nineteenth cen-
tury, Margaret Mitchell’s Pulitzer Prize–winning novel Gone with the Wind
and the immense industry it spawned—from the film version to countless
series of collectibles to the recent sequel—are undoubtedly key elements
in the continued force of Old South mythologies. The novel, a best-seller
virtually from the moment of its publication in 1936, has sold nearly 30
million copies to date and has been issued in nearly two hundred edi-
tions in forty countries. Although the film has been central to the novel’s
continued popularization, the book is important in its own right, for it
48 Reconstructing Dixie
which to play out the author’s deeply conflicted feelings about women’s
progress. Of course, women’s rights in the South have never been only
about gender, for southern suffrage campaigns often staged their popu-
list appeal by offering white women’s votes as a counter to the black male
vote.13 The figure of Scarlett embodies the contradictions of the South in
the early twentieth century, interweaving issues of race, class, gender, and
region.
We can also see in Gone with the Wind Mitchell’s response to the per-
sistent tradition of linking the southern landscape to femininity. Equally
important, we come to understand that this habit is not only about male
desire. Although it is tempting to read the reconstruction of regional iden-
tity in the South after the war as a process in which white male desire
figures the woman as object of masculine fantasy (hence placing the south-
ern lady within the veranda or on a pedestal, requiring protection from
marauding black men), white women also played an active role in this pro-
cess, staging ‘‘interventions’’ into the construction of southern history and
southern spaces through their widespread memorializing efforts. Southern
white women took an active role in crafting popular histories of the South
after Reconstruction, working to ‘‘transform public spaces into memory
theaters where white southerners told their history to themselves and
others.’’ To claim the right to construct history via shrines and memorials
also gave these women access to the public sphere, paradoxically allowing
greater visibility and authority for white women at the same time that the
Lost Cause ideologies these women supported insisted on their fragility
and need for protection by white men. If these women might be seen as
willing architects of the past, Mitchell’s novel extends such a role, building
a new monument to earlier times.14 Mitchell’s ‘‘monument’’ also rests on
a paradox, reflected in her conflicting longings for old and new, rural and
urban, lady and ‘‘new’’ woman. Although Mitchell insisted that her novel
debunked old ‘‘moonlight and magnolia’’ myths, moving away from plan-
tation mythologies, her break from this past is neither clean nor total. She
never fully shakes Scarlett free from her plantation home (a connection
the film visually reinscribes) or from a longing for the old ways. Mitchell
does fluctuate between equating the belle with Atlanta and with rural life
at Tara, but the novel finally secures Scarlett and the South within famil-
iar stories and architectures, if for slightly different ends. As we shall see,
within Mitchell’s verdant landscape, old plantation mythologies are re-
fashioned in response to a changing South but remain tied to the era of
lynching during which she came of age.
Scarlett is linked to Tara and the land early in the novel in a tie that is
never completely broken, even while Scarlett lives in Atlanta (albeit in a
grander plantation-style home) and manages her own sawmill. In fact, the
narrative trajectory of Gone with the Wind works precisely to fix Scarlett’s
place within the plantation household. The initial fusing of Scarlett and the
land of Tara occurs in the second chapter when her father, Gerald O’Hara,
insists, ‘‘ ’Twill come to you, this love of the land. There’s no getting away
from it’’ (25). It is a refrain that echoes throughout the novel, especially
when Scarlett is troubled or distressed, for the land ‘‘brought a measure of
quiet’’ to her in times of unrest (19). The imagery of Gone with the Wind fig-
ures Tara as the site of home and of family, of origin, and thus of Scarlett’s
very identity. She loves the land intuitively, for it is like her mother (25).
‘‘She could not desert Tara; she belonged to the red acres. . . . Her roots
went deep into the blood-colored soil and sucked up life, as did the cotton’’
(294). Like cotton, Scarlett is a product of the South, and all true south-
erners (at least the landowning white ones) have ‘‘common roots going
down into the same red earth’’ (710). It is no mistake that Mitchell’s sym-
bols for the source of southern identity slide back and forth between Tara,
50 Reconstructing Dixie
the plantation, and the acres of red earth that surround it. Such a slippage
serves to naturalize the relationship between the earth (as nature) and the
cultivated fields of the mansion, so that ‘‘this beautiful red earth . . . which
so miraculously grew green bushes starred with white puffs was one part
of Scarlett that did not change’’ (304). This land is, finally, ‘‘worth fighting
[wars] for, and she accepted simply and without question the fight’’ (304).
The novel enacts a metonymic slippage by which Scarlett comes to stand
for, to equal, the land and its symbolic architecture.
Here Tara is more than just the house in which Scarlett was born. Like
the southern colonial homes popular during Mitchell’s lifetime, Tara be-
comes a symbol of the old ways of the antebellum South, and Mitchell’s
mythic imaging of those landscapes works to naturalize the relationship of
landowning southerners to their property. Of course, what such a process
erases is both the initial seizure of the land from its original inhabitants
and the system of slave labor that allowed Tara to ‘‘miraculously’’ produce
cotton in the first place. It also justifies the Civil War on the basis of saving
the land, dismissing slavery as an issue in the conflict. There is no room in
Mitchell’s imagery for James Baldwin’s description of the deep red earth
of Dixie:
I could not suppress the thought that this earth had acquired its color
from the blood that dripped down from these trees. My mind was filled
with the image of a Black man . . . hanging from a tree, while white
men . . . cut his sex from him with a knife.15
In order for Gone with the Wind to forestall such images, relations be-
tween whites and their slaves must be naturalized as well, and this effect
is achieved by representing the plantation as home to a large and happy
family, ‘‘black and white’’ (222), where childlike slaves are tended by kind
masters. The lines of power on the plantation are further obscured by
Mitchell’s tactic of figuring the slaves as the ones with the actual power.
Thus ‘‘Mammy felt that she owned the O’Haras body and soul’’ (15), and
she is also described as the ‘‘owner’’ of her own ‘‘ponderous’’ frame (383).
Indeed, Mammy knows Scarlett’s mind ‘‘as if by magic’’ (382), suggest-
ing that the slave exercises control over ‘‘her Scarlett.’’ White needs and
perspectives entirely define the black characters, their specificity denied
even as they are used to mark the white characters’ uniqueness. For ex-
ample, ‘‘Uncle Peter,’’ the ‘‘dignified mainstay’’ of the Hamilton family, is
valued precisely because he has kept a watchful eye on Miss Pittypat, his
white charge. His character is solely limned via his relations to the Hamil-
52 Reconstructing Dixie
spective) both economically and politically from the years following the
Civil War. Of course, this recovery operates in both senses of the word: as
a recouping of the losses of the war for white southerners, and as a cover-
ing over of the brutalities during and after Reconstruction for the former
slaves.19
Mammy’s role in defining who counts as a lady does not end at the level
of descriptive detail. As the narrative unfolds, she will also come to play
a key role in the actual production of white femininity. The novel’s first
sentence asserts that ‘‘Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful,’’ underscoring
that it is not beauty but something to do with appearance and perfor-
mance that defines (white) southern womanhood. A certain ‘‘veneer of
femininity’’ is key (42), and we soon learn of Scarlett’s consummate skill in
manipulating this veneer, as she proceeds to snare the Tarleton twins with
her charms (1, 6).20 Throughout the novel, Scarlett deploys her feminine
wiles to mask her growing access to the public sphere. Her performances
echo those of the patient of Joan Riviere described in my introduction,
as Scarlett wields a flirtatious womanly excess as a cover for her desire
to enter the masculine world of commerce. Still, Scarlett is portrayed as
quite consciously using her charms, not needing the analyst to reveal her
womanliness as a masquerade, and certainly her excessive femininity is
very much a product of her southernness. Gone with the Wind also under-
scores that to be a southern lady required the observance of certain strict
codes of etiquette and decorum, and many feminist critics of the novel
have praised the character and the narrative precisely because they subtly
push against the established codes of ladylike behavior. Although Scarlett
ultimately longs to be a lady, a point to which I will return, she does at vari-
ous moments resist her training in proper femininity. Much as in feminist
valorizations of Madonna during the 1990s, these optimistic critics read
the moments of Scarlett’s (or the text’s) performance as a campy subver-
sion of the rigid boundaries of southern femininity. For example, literary
historian Anne Goodwyn Jones praises Mitchell’s decision to have Scarlett
deploy feminine wiles in order to gain entrance into ‘‘the male, public,
economic and competitive world.’’ Literary critic Ann Egenriether reads
Scarlett as ‘‘the quintessential American heroine’’ because ‘‘she capitalizes
on her womanliness,’’ and Harriet Hawkins goes further, calling Scarlett’s
masquerades ‘‘radically, breath-takingly liberating.’’ 21
What such evaluations never demonstrate is exactly what such femi-
nine play subverts. Scarlett’s ‘‘play’’ with femininity works in the service
of capitalism and chain gang labor as she uses her feminine wiles to main-
54 Reconstructing Dixie
A focus on historical and social contexts and the racial relations they
underwrite makes reading Scarlett’s masquerade as subversive guilty of
the same slippage that my introduction highlights in the work of feminist
theorists of masquerade. That is, a privileging of Scarlett’s performance of
sexual difference renders invisible the degree to which feminine perfor-
mance is also about region, race, and class. Scarlett’s masquerade may be
about survival, particularly given the novel’s setting during and immedi-
ately after the war. But in situating her performance of femininity within
the terrain of the South—particularly within the plantation home that
that implies—the novel provides little cause for celebrating (as do Mitchell
and many of her critics) Scarlett’s masquerades.
This symbiotic relationship between Scarlett’s strategic femininity and
the reactionary social setting that supports it is best illustrated by return-
ing to the figure of Mammy and her role in producing white femininity.
Throughout the narrative, Mammy’s physical labor and ‘‘supporting’’ role
allow Scarlett to perform femininity. For instance, when Scarlett wants to
dress up in curtains to work her feminine wiles on Rhett, it is Mammy
who sews the dress and thus ‘‘assists’’ in Scarlett’s performance, taking care
of her ‘‘whether Scarlett wished it or not’’ (386). Likewise, as Scarlett’s
‘‘maid,’’ Mammy laces her into her corset, pulling and jerking vigorously,
and ‘‘as the tiny circumference of whalebone-girdled waist grew smaller,
a proud, fond look’’ comes into Mammy’s eyes (55). As the novel pointedly
asserts, ‘‘What a young miss could do and what she could not do were as
different as black and white in Mammy’s mind’’ (54). Mammy also escorts
Scarlett along the ‘‘jammed’’ sidewalks of Atlanta, monitoring her progress
and protecting her from ‘‘a black buck’’ and impudent ‘‘black trash’’ (389).
Paradoxically, Mammy is here figured as a chief coconspirator in the pro-
duction of a system of femininity that simultaneously works to deny her
own status as a bearer of privileged womanhood. Mitchell consistently
represents Mammy as the enforcer of southern etiquette, thus supporting
her narrative claim that Mammy has authority over Scarlett and the whole
plantation. But Mammy’s ‘‘power’’ is only the power to labor in the main-
tenance of white femininity. Her ‘‘power’’ is the power to police Scarlett
(at home and on the streets of Atlanta), thus producing Scarlett as a lady
(i.e., as not Mammy) and simultaneously maintaining Tara as the space of
the family and of white rule.
This wishful figuration of Mammy as keeper of white femininity echoes
life in the early-twentieth-century South while erasing the networks of
power that controlled black women’s bodies and mobility in that era.
56 Reconstructing Dixie
becomes all too evident. Gone with the Wind rewrites this history and erases
the deadly politics of the sidewalk that Mitchell undoubtedly knew well.
Rather, it figures Mammy not as claiming her own space on the sidewalk
but as intent on securing a space for Scarlett, shuttling her through the
‘‘dangerous’’ interracial public spaces of a growing Atlanta.
Of course, this policing of white femininity has everything to do with
class, as well. Scarlett is not just any white woman; she is also a woman of
the planter class, and whiteness, proper femininity, and class position are
all closely bound in Gone with the Wind. One need only recall the novel’s
representation of the Slattery family to understand that true femininity is
little more within the reach of the average lower-class white woman than
it is achievable by Mammy. In fact, each of the tale’s ‘‘white trash’’ women
functions as a degraded third term that holds the novel’s black-white equa-
tion in place. Emmie Slattery’s description as an ‘‘overdressed, common,
nasty piece of poor white trash’’ serves as a nightmare image underscoring
the effect on the social order of not maintaining clear distinctions between
black and white. Emmie’s very touch had killed Ellen O’Hara, and her at-
tempts at proper femininity miserably fail her, revealing as they do her
‘‘rabbity face, caked with white powder’’ (376), calling into question her
very claims to whiteness. Scarlett’s successful masquerades are not avail-
able for Emmie, and the novel’s representations of the lower classes only
serve to underwrite its black-white logic.
To privilege Scarlett’s uses of femininity or to read her masquerades as
being only about sexual difference is to forget that this narrow view of the
southern belle erases the historical specificity of the lives of many poor and
working-class white women in the South. It also denies the suppression
of black femininity that helped produce Scarlett’s masquerades while also
ignoring the historical resistance that slave women waged against their
cultural positioning as ‘‘unwomanly.’’ 24 Finally, such a reading overlooks
the degree to which the narrative punishes Scarlett for her transgressions,
highlighting what happens to independent women in the postbellum (and,
by extension, the modern) South.
The novel’s final scene firmly reinscribes the power-crossed triangula-
tion of race, gender, and place that structured both the antebellum and
the postbellum South while simultaneously naturalizing those connections
and their class connotations. On the last page, after losing Rhett, Scarlett
realizes she must go home to Tara, and ‘‘it was as if a gentle cool hand were
stealing over her heart’’ (733). The narrative paints an Edenic picture of
Tara, a portrait that, of course, includes Mammy:
58 Reconstructing Dixie
ter’s worthiness and humanity as the novel draws to a close. Thus this black
presence sets the stage for Mitchell’s playing out of the often contradictory
and complex imperatives of power, guilt, and desire.
Gone with the Wind exhibits a desire for commonality or connection that
we might term a white southern structure of feeling, a latency in the text
that is in tension with the novel’s overtly racist expressions. Although the
dominant culture in Mitchell’s South deployed Jim Crow tactics to dis-
avow and guard against this commonality, the culture’s visual logics con-
tinually joined black and white, defining each race via and against the other.
Beneath the surface of this logic coursed a subterranean desire for con-
nection, a hunger for the other. Cultural critic Raymond Williams notes
that ‘‘structures of feeling’’ are ‘‘concerned with meanings and values as
they are actively lived and felt, . . . characteristic elements of impulse,
restraint and tone, specifically affective elements of . . . relationships.’’ 28
He singles out art and literature as having a particular purchase on struc-
tures of feeling and further argues that these structures ‘‘can be defined as
social experiences in solution’’ (133). We might say that Mitchell’s latent
longing for cross-racial connection is an affective mode still ‘‘in solution,’’
hovering as it is at ‘‘the very edge of semantic availability’’ (134); the novel’s
precipitated meaning is its overt racism. Very few whites in Mitchell’s
time had moved beyond this affective suspension, although some had, as
chapter 4 will detail. Of course, reading the mammy as a maternal figure
of comfort for whites is a tricky game, and Mitchell offers an array of
harsh images to distance the figure of Mammy. Mitchell’s representations
range from monkey faced to maternal, and Mammy also functions as a
shadowy substitute for Scarlett’s mother, Ellen. This ambiguity hints at a
longing for racial union even while it labors to hold black and white apart,
a familiar pattern across southern history and racial representation. For
whites, Mammy could be a ‘‘great mother’’ (via the psychic and cultural
mechanisms of nostalgic fantasy) and also absolutely not the mother (via
the dictates of language and the law: she is black and beastly), inhabiting
two seemingly contradictory modes at once. This fantasy of union is too
unsettling to be simply presented; rather, it is contextualized via the de-
humanizing images of Mammy that permeate the text, framed strictly via
white desire. Let me be clear: though the novel does reveal a desire for
union, this latency in no way mitigates the novel’s racism. It does, how-
ever, signal a current that might be accessed differently by a more radical
white subjectivity.
60 Reconstructing Dixie
structing Dixie examines. Chapters 3 and 4 will again take up the ways in
which the words and work of white southern women deploy figures of
black femininity. Many of these texts display a drive to unity similar to that
of Gone with the Wind. Often the dual cycle of repulsion and attraction that
Mitchell enacts is in evidence as well, though it is frequently less overt.
g R AC E I N B L AC K A N D W H I T E
Yes, Mitchell admitted, we Southerners are racist—and in this respect no different
from any other Americans.—Elizabeth Fox-Genovese, ‘‘The Anxiety of History’’
Gone with the Wind is not particularly subtle in its delineation of whiteness
in relation to blackness.31 It is a novel that proceeds in black and white,
foregrounding the mutual dependency of the two terms. In an essay on an-
other early-twentieth-century tribute to the Old South, D. W. Griffith’s
1915 film The Birth of a Nation, film theorist Richard Dyer notes that ‘‘Birth
knows that it is about racial purity or, to use a contemporary phrase, ethnic
cleansing.’’ 32 He also argues that the film’s representation of race ‘‘includes
the whites just as much as blacks, something Birth itself is clearer on than
most current white discourse about race’’ (167). Both of his observations
could be applied to Gone with the Wind (as novel and as film), for it is a
text that proceeds via the more overt of the two logics of racial visibility
I outlined in my introduction. Mitchell writes, for example, that ‘‘[Scar-
lett] knew what Reconstruction meant. . . . The negroes were on top and
behind them were the Yankee bayonets. She could be killed, she could be
raped and, very probably, nothing would be done about it’’ (456). Mitchell
thus writes in the service of an ideology of which she is fully aware and
supportive. This is not, moreover, a visual logic that holds black and white
apart. Rather, her construction of racial difference is overt and pointed.
Mitchell’s defense of the Ku Klux Klan’s slaughter of black men and women
(in the name of white women’s ‘‘protection’’) underwrites and justifies the
racial violence of her own era.33
To understand how the racial logics of Gone with the Wind function, we
must once again return to the context of early-twentieth-century Atlanta
and the South. Atlanta was a crucible for change during this period, bring-
ing together many of the contradictory trajectories of southern culture.
Across the South, races and classes were thrown together in growing cities
as both increasingly moved to urban areas, especially during the 1920s,
and blacks and the working classes were on the move. Blacks boycotted
62 Reconstructing Dixie
reacts against it. The progressive era began to imagine a new set of re-
lations between blacks and whites, challenging the overt racial logics of
Jim Crow. Gone with the Wind still depends on this fiercer, overt logic, the
logic of the reign of lynching, marking the end of an era. This logic para-
doxically defined blackness and whiteness via relation (think of Scarlett
and Mammy, and the ‘‘happy darkies’’ as plantation backdrop) at the same
time that segregation attempted to police interracial connection, insisting
on separation. Precisely because the meaning of whiteness and blackness
were so interwoven, overt racism and brutality were deployed to sepa-
rate the races. This racial strategy began to lose its sway throughout the
1940s. Over the next two decades, covert strategies of racism and racial
representation gradually came to replace these more overt logics, partially
because of the hopefulness of the progressive era but largely because the
South began to recognize the need for an image makeover. By the 1960s,
Atlanta would pitch itself as the city ‘‘too busy to hate.’’ 37
Interestingly, Selznick’s film version of Mitchell’s opus, released in 1939,
begins a shift toward a slightly more covert logic of racial representation
as he attempted to excise the novel’s more pronounced racism. He elimi-
nated the Klan sequence from the film and insisted that he had ‘‘no desire
to produce any anti-negro film,’’ claiming that he hoped the film would
avoid serving as ‘‘an unintentional advertisement for intolerant societies
in these fascist-ridden times.’’ 38 Nonetheless, despite his stated intentions,
the epic film powerfully conjured up the glories of the plantation past by
inserting Scarlett into a Technicolor white-columned landscape borrowed
straight from the pages of Lost Cause plantation myths, an estate much
grander than the Tara of the novel. In attempting to mitigate the novel’s
racism, Selznick failed to understand the complex history and powerful
pull of the mise-en-scène of southernness he sculpted. Presenting such a
lush southern landscape while eliminating the novel’s most overt racism
helped soft-sell an image of the Grand Old South to those who might have
reacted against Mitchell’s more overt strategies. While his film doesn’t
separate black from white in the manner of the lenticular postcard (it still
has Mammy lacing up Scarlett into proper femininity, powerfully con-
trasting black and white womanhood while figuring them as interrelated),
it does begin to move away from Mitchell’s racial logics, moving us a bit
closer to the terrain of the Sun Belt and Scarlett, the sequel.
Since it seems quite evident that Gone with the Wind is a novel about
race, racial difference, and racial representation, it is at first surprising
to learn that until recently most critics denied that the novel was about
64 Reconstructing Dixie
as the ‘‘transgressive belle’’ and her relationship to southern society are
both played out on a racialized and highly charged terrain.
Given the highly detailed racial contours of Mitchell’s novel, it is par-
ticularly fascinating that critics could have ‘‘overlooked’’ its racial content
for so long.42 Certainly, this oversight has more to say about the shifting
economies of racial visibility at the close of the twentieth century than
about the racial politics of Margaret Mitchell or the 1930s. As such, this
refusal to see the structures that shape our understanding of race stands
as a prime example of the covert racial logics that characterize post–Civil
Rights discourse on race. This economy of visibility, which operates quite
differently than the overt economy deployed by Mitchell, can be traced
across a variety of contemporary texts ranging from the River Road tourist
excursions that continue to grow in popularity to the limning of Scarlett
as newly minted ethnic other. And popular culture is not the only ter-
rain on which we might track new figurations of the southern lady, for if
Gone with the Wind helped reinvigorate this image for the early twentieth
century, other, sometimes surprising, sources sustained her legacy as the
century drew to a close.
g N E X T S TO P : B E L L E S A N D L A D I E S I N T H E 19 8 0 S
Just as there’s a New South, there’s also a new Scarlett.
—Maryln Schwartz, New Times in the Old South
Scarlett, Alexandra Ripley’s 1991 sequel to Gone with the Wind, was, much
like its predecessor, an instant best-seller, with many stores’ stock selling
out as soon as it arrived. More than two million copies were sold in the
novel’s first year, before the book’s paperback issue in 1992. The sequel was
later remade in seventeen languages as a television miniseries, which, on
its premiere in 1994, garnered a worldwide television audience of more
than 275 million and was the top tv movie of the year in several coun-
tries, including the United States, Germany, Spain, and Japan.43 Although
Ripley was praised by a few critics for capturing the essence of Mitchell’s
style (and roundly hated by most), the two novels deploy strikingly dif-
ferent economies of visibility in regards to race. Much like the television
series Savannah, Scarlett finally deals with the interrelation of black and
white by erasing blackness. In the end, Ripley, who no doubt faced quite a
dilemma in deciding how to capture the ‘‘essence’’ of Mitchell’s overt de-
fense of racism during Reconstruction, displaces the text’s considerations
66 Reconstructing Dixie
An advertisement in The
Hollywood Reporter illus-
trates the move of Scarlett
to relocate its heroine to
Ireland, away from the
messy realities of race in
America. The ad also
celebrates the success of
the tv miniseries world-
wide, citing top ratings in
several countries.
tence, buried side by side. Still, Mammy dies within the first thirty of
nearly nine hundred pages, and the novel quickly moves on to define femi-
ninity without the dark background of Gone with the Wind, thus naturaliz-
ing the whiteness of southern femininity. When in part 2 Scarlett heads to
Charleston in pursuit of Rhett, she enters an oddly white world, a world
the reader views via Scarlett’s tourist vision. Although the novel sketches
vibrant portraits of the street life and markets of this new southern ter-
rain, the menacing threat of blackness and miscegenation that prowled the
streets of Atlanta in Gone with the Wind has conveniently disappeared by
the time our revamped heroine arrives in South Carolina. The threat on
the sidewalks of Charleston is instead the Yankee soldier, and Charleston
becomes a convenient setting given that the city was held under northern
military occupation for much longer than cities like Atlanta.
In turning to Charleston as a new backdrop for exploring southernness,
that city’s historic resistance to those ‘‘damn Yankees’’ allows Ripley to
figure the Civil War as largely about states’ rights and southern pride, con-
veniently displacing both slavery as a cause for the war and the presence
of freed blacks in the city. Mitchell’s own portraits of the era were obses-
sive in their attention to blackness in the South, but this tone disappears
in Ripley’s sequel. This erasure of the newly mobile black subject from
the city streets masks the city’s (and the region’s) shift from the spatiality
of slavery to the spatiality of white supremacism, a process much more
overtly chronicled in the earlier novel.45 Ripley also pictures Charleston
as awash in consumer wonders, as Scarlett strolls down King Street, imag-
ined as a ‘‘revelation and a delight,’’ simply dripping fine hats, ostrich plums
and painted fans (132). This snapshot of Charleston references the city’s
past as a key port city, one that traded in rice, indigo, and slaves, a center-
piece of the Old South economy. Thus Ripley justifies moving Scarlett away
from Atlanta into a new southern geography.
If Atlanta had allowed Mitchell to operate doubly, exploring Atlanta
both as an Old South hub and as a city embracing modernity during the
author’s lifetime, Charleston serves a similar function for Ripley. A native
of Charleston, Ripley has repeatedly used the city and the surrounding
Low Country as a screen on which to project a late-twentieth-century
vision of a genteel lost South. In many ways, Ripley stages a kind of tour of
Charleston, taking the reader back in time to a world that seems remark-
ably like the tours with which this chapter opens. The city is introduced as
‘‘the symbol of the mysterious and magical, moss-hung, magnolia-scented
South’’ (167), rich with ‘‘brightly polished brass door knobs’’ and ‘‘flowers
68 Reconstructing Dixie
blooming behind garden walls’’ (135). We visit the finer homes of Charles-
ton, mansions with ‘‘shining white columns’’ that make Scarlett’s knees
feel weak, and careful attention is paid to the tasteful and elegant antiques
that fill their rooms, including the exquisite sofas and quality silk uphol-
stery (137). These lovingly described venues provide shelter to Charles-
ton’s finest, and Scarlett longs to join the ranks of the ladies of the city’s
Old Guard. Once again, setting functions to underwrite white desire, here
allowing a certain elegance of manners and scenario to structure the space
for white fantasies of transcending the messiness of race and globalism at
century’s end. Gentility trumps reality.
If from the vantage point of the 1990s, Charleston, with its ‘‘Old World’’
charm, seems a more likely terrain for southern nostalgia than does Ted
Turner’s sprawling Atlanta, Ripley’s Old South portrait of the city actually
masks its emerging centrality in the global economies of the end-of-the-
century South. South Carolina actively began recruiting both foreign and
northern investors during the closing years of the Civil Rights movement,
and by the end of the 1970s, the state was drawing nearly 40 percent of
its industrial investments from outside the United States. Investors from
Japan, Italy, France, Austria, and West Germany poured into the state,
with South Carolina capturing more West German capital than any other
area outside of that country. The state’s weak labor laws, industry-friendly
tax incentives, and fierce recruitment efforts paid off, and South Caro-
lina soon stood as a key Sun Belt success story. Although the economic
slowdown of the 1980s affected the state, by the time Ripley was writ-
ing her novel, Charleston was a center of global investment. Today it is
the country’s fourth-largest container port, echoing the city’s Old South
status as shipping hub, but dealing in a new array of industrial and con-
sumer goods from rubber to textiles. Throughout the 1980s and 1990s,
increasing numbers of South Carolinians began to work for foreign cor-
porations; today only Hawaii has more international companies per capita
than South Carolina.46 State officials are busily recruiting new capital, in-
cluding the emerging Chinese and Korean markets; Charleston is also the
largest export port to South America. Thus Ripley reframes Charleston as
the genteel heart of Dixie at precisely the moment global capital flows are
transforming the economic structure of the city and the region. Although
Ripley would certainly claim otherwise, Scarlett’s attempts to delineate
the proper contours of the southern lady reference this new Charleston,
occupied by foreign dollars, as much as they reference a Charleston once
besieged by Yankees.
70 Reconstructing Dixie
her Celtic roots. When mediated through Scarlett’s white southern femi-
ninity, the ‘‘wilder’’ aspects of Irishness are tamed and repurposed, severed
from their class associations. If Gone with the Wind plumbed its heroine’s
depths via associations with, and appropriations from, black characters,
the sequel’s Scarlett finds her humanity and depth via the text’s theft of
ethnic, and not racial, difference. Thus rather than mobilizing the earlier
novel’s latent and suppressed desire for cross-racial alliance, illustrating
a new capacity to imagine integration in the post–Civil Rights era, the
sequel flees from a vision of racial union, sketching instead the contours of
a blindingly white American subject, dolled up via strategic raids into the
emotional textures of ethnicity. Such an inability to imagine racial union
is a failure of many recent southern texts, illustrating our continued in-
ability as a nation to come to terms with the meaning of race in southern
history.
Although race is suppressed in the novel, Scarlett’s overt narrative ques-
tion is an inquiry into the viability of the southern lady for a new era (our
own as much as the one of the novel’s setting). On its surface, Scarlett ap-
pears to call the ideal of the southern lady into question, echoing the early
ambivalence to this figure displayed in Gone with the Wind, but like the
earlier text, Ripley’s novel finally resolves the dilemma of femininity in
favor of the lady, albeit a newly skilled and managerial version of the icon.
Early in the novel, Scarlett strives to be a lady, recalling the example of her
mother, who was ‘‘always occupied with the perpetual work required to
produce the orderly perfection that was life at Tara under her guidance’’
(33), for ‘‘Ellen O’Hara had quietly ruled the plantation’’ (39). When an
aunt comments that Scarlett had ‘‘grown up to be the image of Ellen,’’ the
narration assures us that ‘‘there was no greater compliment in the world
that anyone could pay [Scarlett]’’ (124). The novel also offers a surrogate
for Ellen in the figure of Eleanor Butler, Rhett’s mother, who smells of
lemon verbena, ‘‘the fragrance that had always been part of Ellen O’Hara’’
(130). Eleanor ‘‘was a Southern Lady . . . [and] ladies were trained from
birth to be decorative . . . [but] they were also trained to manage the in-
tricate and demanding responsibilities of huge houses . . . while making
it seem that the house ran . . . flawlessly’’ (130). This new southern lady
picks up on the earlier Scarlett’s ‘‘New Woman’’ spunk, transforming her
into a slightly veiled version of the career woman of the 1990s.
Once Scarlett moves to Ireland (where she manages her own estate),
she begins to question certain aspects of the ideal woman her mother and
Eleanor each appeared to be. Well into the story, Scarlett is enraptured
72 Reconstructing Dixie
terial conditions in the South improved, so too did Dixie’s national image.
Central to this process was a selective racial logic that allowed for a re-
visionary revamping of southern mythologies that conveniently displaced
the racialized context of the past while cherishing the images a previous
racial economy had supported. Thus both Gone with the Wind and Scarlett
privilege the figure of the southern lady, but they do so through quite dif-
ferent narrative strategies. While I do not mean to suggest that an overt
(and often racist) racial visibility is at all preferable to the lenticular (and
still often racist) logic deployed in the post–Civil Rights era, it is crucial
to recognize that these two logics each strive to give whiteness a mean-
ing. If, as Toni Morrison suggests, whiteness is mute, meaningless, and
empty, both novels illustrate their authors’ (and their respective cultures’)
attempts to fill the category with meaning, to give it voice. Gone with the
Wind carves out whiteness’s definition by foregrounding difference and
what whiteness is not, overtly staging its fear of, and desire for, blackness.
Scarlett also struggles to give whiteness contour and content but does so by
highlighting Irish ethnicity and that mythic figure of an equally mythic all-
white past, the southern lady. We could simply dismiss the two epic tales as
racist, if differently so, and insist on the emptiness of whiteness, but little
is gained in such a move. Instead, in exploring the different ways in which
whiteness comes to voice in these stories of twentieth-century women,
we might also hear the expression of a need to understand whiteness as a
category that is not meaningless.
Scarlett’s travels to Ireland thus become not only a way to avoid rep-
resenting blackness and slavery but also an attempt, in an era that ‘‘cele-
brates’’ multiculturalism, to discern the heritage of whiteness, reclaiming
select aspects of Irishness in order to give Scarlett both spunk and a history
that is not tied to slavery. We can recognize that drive (and try to spin it
differently) while also underscoring those aspects of race that the novel
will not acknowledge. Ripley’s sequel is very much about the inability of
the United States to come to terms with the legacies of slavery and to pro-
cess the emotional registers evoked by that era. Much as in the Old South
tourism thriving in Charleston and throughout the South, the ghosts of
slavery (and its terrors) lurk beyond the margins of the story, haunting its
passages, transforming the Irish. Scarlett is driven by a desire for romance
and resolution (Scarlett finally gets Rhett), but this is ultimately a resolu-
tion without accountability or respect for a host of historical figures from
the Irish tenant farmer, to the southern slave, to the low-wage laborer in
Strom Thurmond’s 1990s South. We need new ways of imagining white-
74 Reconstructing Dixie
popular journalism’s take on the southern lady and belle. I expected to find
some vestiges of the lady even in the 1970s, but I was a bit surprised by the
uniformity with which these sources erased her. Although there are several
articles about beauty contest winners, the overwhelming majority of the
1970s press items related to southern womanhood speculate on the pos-
sible fate of the Equal Rights Amendment in the South or detail interesting
‘‘firsts’’ achieved by local women (including the first female firefighters
and policewomen). While the coverage of the era certainly references
conflicts between change and tradition for southern society (with many
articles detailing local women’s feelings that the era contradicts south-
ern values), these debates are seldom framed via a discourse of Old South
femininity, and there are scant references to the belle or the lady.50 How-
ever, by the 1980s and the South’s successful recruitment of global capital,
the belle and lady have returned with a vengeance. Articles with titles such
as ‘‘A Definable Species: The Southern Lady,’’ ‘‘The Southern Belle: She’s
Alive and Well and Headed for the Presidency of IBM,’’ ‘‘Lace Is the Look
for the Well-Dressed Belle,’’ and ‘‘The Southern Belle: Not Yet Gone with
the Wind’’ abound.
Unsurprisingly, these articles send mixed messages, sometimes sug-
gesting that the belle cannot survive in modern times, sometimes insist-
ing that many southern women are ‘‘proud to be called belles.’’ In such
ambivalence about the ideals of the belle and lady, the journalistic dis-
course echoes both Gone with the Wind and Scarlett, dismissing the frivolity
of the lady in favor of the steel magnolia (a term popularized in the 1980s
by the film of the same name, a subject of chapter 3). This is not to sug-
gest that the newly emerging discourse on the belle and lady was mono-
lithic or uncomplicatedly conservative, simply an element of the decade’s
backlash against 1970s feminism, but this widespread resurgence of the
belle’s popularity would not have been possible without a simultaneous
shift toward an economy of visibility that could privilege older models
of white femininity without reference to race. Such a lenticular logic,
familiar from Scarlett and Savannah, was at once a response to the previ-
ous decades’ civil rights (and feminist) gains and one method by which the
necessity of such gains could later be called into question.
An examination of one particular article will serve to underscore that
the resurrection of the belle arose on many fronts, not all of which were
traditionally ‘‘conservative’’ ones. An April 1984 article in the New Orleans
Times Picayune shares many elements with both Scarlett and the other
articles of the 1980s: it details at great length the hard work that the south-
76 Reconstructing Dixie
hardships they faced and the regular and difficult work they undertook.
Clinton sees the book as a corrective to the myths of southern femininity,
as a challenge to the moonlight-and-magnolias South, but the book finally
serves to reinforce these very myths. Although a fascinating record of ante-
bellum women’s own words, The Plantation Mistress is flawed to the degree
that it takes these women’s words at face value, reading them as accurate
depictions of daily life unmediated by cultural ideologies of the time, in-
cluding popular understandings of womanhood. What such an approach
cannot get at is the imaginary force of southern femininity as an ideal that
influences these women’s understandings and narrativizations of their own
lives. This force of southern femininity is also the very force that sets the
stage for Clinton’s book to feed into another era’s (our own’s) popular-
ization of the ideals of the belle and lady. In not acknowledging that such
myths shaped the tales that the women it chronicles told, The Plantation
Mistress is unable to recognize the limits of their experiential accounts,
particularly when the women raise race as an issue.
For example, in elaborating on the hard work that plantation mistresses
performed, Clinton uses the women’s own versions of the labor performed
by slaves to argue that ‘‘the institution of slavery made the domestic work of
plantation mistresses more difficult’’ (21) and goes so far as to suggest that
in reality, the mistress was ‘‘the slave of the slaves’’ (16). Hazel Carby has
pointed out that memoirs and diaries should not be accepted at face value
but should instead be read ‘‘as representing and reconstructing history for
us from particular viewpoints under specific historical conditions’’ (23).
Carby goes on to argue that work like Clinton’s is ‘‘not situated within the
wider webs of social relations in which the ‘everyday’ is embedded’’ (30)
and calls for a recognition of the dialectical relationship that existed be-
tween slave women and white women. Because Clinton never posits black
and white women’s experiences as dialectically connected (and rarely ad-
dresses African American experiences at all, except as they appear in white
women’s accounts), The Plantation Mistress denies the reality of racial dif-
ference. When the experiences of slave women are mentioned, it is via
a leveling move that equates black and white women under the univer-
sal sign ‘‘woman,’’ arguing that all women were uniformly oppressed by
slavery, thus figuring slavery as largely the evildoing of white men.
Of course, much second-wave feminist scholarship could be faulted for
failing to take account of racial differences or to address the lives and con-
cerns of African American women. The point here is not simply to critique
this scholarship for ‘‘missing race’’ but to suggest that this ability to miss
78 Reconstructing Dixie
the voices of black women (while certainly an improvement on the first
book) does little to help the reader understand the complex interaction
between myth and reality that shaped both black and white women’s nar-
rative strategies. Given the wide availability of research by scholars such
as Carby and Painter, this neglect seems particularly telling.
Additionally, Clinton’s latter work continues to suggest that the rape
of slave women by white masters constituted ‘‘affairs’’ or ‘‘liaisons,’’ im-
plying an act of choice or free will on the part of slave women. Likewise
Clinton’s linguistic style replicates the first book’s equation of white and
black women’s plights as she repeatedly highlights the ways in which white
women ‘‘were forced into partnership’’ with white men in the Old South.
Although she briefly points out that to see the plantation mistress as ‘‘the
most complete slave’’ of all overlooks the reality of black women’s lives,
her chapter lovingly details the hard work and great skill of the plantation
mistress. Thus the narrative drive of the book is to highlight once again
the strength of the southern lady and to insist that in the Old South, ‘‘Cot-
ton was king, white men ruled, and both white women and slaves served
the same master’’ (42). Because Clinton’s work never explores the dialec-
tical paths by which white and black women’s lives were intertwined, her
account can never adequately acknowledge white women’s complicity in
the degradation of their male and female slaves. Ironically, it is easier to
discern this interrelation in a work such as Gone with the Wind.
Clinton’s final chapter, ‘‘The Road to Tara,’’ provides the most detailed
examination of the myths that shape our popular memories of the past. If
earlier chapters reference popular culture largely by including film stills as
supplementary (and unconnected) ‘‘illustrations’’ of historical ‘‘fact,’’ this
last section does begin to explore the longevity of the plantation myth,
from its origin in antebellum novels to its perpetuation in twentieth-
century films. The chapter also provides a strong reiteration of the degree
to which the figures of lady and mammy are linked in this mythology. Yet
even when Clinton focuses on popular ideologies of the Old South, she
continues to insist that ‘‘they remain fictional rather than historical rep-
resentations’’ and urges a turn to ‘‘the wide range of documentary sources
available to illuminate women’s endurance and adventure’’ (212). Here
popular culture and the ideologies it fuels remain distinct from ‘‘real’’ his-
tory. They cloud our perceptions of ‘‘actual’’ plantation life and can form
fascinating histories in their own right, but their intricate influences on
that history remain unexamined. This inability to envision the circuits of
exchange between popular and academic versions of the South parallels
80 Reconstructing Dixie
work, and inventiveness to such a degree that it overshadows how larger
networks of power are also at work. As Drew Faust’s work has amply
illustrated, white women’s historical agency in the South supported other
racial and racist power structures, even as it worked to amend those sys-
tems vis-à-vis gender. In celebrating the plantation mistress’s cunning,
Clinton and other feminist historians and literary scholars offered up a
deracinated southern lady who was uncannily similar to the lady who was
being widely embraced across popular culture.
An interesting example of the porous boundaries between academic
and popular histories occurs in that court of public opinion known as
Amazon.com, amid the readers’ reviews of Clinton’s The Plantation Mis-
tress. Whereas Clinton insists that her research is a challenge to the myths
of the old plantation South, her readers instead deploy the work to re-
imagine that myth. Connie Boone writes: ‘‘I am positive that the next
time I watch Scarlett threaten Miz Ellen’s portieres, I will applaud her
tenacity for taking charge of her life instead of thinking ‘the green dress
is coming.’ . . . After reading The Plantation Mistress I want to compliment
Scarlett for her determination, instead of slapping her for being a selfish
brat.’’ Another reviewer notes that ‘‘far from a life of leisure, women were
really prisoners of the southern male system.’’ Rather than dismiss these
readers as incorrect, as failed analysts, we might instead see within these
reviews a bit of the staying power of the figure of the white southern lady,
a figure that cannot be challenged or fully understood without a focus on
her complex racial and popular history. Simply celebrating the managerial
skills of southern womanhood won’t take us very far. We need to think
long and hard about what this drive to recuperate the plantation mistress
reveals about 1980s feminism. In an era marked by a powerful lenticular
logic that cannot frame black and white together, the New South focus on
the Old South’s feminine ideals, even when motivated by feminism, plays
into a dynamic that helps secure the continued invisibility of race and race
relations in both their social and their discursive dimensions. In this par-
ticular tour through the southern past, the plantation home once again
overshadows the slave quarters as the romantic lovers of history dance
on by.
g R E C A S T I N G T H E O L D P L A N TAT I O N H O M E
If racial representation in the post–Civil Rights era seems categorized by
two forms of a lenticular logic—the separatist (as in Scarlett’s all-white
82 Reconstructing Dixie
carries a mask in the shape of a black woman’s face. Across these works, the
lady’s masquerades are positioned in tableaux that violently reveal their
stakes. No need to read between the lines (or images) here: Walker’s art
is blunt, in-your-face, and controversial.54
Still, the work is not simple. The controversy arises largely from
Walker’s complex portraits of the antebellum South. While the violence
of southern society is clearly registered, particularly as it impacts the black
body, her projects also explore the psychosexual dimensions of south-
ern race relations, moving beyond an essentialist notion of black victim
and white oppressor to engage the messier, less politically correct forms
of desire crisscrossing the master/slave relation. From the seeming sim-
plicity of the silhouettes, Walker extracts the complicated contours of the
love/hate relationship that characterized cross-racial connection in the
South. Born in California, Walker grew up in Atlanta, in the shadow of
Stone Mountain, and lived the complexity of the South’s interracial past,
including her own 1980s encounter with the kkk as a black teen with a
white boyfriend.55 Amid the orgy of violence and the strange fruits of the
southern mise-en-scène, the artist asks us to confront the myriad ways in
which we consume the other, thus reconfiguring the minstrel show for a
new time and place.
In his astute study of nineteenth-century minstrelsy, Eric Lott unpacks
‘‘the haunted realm of racial fantasy’’ that such performances masked. In
their intricate enacting of love and theft, desire and hate, these shows
allowed white audiences both to consume and to distance the other,
powered as they were by a ‘‘roiling jumble of need, guilt and disgust.’’ 56 Be-
cause the minstrel performance constantly evoked the threat of transgres-
sion, the comedies ‘‘went great strides to tame the ‘black’ threat through
laughter or ridicule.’’ Walker slices away the possibility for such a comic
release, refusing the pleasures and escapes the minstrel show offered the
white spectator. Rather, her images assault viewers head-on, bringing
(white) museum-goers face-to-face with the histories of their unconscious
and repressed racial fantasies, skillfully detailing the stakes of a national
refusal to acknowledge either interracial desire or its repression.
Walker’s figures powerfully and painfully undermine the lenticular
logic of the 3-D postcard. She releases the hidden images behind the
smiling faces of Scarlett and Mammy, violently integrating black and white
—a process literalized in the starkly scissored black-and-white choreog-
raphy of her cutout installations. There’s an explicitness unleashed by the
seeming simplicity of her outlines, abstractions recalling Rorschach blots
86 Reconstructing Dixie
own life is threatened. The work speaks back to other currents in popular
culture, sketching a vivid counterhistory and new genealogies of south-
ern diasporic blackness. Kindred quite literally takes on Gone with the Wind,
as Dana, desperate to arm herself with the knowledge of history during a
brief return to the present, first picks up and then rejects Mitchell’s epic
because given her recent visit to the plantation South, ‘‘its version of happy
darkies in tender loving bondage was more than [she] could stand’’ (116).
During her first return to 1976, she also notes that ‘‘somehow, tomorrow
would be better’’ (19), subtly calling to mind Scarlett O’Hara’s frequent
refrain. Butler’s fiction also engages other artifacts of popular and liter-
ary culture, from antebellum slave narratives to Roots, imaginatively re-
constructing black slave agency, southern kinship, and plantation geogra-
phies.58 The novel and its protagonist actively pursue both mainstream and
alternative histories, comprising a rich compendium of antebellum truths
and fictions.
As Dana (and occasionally her white husband, Kevin) shuttle back and
forth across the centuries, the stakes of the contemporary fascination with
televisual and touristic histories are painstakingly revealed. As Dana tries
to explain her disappearance to her husband when she first returns to the
present, she can’t quite ‘‘fix’’ her experience, noting, ‘‘It’s becoming like
something I saw on television’’ (17). Yet as the novel progresses, this flicker-
ing history takes on a brutal veracity, displacing, via its material realities,
the comforts of the twentieth century. On witnessing a horrifying beat-
ing, the first of many she will observe or endure, Dana confides, ‘‘I had
seen people beaten on television and in the movies. . . . But I hadn’t lain
nearby and smelled their sweat or heard them pleading and praying’’ (36).
As she navigates the past, trying desperately to stay alive, tv’s histories
will not suffice. Moving beyond the screen, Butler propels her heroine into
strategic tours of the past, journeys described as both ‘‘trips’’ and ‘‘visits.’’
When Kevin laments their temporal destination, noting that ‘‘there are so
many fascinating times we could have gone back to visit’’ (77), Dana in-
stead underscores the racial stakes of his imagined mobility. Dana’s trips
immerse her in the past, drawing her ‘‘all the way into eighteen nine-
teen’’ and its plantation households (101). The reader, too, enters into this
immersive experience, propelled along by the narrative, touring the Old
South, but in a manner quite distinct from the tours I took along River
Road. Rather, Kindred stages an understanding of slavery that, not unlike
Walker’s tableaux, positions the reader amid its horrors and complexities,
here unveiling the black woman’s line of sight, locking us in to her unique
88 Reconstructing Dixie
South was, finally, a ‘‘true’’ ‘‘horror story’’ (75), the novel also reminds
us that slaves actively resisted these horrors via a diverse array of strate-
gies and flexible literacies. The novel’s slaves and freed blacks are skilled
navigators, reading a complex social geography, no longer simply a back-
drop for white desires. Others quite literally read and write, inscribing
themselves, as Dana’s ancestor Hagar had, into family Bibles and thus into
history. In fact, the skills of the slaves far surpass Dana’s more ‘‘contem-
porary’’ learning, illustrating their specialized knowledges, tenacity, and
will to survive. The slaves of Butler’s speculative fiction emerge as deeply
moral, if conflicted, beings, possessed of an interiority missing in the por-
traits of Gone with the Wind, its sequel, and many popular and academic
histories.
The Weylin plantation is also an interracial world, a world in which
black and white are as deeply imbricated as they were among the O’Haras.
However, in this world, the plantation mistress is no longer the center-
piece of the plantation economy, displaced as she is by a variety of figures of
black femininity. Butler brilliantly pivots our view of the plantation home,
unfixing its focus on the (white) lady of the house, and instead centering
on Dana, Sarah, and Alice. The mistress, Margaret Weylin, remains part
of the picture, but she is confined to a supporting role. From this position,
she still exerts a great deal of power across the household, ‘‘complaining
because she couldn’t find anything to complain about’’ (81), orchestrat-
ing black bodies as she ‘‘managed’’ her home, doing very little while rush-
ing everywhere. As in Walker’s tableaux, the mistress’s movements are
enabled by black labor. The novel also traces the deforming pressures of
slavery on this white woman, noting her well-honed practice of ‘‘not notic-
ing’’ the light-skinned slave children around the estate who resembled
her husband, a ‘‘not seeing’’ whose repression was released in her often
brutal, erratic, and demeaning treatment of the slave women and their
progeny. This insistence on the forced miscegenations of the Old South
stands in stark contrast to the refusals of Gone with the Wind (and its sequel)
to acknowledge this southern reality. Alice, Dana, and Sarah actively re-
sist Margaret’s will to power, revealing the happy, grinning mammy for
the white construct that she is. Further, in detailing the complex choices
that a woman like Sarah faced, Butler asks us to rethink our view of the
mammy as simply accommodating white desires.60
Not only does Kindred delineate the intricate contours of black female
subjectivity, but it also underscores white refusal to recognize the unique-
ness of black identity. Rufus, by the novel’s end, has merged Dana, his
90 Reconstructing Dixie
trays the emotional (and physical) disfigurations wrought by slavery, pro-
viding an access route to both black and white pain, noting that ‘‘slavery of
any kind fostered strange relationships’’ (230). While clearly delineating
the lines of power in the plantation household, the novel does not sidestep
the messier terrains of affection or intimacy, illustrating both Rufus’s love
for black women (Alice and Dana) and his love’s destructive consequences.
Dana does finally sever her ties to Rufus, killing him and freeing her-
self from the 1800s, losing her arm in the process. But she does not free
herself from the past; rather, Rufus and antebellum Maryland stay with
her, haunting her like a phantom limb. The relationship of Dana and Rufus
is mirrored in the relationship of Dana and her husband Kevin, another
interracial pairing limned by the novel. In tracking the different effects
of the past on each of the twentieth-century characters, the novel mines
the differences between black and white while also insisting on shared
ground. Although Kevin’s white skin clearly affords him privileges dur-
ing their journeys to the past, he is trapped there for much longer than
Dana, a time that both tempts him (he notes, much to his wife’s horror,
that he might be able to get used to the era) and finally marks and changes
him (Dana later learns of his work in the North on behalf of the Under-
ground Railroad). Thus Kindred explores the making of both white and
black identity, of resistance and accommodation, of hope and the loss of
hope. If Kevin could be transformed progressively by his sojourn in the
South, Rufus is finally trapped in the world the planters built, unable to
escape becoming his father’s son, despite Dana’s tutoring. Butler asks us to
think about how family and culture reproduce hatred and power, sculpt-
ing Rufus as a ‘‘man of his time’’ and dulling the sensibilities of slaves. But
the novel also figures other trajectories, paths to different futures forged
from connection, courage, and risk, both physical and emotional. These
paths crisscross white and black, field hand and house slave, South and
North, rich and poor. They are not stable lines of flight, but they are worth
exploring.
The novel also links past and present, refusing the comforts of distance.
Structurally, past and present collide in the narrative, melded via the con-
ceit of time travel. Metaphorically, the novel also suggests how far we have
to go, subtly connecting then and now, calling into question the meaning
of freedom in the bicentennial year of 1976. Dana begins to have trouble
discerning past from present, particularly when back in Los Angeles. The
‘‘comfortable’’ distances between Maryland and L.A. blur, making it hard
‘‘to smooth things out’’ and to distance the reality of slavery, perceptually
In reimagining the plantation past, both Kara Walker and Octavia Butler
trouble the strategies of visibility that often accompany revisionary histo-
ries. Both artists do not seek simply to ‘‘add in’’ black bodies, recognizing
92 Reconstructing Dixie
instead the complex stakes of racial visibility, refusing the easy comforts of
the lenticular. As Butler underscores, being black and visible in the ante-
bellum South was to be at risk, subject to the ever-present brutalities of
the plantation household. Escaping this South meant escaping the hyper-
visibility of the auction block, moving into freedom through invisibility,
stealth, and cunning, traveling underground. Walker confronts the con-
trolling hypervisibility of blackness in today’s mediascape, an economy of
visibility that, in the words of Stephen Michael Best, allows white audi-
ences a ‘‘surreptitious, vicarious occupation’’ of black bodies.62 Here black-
ness is on parade—largely via televised sports and entertainment—but in
a highly circumscribed fashion fueled by the visual logics of late capital-
ism. Blackness is singled out, endlessly recirculated for white consump-
tion, a stream of representation that works to counter claims of systemic
racism (‘‘See, Michael Jordan’s at the top of the game: how can America be
racist?’’) while locating blackness in contained realms largely apart from
whiteness, replaying the fixity of the postcard’s logic. Walker confronts
this hypervisibility of blackness by linking in-your-face black bodies both
to history and to whiteness, refusing a visual logic of rigid separation. In-
deed, she helps us to realize the degree to which the contemporary hyper-
visibility of black bodies—a privileging of an oversaturated blackness—is
but another manifestation of a lenticular logic, a refusal to see connection
or relation while fixating on particular modes of racial imagery. Lenticular
logics are about fixity and immobility; they preclude movement and anni-
hilate connection. In their own ways, Butler and Walker refuse this game
of separation, pursuing other paths and imaging a new regional episteme.63
Both artists orchestrate a collision between past and present, confront-
ing slavery via different emotional registers but effecting similar ends. In
the environments they build, the relationship between identity and differ-
ence is reconfigured. Identity is neither ‘‘authentic’’ nor ‘‘originary,’’ but
grounded in history and malleable in its contact with experience and dif-
ference. In their acknowledgment of the messiness of interracial existence
and the emotional costs of carefully policed boundaries, they chart a com-
plex relationship to the other, a relationship whose intricacy cannot be
fully acknowledged in Gone with the Wind ’s overt fixing of black and white
or in today’s touristic drive to isolate the southern lady in all her whiteness
and imagined glory. Each woman also addresses a national nostalgia for
the South as a region populated with familiar figures, reframing what our
visits to this terrain might mean. They do not embrace the region, nor do
they totally abandon it. There is an ambivalence in each artist, but there
94 Reconstructing Dixie
2.
‘ ‘ B OT H K I N D S O F A R M S ’ ’
g TO U R I N G T H E C I V I L WA R
Catherine Clinton’s chapter on the plantation mistress is entitled ‘‘Before
Fort Sumter,’’ and in both title and content, it brings together its account
of the ladies of the Old South with a narrative turn toward the Civil War.
Such a linkage is familiar from contemporary popular culture, where the
cost of the war is almost always figured as the loss of the grandeur of the
plantation past. In the move toward the Civil War, the plantation mistress
is replaced by the soldier, and Clinton notes that ‘‘stories of brother against
brother have long been told’’ (Tara Revisited, 49). Clinton goes on to argue
that ‘‘the romance of war, in all its hypothetical splendor, vanished with the
first flow of blood’’ (49), but a wealth of contemporary imagery suggests
that the Civil War still inspires a very romantic discourse, one inextricably
tied to visions of the plantation era via a linkage of the southern gentle-
man to the Confederate soldier. If narratives of southern femininity often
fix the meaning of the region within a narrow register, tales of southern
manhood can also lead to stasis, particularly when endlessly routed back
to wartime.
The images of Dixie’s tourist industry provide evidence of the con-
tinuing draw not only of the plantation home but also of the Civil War.
The Mississippi Division of Tourism Development brochure (described in
my introduction) that detailed the ‘‘aura of elegance’’ of the Old South
also laments ‘‘the shadows of the bitter Civil War that ended a legend-
ary era in American history.’’ Civil War tourism, like plantation tourism,
has grown in popularity in the past decade and includes sites such as the
Battles for Chattanooga Museum, formerly known as Confederama, on
Lookout Mountain, Tennessee. The museum’s ‘‘three-dimensional, 480-
square-foot reproduction of historic terrain—the world’s largest historic
battlefield display of any kind’’ will help ‘‘history come alive, recreated for
your enjoyment.’’ 1 As a 1980s pamphlet ensures, ‘‘an intricate, electronic
automation system activates more than 3 miles of electrical wiring and
650 flashing lights to make vital history real and exciting for the whole
family.’’ A vast electronic display (recently equipped with digital sound)
maps a mise-en-scène of warfare, immersing the spectator in a space of
history.
History gets made (and remade) in diverse (although not always in such
‘‘exciting’’) ways, and as this brochure for Confederama and the preced-
ing chapter suggests, the history of the Civil War is no exception. This
tourist attraction, just down Market Street from the Chattanooga Choo
Choo, neatly packages the Battle of Chattanooga (that ‘‘sealed the fate of
the Confederacy’’) into a McDonald’s-sized building, complete with an
‘‘attractive souvenir and gift shop.’’ The brochure explains that its battle-
field display of more than five thousand miniature soldiers ‘‘reproduces’’
history ‘‘as guns flash in battle and cannon puff real smoke.’’ It also men-
tions that the models were made ‘‘especially for Confederama in South
Africa,’’ perhaps revealing more about current capitalist networks than
the museum’s proprietors may have wished.2
Confederama was built in 1957, a year after neighboring Georgia added
its own take on Confederate battle iconography to its state flag. The blink-
ing, electrified battlefield re-creations were extremely popular during the
1960s, reflecting national interest in the one-hundredth anniversary of the
Civil War, as well as that war’s capacity to function as a cover story for na-
tional encounters with race and racial politics. A focus on the Civil War as
96 Reconstructing Dixie
First opened in 1957, Confederama recently underwent a name change and image
makeover. The new ‘‘Battles for Chattanooga Museum’’ moniker reflects the increasing
awareness in the tourist industry of the need to downplay Confederate symbols in the
marketing of Civil War attractions.
98 Reconstructing Dixie
Part of a Virginia Department of Economic Development tourism campaign, this
Sunday-paper insert explored Virginia’s role in the Civil War, ‘‘our nation’s greatest
test.’’ Such ads participate in a narrative of national union that focuses on the war as a
tragic site of mourning (and also of tourist fun).
little more concretely how ‘‘to do’’ the past: it reads ‘‘CHECK INTO THE
PAST At Holiday Inn, Your Civil War . . . Headquarters.’’ It seems there
is a Holiday Inn ‘‘near almost every major Civil War site.’’
Tourist attractions may not seem the best resource when investigat-
ing ‘‘official’’ history, but as the brief survey of sites here and in chapter 1
illustrates, they do hint at ways in which history lives on in the present
via popular reconstructions. Tourist zones are political combat zones, ter-
rains of struggle over the contemporary meanings of history. (Of course,
they are economic combat zones as well, as the alliance between the Vir-
ginia Department of Economic Development and the Holiday Inn chain
makes clear. The South receives more than one-third of all American tour-
ists, more than any other region.)4 Looking at precisely what is included in
(and excluded from) these ‘‘combat zones’’ is telling, particularly when it
comes to Civil War tourism, currently a big business. The Virginia Parks
ad opens with the headline ‘‘The Civil War: Our Nation’s Greatest Test,’’
suggesting that our sense of nation and national identity somehow is (or
should be) tightly bound to this four-year period of history. This senti-
g R E M E M B E R I N G H I S TO RY
[War] itself is not just a memory, but a memory industry, with enormous political
value.—Alice Yaeger Kaplan, ‘‘Theweleit and Spiegelman: Of Men and Mice’’
sense that history incessantly moves us forward toward a better nation and
a more complete union. Finally, they seek to reassert the authenticity of
the local as the precise terrain of history.
An intriguing portion of the Civil War publishing network consists of
numerous popular magazines such as Blue and Gray, The Civil War Times
Illustrated, and Reenactor’s Journal, which, along with several others, have a
substantial national circulation. Most of the magazines are slick and color-
ful, combining articles about specific battles, heroes, or military strategies
with a barrage of advertisements for Civil War memorabilia, books, and
artwork. The overall focus of the advertisements and articles is on securing
the facts, on authenticity, accurateness, and detail. Ads offer up ‘‘authentic
reproductions’’ of rifles, and letters quibble over the actual type of buttons
worn by certain regiments. The articles engage in countless explorations
of topics such as ‘‘Appomattox: What Really Happened?’’ and ‘‘The De-
ception of Braxton Bragg,’’ each of which, in the words of the editor of
Blue and Gray, are ‘‘very concerned about fairness and accuracy.’’ Just what
cause fairness and accuracy might serve in the pursuit of Civil War military
history goes largely unexamined, but the same editor does at one point
assure us that ‘‘the only thing the Veterans of the Lost Cause ever really
g I ’ L L TA K E M Y S TA N D I N D I X I E - N E T :
N E O - C O N F E D E R AT E S I N C Y B E R S PAC E
The campaign of cultural genocide against Mississippi and the entire South has
increased at a disturbing and rapid pace since the inauguration of Governor Ronnie
Musgrove. In this so-called ‘‘multi-cultural’’ society, it has become increasingly
obvious that there exists one culture that must die while all others are allowed and
encouraged to flourish. Much energy is being expended to complete the eradication
of every vestige of Southern culture.—www.freemississippi.org
g D O C U M E N T I N G H I S TO RY : R AC E , G E N D E R , A N D
N O S TA L G I C N AT I O N A L I S M I N T H E C I V I L W A R
In the fall of 1989, The Civil War aired on pbs as a five-night, eleven-hour
journey through the historic event that W. J. Cash claims forever forged
the identity of the South. The series was hailed by many as the ‘‘revolu-
tionary’’ historic breakthrough of its young ‘‘genius’’ director, Ken Burns,
and in its liberal humanist tone and attention to both blacks and whites, it
might seem to break us free from a covert racial representation, bringing
black and white together across the series. The documentary was certainly
masterfully edited, woven together tapestry-like from photographic stills,
etchings, diaries, letters, the voices of authority, and other sources. Al-
though twice as many viewers watched the tv movie on Leona Helmsley,
The Queen of Mean, which aired simultaneously, The Civil War pulled in a
record pbs audience of roughly 14 million each night. Newsweek proclaimed
that this ‘‘video miracle . . . drenches us in a rain of chilling facts’’ (Waters,
68–69), and the Washington Post praised the work for being ‘‘unremittingly
authentic’’ (Broder, D7) and for offering ‘‘genuine eloquence from genuine
[albeit long dead] people’’ (Johnson, A2). That most of the media saw the
g D I X I E A N D T H E E V E RY DAY : S H E R M A N ’ S M A R C H
A N D S O U T H E R N H I S TO RY
The best weapon against myth is perhaps to mythify it in its turn, and to produce an
artificial myth.—Roland Barthes, Mythologies
Like Ken Burns’s The Civil War and other tourist discourses, Ross
McElwee’s feature documentary Sherman’s March: A Meditation on the Pos-
sibility of Romantic Love in the South in an Era of Nuclear Weapons Proliferation
(1986) is a film ostensibly about that fateful moment in Southern history,
the war between the states. It also aired (eventually and repeatedly) on
pbs, but it takes a decidedly different tack in remembering southern his-
tory. Some might doubt that McElwee’s ‘‘epic’’ (it is 155 minutes long) is
history at all, but it is useful to read the work as a provocatively personal
and historical endeavor, an approach to remembering historical events and
specific places as something other than souvenirs. The film wittily insists
that the importance of the past lies in its mobilization in the present, often
through the filters of the personal and the everyday. In this context, the
origins of the film’s making are particularly interesting.
As the opening moments of his film relate, independent filmmaker
McElwee had received a substantial grant to make a documentary about
the lingering effects on Southern consciousness of Sherman’s march to the
sea, particularly as the march affected civilian populations—the women
and children who were Sherman’s main targets. The film begins much as
one might expect the originally conceived project would have: with an as-
sured masculine voice-over narration intoning authoritatively about Sher-
man’s strategy. The images are black-and-white still photographs of a map
(very much resembling those in The Civil War) depicting the route of the
march, a few select ruins, and a stern portrait of Sherman himself. As the
voice goes on to state that ‘‘traces of the scars he left on the South can still
be found today,’’ the screen goes black, and a second voice, which we soon
learn is McElwee’s, interrupts, asking, ‘‘Do you want to do that over?’’ Our
narrator, slipping out of the realm of assumed objectivity, responds, ‘‘Yeah,
why don’t I try it again.’’ Gone is the objective, all-knowing pbs voice of
history. McElwee’s considerably less ‘‘professional’’ voice takes over, ex-
for union that is much more fully realized than the latent expressions of
The Civil War and similar texts. Unlike a film such as Mississippi Burning,
where revisionist history fantasizes white heroics where none existed, Cap-
tain Confederacy rewrites the past to create a parallel universe where white
southerners can help to change the world through the hard work of listen-
ing, learning, and changing. Jeremy Gray doesn’t lead us into a bright new
future, saving the day; rather, he follows Kate and her comrades, decen-
tering the whiteness at the heart of many tales of southernness. Together
they are neo-Confederates of a very different order than those hostilely
guarding Dixie-Net and the Confederate Embassy.
The final page of the comic’s closing issue features Kate, in her hero’s
garb, speaking at a news conference, reminding viewers that ‘‘no one
knows what a national champion should be,’’ implying that ‘‘average’’ folks
can change the world. Their utopian vision has not yet been achieved, and
they continue to battle racism, but they are hopeful and optimistic. In the
last frame, Kate and Jeremy stand together, awaiting a baby and working
toward a different South. Like Kindred’s Dana, who returns to the South
at the novel’s close in order to imagine different futures, this pair of ‘‘ordi-
S T E E L M AG N O L I A S ,
F ATA L F L O W E R S , A N D
D E S I G N I N G WO M E N
On the back cover of her 1991 best-seller A Southern Belle Primer, journal-
ist Maryln Schwartz promises the reader insights into ‘‘the mystique of
the Southern Belle,’’ as well as guidelines for ‘‘survival in a society that has
not gone with the wind.’’ Not surprisingly, given its title, the slim volume
focuses on the contemporary southern belle, tracing her lineage and pre-
dicting her future while offering a variety of etiquette tips for survival in
a southern world. For instance, the book admonishes the would-be belle
to select her silver pattern with care, never to use dark meat in chicken
salad, and to wear white shoes only between Easter and Labor Day. While
clearly tongue-in-cheek and not a serious conduct manual, the Primer does
serve to illustrate the importance of etiquette and tradition to the mod-
ern southern belle (who is still exclusively white). One Alabama belle in-
sists that the most crucial elements for ‘‘being southern’’ are ‘‘breeding
and manners’’ (15), and a member of the St. Cecilia Society of Charleston,
South Carolina, maintains that ‘‘in Charleston, tradition is everything’’
(69). (This same St. Cecilia Society was Scarlett’s great obsession in the
Gone with the Wind sequel.) Other southerners have commented on the
South’s rule-bound society as well, occasionally with more cynicism than
Schwartz’s book evinces. Novelist Dorothy Allison probes the hypocrisy
of the South’s class-bound traditions in her novel Bastard Out of Carolina
and elsewhere describes a southern ‘‘childhood of forced politeness,’’ and
feminist Mab Segrest writes, ‘‘Southerners raise their indirection to an art
and call it manners. Manners are one thing that still, to this day, separate
Southerners from Yankees.’’ 1 For Segrest, this is not necessarily something
to celebrate, for southern manners often mask southern inequities.
Tradition and manners are repeatedly framed as the glue that binds
the South together, distinguishing it from other regions. This is a famil-
iar mantra, one linked to the ‘‘famous’’ southern hospitality capitalized on
by many of the tourist attractions highlighted earlier in the book. Con-
temporary fascinations with the ‘‘grandeur’’ of the Old South depend on a
certain sense of decorum, and this genteel mise-en-scène of southernness
is constructed via a carefully manipulated stage set of moonlight, magno-
lias, and manners. White southerners frequently stress the importance of
keeping up appearances; for example, in her Womenfolks: Growing Up Down
South, popular writer Shirley Abbott describes the ‘‘natural theatricality’’
inherent in southern hospitality. It requires ‘‘a talent for taking on a special
role in a comedy of manners that will apparently run forever, no matter
how transparent its characters and aims’’ (106). This maintenance of an
aura of tranquillity despite a certain degree of transparency suggests that
southern hospitality is a performance, a masquerade, an agreed-on social
fiction, albeit a powerful one with material effects.
In an intriguing article analyzing the popular coffee table book Lee
Bailey’s Southern Food and Plantation Houses, feminist theorist Patricia Yaeger
highlights the degree to which celebrations of the traditions of southern
hospitality often ‘‘repeat the worst parameters of white southern sover-
eignty; they mandate a social system that is almost invisible because of
the ways ‘good taste’ functions. . . . [They] move us back into a dreamy
acceptance of a terrifying social habitus.’’ 2 Yaeger’s work echoes that of
French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu, who has analyzed the various ways
in which taste functions to uphold social distinctions, acting as ‘‘a sort
of social orientation, a ‘sense of one’s place,’ guiding the occupants of a
given place in a social space towards the social positions adjusted to their
g ‘‘ T H E R E ’ S N O S U C H T H I N G A S N AT U R A L B E A U T Y ’’
I would rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing
special.—Shelby, in Steel Magnolias
Released less than two months before the wedding issue of Mississippi maga-
zine hit the stands, the blockbuster feature Steel Magnolias (along with
other 1989 fare such as Sex, Lies, and Videotape and Driving Miss Daisy) sig-
sense of grace and optimism.’’ Many of the reviews also focus on the im-
portance of both female friendship and family in the film, as well as on its
quest for romance.
Romance plays a key role in the film, a recurring subtext around which
the plot unfolds. Many of the characters’ lives revolve around a search
for romantic highs, including Shelby’s obsession with her wedding and
Truvy’s strategic attempts to seduce her husband into assorted roman-
tic scenarios. Even crotchety old Ouiser snags a man by the film’s end,
redeeming her character’s surface meanness via an ‘‘inner’’ kindness un-
leashed by true love. Early in the film, as the gang is settling into comfy
salon chairs, happily anticipating big ole wedding hair, Truvy prods Shelby
to share all the romantic bits of her courtship with Jackson. Shelby waxes
poetic about the carefully orchestrated setting she has constructed for her
wedding, a girlish fantasy of all things pink, including nine bridesmaids,
yards of rosy-hued silk bunting, and a church decked out in her signa-
ture shades, blush and bashful. While the film opens up a space to mock
Shelby’s blissful vision (and her mother M’Lynn remarks that the church
looks as if it has been doused in Pepto Bismol), the world of bridal fantasy
g ‘‘ S C A R S F RO M A S O U T H E R N G I R L H O O D ’’
& did my mother . . .
sob into her dormitory
pillow bubbling within her
belle’s brainpan with the
lobotomies of marriage
—Rosemary Daniell
g R E D E S I G N I N G S O U T H E R N WO M E N
Well, I shave my legs and I’m a single parent, a working mother, and if believing
in equal pay . . . makes me a feminist, then I am damn proud to be one.
—Mary Jo Shively, Designing Women
If Fatal Flowers reads like a survival guide for southern women unable to
live within the Primer’s prescriptions, the popular sitcom Designing Women
(1986–1992) seeks a wider audience, refiguring southern women and the
‘‘new’’ New South (i.e., the post–Civil Rights South) for wider, national
consumption. Thus the series is less overtly about the South, as it medi-
ates the region for a wider sphere within the conventions of broadcast,
but the South and its women are still important tropes for the sitcom.
The series is set in Atlanta, Georgia, and hence its South is both the South
of Ted Turner and the South of Newt Gingrich. This is a South tightly
wired to global information flows and national power sources, a much
more cosmopolitan South than that of the Dukes of Hazzard or The Waltons.
This is a carefully mediated South, adroitly designed to showcase the re-
gion’s recent ‘‘growth’’ (in both economic and ‘‘moral’’ terms).17 It is also
less ‘‘fixed’’ than the South of the Southern Belle Primer, allowing a greater
fluidity between the region and the nation. The series was produced and
g ‘‘ WO M E N A N D B L AC K S ’’ I N D E S I G N I N G W O M E N
Well, I don’t care what anyone says about the New South. . . . I mean, anytime you
put one black man and three well-heeled white women together, it’s just gonna look
strange, and that’s all there is to it. —Suzanne Sugarbaker
And now we return to Anthony. His role in Designing Women at first seems
similar to the one that Patricia Mellencamp lucidly describes for Ricky in
I Love Lucy: that show’s ‘‘resistance to patriarchy [was] made more palat-
able because it was mediated by a racism which views Ricky as inferior.’’ 32
Ricky’s ethnicity allowed the women’s space: if he had been white, Lucy
would not have gotten away with so much. While such an explanation may
be partially true for Designing Women (though perhaps more for the invisible
figure of Suzanne’s maid, Consuela, than for Anthony), it cannot entirely
explain the complexity of Anthony’s function within the sitcom. The re-
lationship of white femininity to racism in I Love Lucy was, as Mellencamp
points out, covert, but Designing Women addresses race much more directly.
Anthony’s role has changed over time, and in many ways, references to
popular culture work within the series to destabilize racism (particularly
Suzanne’s) much as they also work to call gender stereotypes into ques-
tion. For example, in one episode, Anthony and Suzanne end up forced
into a ‘‘date’’ because Suzanne has accidentally purchased him at a bache-
lor auction. Referencing the taboos against miscegenation in the South,
Suzanne is nervous about going out with Anthony, but the other women
and Designing Women are suspicious of this return to domesticity and more
overtly engage a Dixieland feminism, happily imagining the southern lady
as president. Yet despite their different political valences, all three texts
privilege gender to such a degree that considerations of race and class
are pushed to the margins. While Steel Magnolias, like Scarlett, deploys a
‘‘freeze-frame’’ racial logic to figure a world untroubled by racial differ-
ence, Designing Women reconfigures the additive racial logic of The Civil
War, moving closer to an integrated vision, but finally fixating on the white
southern lady. None of the texts is simply and totally racist, reactionary
or conservative; rather, each is laced with contradictions and latencies.
Nonetheless all three illustrate the difficulty of moving beyond lenticu-
lar racial logics when the white southern lady and her performances of
femininity fill our frames of vision.
Debates about performance, gender, and politics have been a central
element of feminist and queer theory for well over a decade, arguments
that sometimes felt oddly reified, fixed as binaries rather than positioned
along continuums. Playing out around disputes over performers like Ma-
donna or films like Paris Is Burning, these theory wars queried the ‘‘sub-
g S O U T H E R N C A M P S : D R AG Q U E E N S A N D
L E S B I A N S I N T H E B I B L E B E LT
helped their cause by being less assertive and aggressive, striking a more
feminine pose.
But the Hensons were (quite rightly) less interested in a politics of femi-
ninity and more focused on getting coverage, hoping that national visi-
bility would literally save their lives. And their strategy worked; by mid-
February 1994, Attorney General Janet Reno sent Department of Justice
mediators to Ovett to watch over the situation. In a letter to the National
Gay and Lesbian Task Force, Reno wrote: ‘‘The intolerance and bigotry
demonstrated by some of the people of Ovett have no place in this coun-
try.’’ As I type, the Hensons are still going strong, building up their camp
and hosting music festivals, educational programs, and the food and cloth-
ing bank, feeding more than one hundred people a month. They’ve net-
worked with other local charities, creating what they term a feminism of
‘‘doers,’’ local, practical, and engaged in the community. Their work ex-
tends to Mexico and Central America, organizing donations, labor, and
supplies for other women’s struggles. Along with a core group of women
who helped raise the initial funds, the Hensons wanted to create a place
for an ‘‘indigenous lesbian culture, . . . a place to work and to care.’’ Like
the women of afla, they saw the need for a safe space, a haven from which
FEELING SOUTHERN
Ida McTyre Perry sees ghosts. Or more accurately, one ghost, over and
over again. He haunts her as she moves through everyday spaces of south-
ernness, puncturing the carefully constructed veneer of graciousness in
which she has encased her life. Perched as she is on the brink of insanity,
stumbling through the pages of Randall Kenan’s short story ‘‘Tell Me,
Tell Me,’’ Ida offers an excellent vantage point from which to explore the
high cost of southern hospitality, particularly as it plays out for the white
subject moored in a past with which she refuses to come to terms. Ida
Perry lives in Tims Creek, a fictional North Carolina town mapped out
through the twelve short stories of Kenan’s Let the Dead Bury Their Dead,
a small southern environ laced through with the problems and pleasures
of the modern South. Across the various tales (and in an earlier novel),
Kenan challenges Faulkner’s Yoknapatawpha County as the literary home
of the mythic South, insisting instead on directly confronting the ghosts
of southern history and memory while tracing the interrelation of black
and white, rich and poor, straight and gay, young and old, in this lush yet
haunted southern setting. Subtly reworking stock stereotypes of the south-
ern gothic and grotesque while also revisioning southern history, Kenan
traces the connections between old and new southern geographies, link-
ing the hog pen to the strip mall, the farm to the interstate, the South to
areas beyond its borders.
‘‘Tell Me, Tell Me’’ intercuts the imagined horror of Ida’s perpetual
present—her surety that a ‘‘pickaninny’’ has invaded her bedroom—with
an investigation of both Ida’s everyday world and the frozen memory-
scapes locked within her head. Her present is communicated via dialogue,
a panicked late-night call to her friend Bela that runs throughout the short
story, a discursive strategy that amply illustrates both Ida’s fear and her
tenuous grasp on reality, voiced through Bela’s doubts. The third-person
narrations that intersect the phone conversation further reframe the first-
person account, refracting Ida’s tale again, moving us through history and
memory and hinting at the dark secrets Ida has carefully chosen to forget.
As the tale unfolds, we learn quite a lot about a certain mode of white
female subjectivity in the South. We also learn of memory and madness, of
guilt and the denial of guilt. We learn that this intricate dance of memory
and repression damages the white mind of the South, underwriting the
lonely spaces Ida inhabits, spaces that slowly drive her mad. Finally, we
learn what we’ve suspected all along, that Ida’s stalker is indeed an appa-
rition, conjured up from the subconscious registers of her guilt. And Ida
knows this, too, even as she actively denies it, for she recognizes the young
black boy to be the ghost of a child her husband had brutally tossed into
the ocean some fifty years before, a murder she witnessed, and to which
she ultimately smiled her consent.
Kenan’s tale carefully places Ida within a particular setting in the
small-town South. The narrative takes the reader on a mini-tour of the
plantation-style home in which she is carefully installed, amid precisely ar-
ranged antiques, five bedrooms, and a well-stocked pantry. This expansive
home is clearly her reward for having supported her now-dead husband,
Judge Theodore ‘‘Butch’’ Perry, a man she knows to have been the ‘‘son of a
goddamned bitch,’’ but one who had the power to take her places, ensuring
class mobility and the social standing that Ida craved. She seems to have
achieved this life of gentle ease and southern grandeur as she settles into a
white wicker chair at the Old Plantation Inn for a meeting of the Friends
of the Crosstown County Library. ‘‘Under portraits of belles and horses,’’
she feels at peace in the setting, listening to ‘‘the warm light conversation
of the ladies in their soft Southern cadences,’’ to ‘‘the civilized tinkle of ice
cubes in crystal’’ (246). But her contentment and deep self-satisfaction are
only a thin emotional veneer covering over a nagging disquiet, a disquiet
made manifest when a small black child in faded dungarees appears out-
g F E E L I N G G U I LT Y : T E L L I N G H O M E P L AC E
IN SOUTHERN FEMINIST MEMOIR
I had to think again about what I understood was mine and what was somebody
else’s.—Minnie Bruce Pratt, Rebellion: Essays 1980–1991
When times got tough for Scarlett O’Hara, her impulse was always to re-
turn to Tara, for ‘‘never she came wearily home . . . and saw the sprawling
white house that her heart did not swell with love and the joy of home-
coming’’ (304). As chapter 1 illustrates, Scarlett’s sentiments about Tara
overdetermine the emotional registers of Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the
Wind, and six decades later, this complicated alignment of home, south-
ernness, and femininity remains a prominent cultural equation. Although
sentimental feelings about ‘‘home’’ are certainly not limited to the South
or to southerners, ‘‘home’’ does have a stronger valence in the region.
Studies indicate that the Deep South is the ‘‘most homebound region of the
country,’’ with many southerners living ‘‘90 percent of their lives within
twenty-five miles of their final residence.’’ 3 Statistics aside, the popular
construction (in the North as well as the South) of the region as the site
of graciousness and hospitality contributes to the strong sense of ‘‘down-
homeness’’ associated with the area. In much of the discourse on and of the
South, place (as region) and home come together in the notion of ‘‘home-
place,’’ a phrase indicating the degree to which the meaning of the South
often slides into the meaning of home. The tight interweaving of tropes of
home, femininity, and region that the preceding chapters have chronicled
mark the borders of ‘‘the South,’’ even as the relationships between these
terms slip and slide. Thus for many white southerners, ‘‘going home’’ is
more than a return to a physical space or a site of familial origin; it en-
tails as well a sense of region and regional difference, of ways of feeling
southern.4 Such meanings still reverberate in many expatriate southern-
ers’ accounts of going home, memoirs that narrate both white subjectivity
‘‘I.’’ In the end, it is not enough for white southerners simply ‘‘to see’’ or
even to tell; we need also to act, and as these memoirs occasionally make
manifest, guilt can all too easily trump action, particularly when coupled
with a nostalgic longing for home. Nonetheless guilt is not inherently a
negative or destructive emotion. As psychoanalysts such as Melanie Klein
have noted, guilt can lead to a sense of feeling persecuted, culminating in
an immobilizing anxiety, or guilt can imply the ‘‘never fully exhausted wish
to make reparation.’’ 11 In the paradigm scenarios of white southern emo-
tion, guilt often fixates as self-absorbed anxiety or mutates into hostile
anger, but guilt might also take other paths, reconfiguring white southern
relations to home and history.
Minnie Bruce Pratt undertakes just this journey in her autobiographi-
cal narrative ‘‘Identity: Skin Blood Heart,’’ originally published in 1984
and reprinted in 1991 in the longer memoir Rebellion: Essays, 1980–1991.12
Throughout this volume, but especially in ‘‘Identity,’’ Pratt, a ‘‘native’’
southerner, feminist activist, and lesbian, explores the geographic terrains
of her childhood, revealing what exclusions were necessary to maintain the
illusion of home as a ‘‘safe’’ space. She tracks the various histories of oppres-
sion that allowed white middle-class southern women of her generation
to feel safe at home, histories that intersect with the histories of racism,
g K AT H A R I N E D U P R E L U M P K I N A N D
THE REMAKING OF SOUTHERNERS
Both born in Georgia near the turn of the century, Katharine Du Pre
Lumpkin and Margaret Mitchell were contemporaries. Both women were
members of reasonably well-off families proud of their Confederate an-
cestry, and each spent her childhood immersed in tales of Georgia’s his-
tory and recent past. Feminist scholar Helen Taylor relates that the young
Margaret was ‘‘taken to parades commemorating [the] Confederate dead,
taught Civil War songs and details of battles and forced to listen for hours
to discussions of . . . the burning of Atlanta’’ (46). In her memoir, Lump-
kin describes a similar childhood milieu, including the popular pastime of
‘‘playing Klan.’’ Each woman went to college, each experienced during her
teenage years the death of a parent, and each went on to record the tales
she grew up hearing about the Old South in her own narrative—Mitchell’s
novel Gone with the Wind (1936) and Lumpkin’s autobiography The Making
of a Southerner (1946).17
Together, the two tales highlight possible strategies for reconceiving
stories about home in their relation to southern feeling and changing
Souths, particularly for southern women. Both narratives rely centrally
on familial oral histories of the Civil War period, reconfirming the im-
portance of popular stories about family and home to the social apparatus
that constructed white middle-class southerners of the period. These two
daughters of the South both came of age and began writing their stories
during a time of intense racial violence in the South, a period character-
ized by Nell Irvin Painter as one permeated by a fear of the racial other.18
For whites, this fear usually manifested itself as a sense of impending dan-
ger to the home and family, and it is this fear—ungrounded as it is—that
propels Mitchell’s representations of both race and sexuality, representa-
tions laced with the complexities of the white southern mind of her era.
Written to address the volatile atmosphere of the Jim Crow South and to
challenge segregation, Lumpkin’s tale explores the origins of this fear, re-
sulting in a very different portrait of race and race relations, as well as of
the plantation South. Unlike Gone with the Wind, which, even if unread,
lives on in the popular imaginary, Lumpkin’s text, initially well received
in the popular press, was for many years forgotten, only recently having
returned to critical attention.19
On its surface, the autobiography’s stylistic choices appear fairly tra-
ditional, a portrait of an unfractured ‘‘I’’ speaking as a universal subject,
but the memoir slowly reveals a doubled consciousness. It deploys what
Sidonie Smith in Subjectivity, Identity, and the Body has called a ‘‘mimetic’’
universalism in order to call into question ‘‘natural’’ categories of differ-
ence (155). In Lumpkin’s proposal for the book, she foregrounds this mi-
metic quality, insisting that her book will reframe social science research
and revisionary history as autobiography. She recognizes the uniqueness
school and listens to their versions of life in the South, learning, like Pratt,
new ways of listening. The reader follows Lumpkin as she pores over cen-
sus reports, legislative documents, old newspapers, and new histories and,
finally, begins to learn about a very different South. This narrative enact-
ment of the process of change allows Lumpkin to retell the story of the
Klan that the first two books of the autobiography leave unquestioned;
it adds the experiences of poor whites to antebellum history; and after
Lumpkin learns of Frederick Douglass, it finally refigures the stories about
Grandfather’s slave, Jerry, by insisting that he probably knew how to read.
This moment works to reinscribe Jerry’s agency as resistant slave into the
narrative, and cumulatively, these explorations of the past serve to expose
the ideological and fallible quality of memory, especially as it constructs
familial narratives. We see Lumpkin’s monolithic view of the South shat-
tered when she (as Pratt will also do) investigates the material realities
of ‘‘home.’’ The memoir models new modes of recollection, piercing the
‘‘luminous membrane of memory’’ that encased Ida Perry (265), fixing her
Although some fifty years separates the writing of The Making of a South-
erner and Rebellion, situating them temporally on either side of the Civil
Rights movement, Katharine Du Pre Lumpkin and Minnie Bruce Pratt
each wrote from a time and a place situated in struggle, creating works
designed not simply to record history but to change it. They each desired
to move the South somewhere else at the moment of their writing, imag-
ining new Souths. Each layered personal history over southern history,
sketching a ‘‘we’’ that implores other white southerners to join them where
they are, providing guideposts for the journey. Both memoirs trouble the
figuration of the mythic landscapes of the South in order to problematize
just what southern identity might mean, but neither abandons the South.
Lumpkin doesn’t freeze the origin of southernness behind the white col-
umns of Tara, but neither does she give up on the region. She recognizes
that because she carries ‘‘her roots’’ with her, simply forgetting the old
ways is not an option: ‘‘I turned against my old heritage of racial beliefs
and racial practices. Yet . . . I was haunted by the old dogma that but one
g A N A F T E RWO R D : B E YO N D T H E P O S T C A R D S O U T H
For southern fiction, I prefer the [2000] Florida election returns.—response posted
at Salon.com to the query, ‘‘What’s your favorite Southern literature?’’
Not long ago I returned to the small southern college where I had once
taken classes (and first discovered feminism and media studies, a southern
sojourn that sent me off to a northern graduate school) to give a lecture on
Elvis. The occasion for the talk was a museum opening featuring never-
before-seen photos of a young Presley performing at the Louisiana Hay-
ride. The museum’s permanent collection is fairly traditional, comprising
works ‘‘from a variety of aesthetic periods including American Impres-
sionism and Texas Regionalism’’ (according to their Web site), and two
overlapping exhibits of Elvis photographs marked the institute’s first foray
into presenting popular culture to its patrons. My talk was a beefed-up
version of an Elvis lecture I use in my undergraduate course ‘‘Stars and
D I X I E T H E N A N D N OW
C H A P T E R 1 . RO M A N C I N G T H E S O U T H
1 I use the terms ‘‘white lady’’ and ‘‘black woman’’ here as a way of highlighting
the historical practice of denying the designation ‘‘lady’’ to African American
women. For more on African American women’s struggles with mainstream
discourses of femininity, see Carby’s Reconstructing Womanhood and bell hooks’s
Ain’t I a Woman? In these first few pages, I also vacillate between the terms
‘‘lady’’ and ‘‘belle.’’ Generally, the belle is defined as a ‘‘privileged white girl at
the . . . exciting period between being a daughter and becoming a wife,’’ and
the ‘‘lady’’ is what she becomes after marriage and ‘‘remain[s] until she dies.’’
See Anne Goodwyn Jones, ‘‘Belles and Ladies,’’ in The Encyclopedia of Southern
Culture, 1527–30.
2 Diane Roberts, The Myth of Aunt Jemima: Representations of Race and Region, 67.
3 ‘‘Tour’’ quotes are taken from brochures for Grayline Sightseeing Tours of
New Orleans and from a brochure advertising the parishes along Louisiana’s
River Road. For information on the increase in southern ‘‘heritage’’ tourism,
see articles in Travel Agent magazine, including Laura L. Myers, ‘‘Southern Pil-
grimages’’; and Travel Weekly’s 30 April 1998 issue. Information on increas-
C H A P T E R 2 . ‘‘ B OT H K I N D S O F A R M S ’’
1 See http://www.ngeorgia.com/tenn/bcm.html.
2 Here it seems appropriate to note Jameson’s now famous line in The Political
Unconscious that ‘‘history is what hurts’’ (102).
3 The first quotes are from a 1980s brochure advertising Confederama, then
located at 3742 Tennessee Avenue, in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Later quotes are
from the museum’s Web site at www.battlesforchattanooga.com. The tourist
site first opened in Tiftonia, Georgia, but after a few years moved to the
C H A P T E R 3 . S T E E L M A G N O L I A S , FATA L F L O W E R S , A N D D E S I G N I N G W O M E N
1 Segrest and Allison are lesbian feminist activists in the South, and both have
written about the degree to which their experiences as southern lesbians have
informed their suspicions about femininity’s role in the South. The quotes ref-
erenced can be found in Allison’s Bastard Out of Carolina, 109, and in Segrest’s
My Mama’s Dead Squirrel: Lesbian Essays on Southern Culture, 63. Also see Allison’s
collections Trash and Skin, and Segrest’s Memoir of a Race Traitor.
2 Patricia Yaeger, ‘‘Edible Labor,’’ 152. For a reading that shares many insights
with Yaeger’s, see Diane Roberts’s piece on Southern Living magazine in Richard
King and Helen Taylor, eds., Dixie Debates: Perspectives on Southern Cultures.
3 Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste, 466.
4 This quote can be found on p. 211 of Smith’s insightful commentary on
1 Any Day Now features former Designing Women star Annie Potts as M. E. and
Lorraine Toussaint as Rene. One of the series’ cocreators, Nancy Miller, has
frequently commented on her own southern girlhood, first in Louisiana and
then in Oklahoma, as a motivation for the series. The writing staff for the
show has grown more diverse since the first year, and on the Web site message
boards, black and white writers talk about their conflicts over certain story
lines while encouraging dialogue. In the ‘‘Talk to the Writers’’ chat board,
writer Valerie Woods responds to one fan, ‘‘We, too, feel that it is important
for people to discuss, argue, disagree (and agree!) and still be respectful of
each other. Thanks again and keep watching.’’
2 For an insightful reading of the class dynamics of many present-day televisual
re-creations of the Civil Rights era, see Herman Gray’s ‘‘Remembering Civil
Rights: Television, Memory, and the 1960s.’’
3 This study, conducted by Bernard Cohen of the University of Pittsburgh, was
reported in the Shreveport Times in July 1991.
4 This dual sense of ‘‘going home’’ is true of both white and black southern-
ers, although black southerners’ ambivalence about the South as a region (or
of experiences of terror there) is understandably more pronounced, rarely
tinged by the nostalgic overtones prevalent in many white memoirs. Richard
Wright, Houston Baker Jr., Angela Davis, Carol Stack, and bell hooks, among
others, have all written about the varied registers of black ambivalence re-
garding southern homes. This chapter explores how white southern feelings
about home sometimes limit possibilities for social change and alliance across
races by wedding ambivalence to guilt.
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INDEX
Abbot, Shirley, 47, 149, 150, 192 Battles for Chattanooga Museum,
Alarcón, Norma, 202, 282 n.36 95–101, 110, 116, 127
Allen, James, 2–3 Baym, Nina, 19
Allison, Dorothy, 150 Best, Stephen Michael, 93
Amazon.com, 81, 124 Bhabha, Homi, 243
Ambivalence, 93, 172–74, 216, 227, The Birth of a Nation, 61, 119, 125, 164,
231, 245, 253, 286 n.4 240, 290 n.24
American Music Show, 194 Bishir, Catherine, 44–45
Antiracist activism and identities, 7, Black activism and agency, 31, 34, 56,
232–33 57, 60, 87, 89, 145, 154, 186, 222,
Any Day Now, 17, 209–15, 245, 248; and 238, 242, 245, 255, 267–68 n.29
cross-racial contact, 213–14; and Blackness: as American obsession,
feeling southern, 214–16, 229; and 25; displaced, 27, 28–29, 70–73,
femininity, 210–11; and historical 78, 81, 100, 110, 114–15, 126, 164–
memory, 211–12; opening sequence, 65, 190; as emotional texturing, 6,
210 57–60, 66, 120, 138–39, 144–45,
Anzaldúa, Gloria, 202 185–86, 217, 221–23, 229, 239, 251;
Applebome, Peter, 28–29, 106, 114 and hypervisibility, 92–93, 118, 250,
Athenaeum Rectory, 40 271 n.63; as mise-en-scène, 45, 51,
Atlanta (Ga.), 48, 61–62, 83, 175–76, 154, 221
186, 193–95 Blaze, 16
Atlanta Feminist Lesbian Alliance The Blue and the Gray, 72
(afla), 197–98 Bolsterli, Margaret Jones, 220–25,
Atlanta race riots of 1906, 48 227–29, 235
Aunt Jemima, 267–68 n.29 Born in the Delta. See Bolsterli, Mar-
Autobiographical subject, 220, 221, garet Jones
224, 230, 234, 240 Bourdieu, Pierre, 150–51, 157, 172
Autobiography, 217–52 Boutiquing the South, 9, 37. See also
Tourism
Baker, Houston, Jr., 255 Bowers, Betty, 193, 195–96
Baldwin, James, 51 Brasell, Bruce, 10
Bastard Out of Carolina (Allison), 150 Brown, Elsa Barkley, 10, 82
Brownmiller, Susan, 20, 24, 153, 180 Clinton, William Jefferson, 112,
Brundson, Charlotte, 176, 192 280 n.17
Burns, Ken, and The Civil War, 27, 30, Cobb County (Ga.), 176, 186, 195,
114, 115–27, 128, 137, 142, 144– 280–81 n.20, 285 n.52
46, 173, 188, 209, 245; emotional Cole, Lewis, 121
registers in, 117–18, 123–27, 212, Commission on Interracial Coopera-
250; praise for, 115–16, 121; repre- tion, 62
sentational strategies in, 117–18; Confederama. See Battles for Chatta-
and representations of violence, nooga Museum
121–23; and slavery, 115–16; and Confederate Embassy, 105, 109, 146
tourism, 116–17; and white man- Confederate flag, 33–37, 42, 107, 112–
hood, 123–24; and white national 13, 246; Georgia’s new design, 34
union, 119–21 Confederate Network, 107
Butler, Octavia, 86–94, 118, 145–46, Cotton, Sallie Southall, 191
187, 251, 252, 254 Counterpublics, 111–12, 202–3
Byrd, James, 74 Crimes of the Heart, 16
Cripps, Thomas, 58
Camp Sister Spirit, 198–203, 219, 243, Cross-racial contact, 6–7, 11, 29–31,
245, 251 40, 113–15, 138–39, 145–46, 154,
Captain Confederacy (Shetterly), 141–46, 158, 166, 184–87, 208, 213–14, 222–
243, 245, 251 23, 228, 232–33, 239, 245, 249–50,
Carby, Hazel, 24, 60, 64, 77, 189, 261 252–53, 255; in Gone with the Wind,
n.23 58–60; in Kara Walker’s art, 83; in
Cash, W. J., 11, 115, 130, 136 Kindred, 88–92
Center for the Study of Southern Cut, 86
Culture, 9
Charleston (S.C.), 68–69 Daniel, Pete, 254
Chestnut, Mary Boykin, 122 Daniell, Rosemary, 168–74, 196, 227,
Christian Right, 196 232, 243, 251
Cinema verité, 128 Davis, Angela, 17, 64, 136, 191
Civil War, 17, 51, 107; during Civil Decade of hope, 62, 254
Rights era, 97; and historical Deliverance (Dickey), 201, 259 n.17
memory, 99–101, 117–18; maga- Designing Women, 16, 30, 174–89, 191,
zines, 102–3; romance of, 95, 103; 209, 215, 229, 243, 251; and con-
and white national union, 97–98, structed femininity, 178–82; and
100, 119–21, 123–26, 139–40; and female friendships, 178, 181; and
women, 100, 122–23, 134, 137 liberal feminism, 181–82, 186–87;
The Civil War. See Burns, Ken and race, 182–87, 251; and role of
Clapp, J. W., 72 Anthony, 182–85, 191; and romance,
Class: as emotional texturing, 165 176–78
Clinton, Catherine, 76–81, 95, 100, De Sousa, Ronald, 214
101, 183, 190, 219 Dixieland Ring, 107
Clinton, Hillary, 181, 280 n.17 Dixie-Net, 107–8, 146
312 Index
Doane, Mary Ann, 21 Faulkner, William, 11, 31, 39, 205, 217
Dollywood, 40 Faust, Drew Gilpin, 19, 81, 82, 190
Drag queens, 193–96, 201–3 Femininity: definitions and examples,
Draper, Ellen, 134 21, 163, 169–71, 180, 226–27, 243,
Driving Miss Daisy, 16, 158 261 n.26, 282 n.27; and feminism,
Duke, Daisy, 159 5, 20–24, 53, 75, 156–58, 174,
Dukes of Hazzard, 174, 259 n.17 176, 178–82, 186–87, 187–93, 197–
Dunning School, 17 98, 241–43, 251; masquerade and
Dunye, Cheryl, 268 n.29 performance, 21–24, 53–55, 64,
Dupree, Marcus, 219 152–53, 157, 169–72, 178–82, 188,
Dyer, Richard, 61, 112, 114, 119 240–43
Dyke Tour of Homes, 198 Festival of Violence (Tolnay and Beck),
Dyson, Michael Eric, 27 265–66 n.12
Fields, Barbara, 120–21
Easy Rider, 259 n.17 Focus on the Family, 195–96
Egenriether, Ann, 53 Foote, Shelby, 123
Eisenstein, Zillah, 25 Foreman, Clark, 62
Election, 2000 Presidential, 100, 247, Fossett, Judith Jackson, 10, 267 n.23
255 Foucault, Michel, 104
Elshtain, Jean Bethke, 115, 122–23 Fox-Genovese, Elizabeth, 61
Emancipation Proclamation, 2000, 82, Frankenberg, Ruth, 263 n.33, 268 n.41,
84–85 287 n.9
Emotions: as orientation to world, 32, Frank’s Place, 17
215; as paradigm scenarios/scenes Fraser, Nancy, 111
of instruction, 214–16, 219, 228, Freemississippi.org, 105, 113
246, 253; and southern feel- Freikorps soldiers, 121
ings/feeling southern, 5, 30, 32–33, Fried Green Tomatoes, 16
112–15, 120, 124–27, 144, 158, 167–
68, 202–4, 208–9, 214–16, 224–25, Gillespie, Michele, 80
228–32, 235, 245–47, 252–53; and Gilmore, Glenda, 10, 82
structures of feeling, 59–60, 245 Gilroy, Paul, 30
Equal Rights Amendment, 75, 181, Gingrich, Newt, 28, 112, 114, 174, 176,
192–93, 197–98 195
Etiquette, 149–58, 170–72, 226– Gledhill, Christine, 163
27, 229–30, 235, 241–43, 252–53, Globalization, 2, 12, 18, 75, 98, 158,
290 n.25 247, 254
Evans, Sherman, 35–37 Golden Girls, 16
Evening Shade, 16, 132 Gone with the Wind (Mitchell), 16, 25,
Everybody’s All-American, 16 26, 44, 47–65, 76, 80, 86, 87, 89,
93, 112, 138, 163–64, 216, 221–23,
Farrell, Bill, 119 232–34, 245; and cross-racial con-
Fatal Flowers (Daniell), 168–74, 178, tact, 58–60; film v. novel, 47, 50,
180, 187–88, 218 63; Klan raid section, 62–63, 268
Index 313
Gone with the Wind (continued) ‘‘Identity: Skin Blood Heart.’’ See
n.33; race and criticism, 63–65; Pratt, Minnie Bruce
and representations of slavery, 51– Identity politics. See Politics of identity
52, 60; and structures of feeling, I’ll Fly Away, 17
59–60; and themes of modernity, Imitation of Life, 39
48, 58 Indigenous ethnography, 131, 138
Gray, Herman, 213, 270 n.58 Innovation within tradition, 30,
Griffith in context, 274 n.19 244–47
Guilt, 6, 33, 142, 207–8, 214–16, 217, Ireland and Irishness, 70–72
223–24, 247, 250–51; and account-
ability, 144, 208, 224–25, 228–29, Jones, Anne Goodwyn, 53, 64
245–47, 251–53; as anger, 6, 33, Joyner, Charles, 29
113–14, 207–8, 224, 246–47, 250; as
melancholia, 33, 120, 124–26, 251 Kaplan, Alice Yaeger, 101
Gwin, Minrose, 60, 187 Kaplan, Caren, 125, 242
Kaplan, Cora, 54, 192–93
Hale, Grace, 10 Kelley, Robin D. G., 82
Hall, Jacquelyn Dowd, 136, 191, 243– Kenan, Randall, 205–8, 247, 248, 250,
44, 284 n.46 252
Hall, Stuart, 260 n.19, 277 n.38 Kindred (Butler), 86–93, 118, 145–46,
Harling, Robert, 159 187, 245, 251
Hawkins, Harriet, 53 Kirby, Jack Temple, 14, 72, 74
Heart of Dixie, 16 Kirby, Lynn, 121
Helms, Jesse, 16, 254, 255, 259 n.16 Klein, Melanie, 225
Henson, Brenda and Wanda, 198–203, Ku Klux Klan, 112, 151, 255, 270 n.51;
243 and Gone with the Wind, 62; and
Heritage Preservation Association, Neo-Confederates, 111
107, 111
Heritage violations, 107, 111 La Grange (Ga.), 14
Hill, Anita, 283–84 n.41 LaPlace, Maria, 161
Hill, Michael, 107 Laplanche, Jean, and Jean-Betrand
History: academic v. popular, 33, 76, Pontalis, 54
79–80, 82, 130, 140, 212; and au- Layoun, Mary, 136
thenticity, 101–3, 118, 129, 250; as Lee, Robert E., 98, 118–19, 133
rhizomatic, 104, 129, 244; and the Lefebvre, Henri, 180
souvenir, 103–4 Lenticular logics of visibility, 7, 25–
Hobson, Fred, 214, 217, 224, 240, 27, 93, 151, 190, 203, 249–53; and
289–90 n.21 additive mode, 26, 78, 80, 82, 118,
Homeplace. See Southern homes 120, 124–26, 186, 188, 219, 251; and
hooks, bell, 9, 129, 261 n.23, 287 n.9 overt/covert strategies, 7, 25, 63,
Horwitz, Tony, 28, 106, 114 65, 70, 73, 86, 110, 115, 126, 207,
House of Blues (Los Angeles), 1–2, 12 212, 220, 223, 247, 250; and sepa-
Hunter, Tera, 10, 82 ratist mode, 27, 28–29, 70–73, 78,
314 Index
81, 100, 110, 114, 115, 126, 164–65, 30, 127–40, 251; and blackness,
188, 190, 214, 250–51; as stasis, 28, 138–40; and The Civil War, 128–29,
30–31, 93, 249–50 130, 139–40; and femininity, 134–
Lenticular postcards, 26, 39, 83, 100, 38, 171; and historical memory,
250 127–29; and indigenous ethnog-
Let the Dead Bury Their Dead. See Kenan, raphy, 131, 138; and masculinity,
Randall 131–33; and southern romance,
Lipsitz, George, 112, 255 136–37
Lost Cause, 17, 44–45, 49, 54, McGill, Ralph, 32–33
151 Mellencamp, Patricia, 169, 182,
Lott, Eric, 83 279 n.7
Lumpkin, Katharine Du Pre, 233–47, Mise-en-scène of southernness, 12, 42–
252, 254, 255; and black femininity, 45, 150–51, 252; and fantasy, 54, 279
241–43; and Margaret Mitchell, n.7
233–34; and models of alliance, Miss Firecracker Contest, 16
245–47; her research, 242–43, 290 Mississippi Burning, 146
n.24, 291 n.29; her sexuality, 243– Mississippi (Magazine), 156, 158
44; and strategic southernness, Mississippi Mind. See Yates, Gayle
237, 240–43, 251; and ywca, 237, Graham
241–42, 246 Mitchell, Margaret, 48, 61–63, 233–34,
Lutz, Catherine, 214 255. See also Gone with the Wind
Lynching, 48, 56 Mitchell, May Belle, 48
Mohanty, Chandra Talpade, 202
Madonna, 53, 188, 249 Morley, David, 2, 12
Making of a Southerner. See Lumpkin, Morris, Meaghan, 258 n.8
Katharine Du Pre Morris, Willie, 217, 219
Mammy, in Gone with the Wind, 51, Morrison, Toni, 24, 26, 52, 73, 112,
52–57, 57–60, 138, 144; and the 139, 222
production of white femininity, Muñoz, José, 196
55–57
Mammy, in Scarlett, 66, 68 Naficy, Hamid, 288 n.15
Mammy, the: and domestic labor, 47, Natchez Pilgrimage, 40–42, 74
154–56, 222, 287 n.8 Natchitoches (La.), 164
Manners. See Etiquette Neo-Confederates, 28, 106–14, 116,
Marley, Bob, 30 126, 142, 144, 146, 158, 196, 203,
Masculinity, white, 110–14, 123–24; 209, 224, 228, 246, 250, 255; and
homosocial, 121–22; and masquer- doubled address, 110–11; and eth-
ade, 131–33 nicity, 111–12; guilt and anger of,
Mason, Bobbie Ann, 272 n.5 113–14, 246
Masquerade. See Femininity New media, theories of, 105–6, 107
Matlock, 16 Nineteenth Amendment, 192–93
McDaniel, Hattie, 266 n.17 Nostalgia, 6, 9–10, 218–20, 231, 246,
McElwee, Ross, and Sherman’s March, 250; imperialist, 9, 125; and melan-
Index 315
Nostalgia (continued) Racial economies of visibility. See
choly, 98, 124–26, 139–40, 250; and Lenticular logics of visibility
mourning, 173–74 Reed, John Shelton, 9
NuSouth, 35–37 Reynolds, Burt, 131–32, 259 n.17, 277
n.36
Oak Alley Plantation, 43, 88 Ripley, Alexandra, 65, 92
O’Brien, Aine, 118 River Road Plantations, 40, 42, 92,
O’Brien, Kenneth, 64 158
O’Connor, Flannery, 11, 104 Riviere, Joan, 21–22, 53, 157
Odum’s Trailer Park, 194–96, 202, 251 Roberts, Diane, 39
O’Hara, Scarlett, 112, 157, 163, 240; as Robins, Kevin, 2, 12
collectible, 3; and femininity and Roediger, David, 17, 70, 285 n.46
masquerade, 49, 53–55, 64; in Gone Roots (Haley), 87, 270 n.58
with the Wind, 49; in Scarlett, 66–74; Rosaldo, Renato, 9, 125
and/as Tara, 50–51, 216. See also RuPaul, 194, 203
Gone with the Wind Rutheiser, Charles, 175–76, 193
Oprah, 199–201, 203, 254
Orr, Laura, 151 Saar, Bettye, 267–68 n.29
Ovett, Mississippi, 198–201 St. Cecelia Society, 150
Savannah, 12, 16, 27, 75
Page, Thomas Nelson, 151 Scarlett, 16, 25, 65–75, 82, 126, 146,
Painter, Nell Irvin, 9, 82, 233, 267 n.27 165, 188, 203, 209, 214, 243, 250;
Paris Is Burning, 188 and Charleston, 68–69; and the era-
Peek, DeAundra, 194–96, 202, 243, sure of blackness, 68; and ethnicity,
251 70–73; as miniseries, 16, 65; and
Petro, Patrice, 262 n.28 tourism, 66
Plantation. See Southern homes; Tara Schwartz, Maryln, 65, 149, 152, 156
The Plantation Mistress (Clinton), 76–78, Schwarzkopf, Norman, 123
183, 190 Scott, Anne Firor, 189–92, 269–70 n.51
Politics of alliance, 30–31, 233, 239, Segrest, Mab, 150, 217
245–47, 252–53, 255; and mobility Sex, Lies, and Videotape, 16, 158
v. stasis, 31 Shag, 16
Politics of identity: sameness v. differ- Shared traditions. See Cross-racial
ence, 27, 29, 31, 37, 93, 189, 202–3, contact
213, 246–47, 251–52; and separat- Sherman, William Tecumseh, 127, 128,
ism, 107, 114–15, 132, 201–3, 214, 132–33
232, 250 Sherman’s March. See McElwee, Ross
Pratt, Minnie Bruce, 225–33, 237–39, Shetterly, Will, 141, 145. See also
243, 244–47, 251–52, 254, 255 Captain Confederacy
Presley, Elvis, 247–49 Sidewalks: as social interfaces, 55–57
Pyron, Darden, 48 Slattery, Emmie, 57
Slavery!, Slavery!, 82
Quintero, Angel, 35–37 Smith, Lillian, 151, 153, 157, 185, 205,
316 Index
214, 217, 226, 232, 240, 246, 288 Stack, Carol, 269 n.48, 217 n.61
n.16 Steel magnolia. See Southern lady: as
Smith, Sidonie, 234, 287 n.7 steel magnolia
South: and economic growth, 13–14, Steel Magnolias, 16, 158–68, 172–73,
61–62, 69; and imagined authen- 177, 180, 187–89, 201, 214, 229, 243,
ticity, 1–2, 12–13, 18, 30, 98, 167, 250; and female friendships, 162;
245, 248, 253–54; imagined role in feminism and femininity, 163–64;
nation, 2, 3, 16–17, 201, 253–54; and melodrama, 159, 161–63, 167
mobility v. stasis, 31, 35, 104, 156, Stewart, Susan, 103–4
175, 194–95, 201, 206, 226, 230– Stone, Sandy, 107
31, 245–47, 253–54; as monolith, Stone Mountain (Ga.), 98
9, 18, 238, 253; in 1980s and 1990s Structures of feeling. See Emotions
media, 16–17, 198–201, 259 n.17; Sullivan, Patricia, 254
and recent demographics, 15, 108,
164, 186, 264 n.43; and violence, 15 Tara Revisited, 78–79, 95, 100, 101, 219
A Southern Belle Primer (Schwartz), Tara, Country Inn, 46
149–57, 158, 192 Tara: in Gone with the Wind, 44, 50–51,
Southern feelings/feeling southern. See 57–58, 255, 279 n.7
Emotions ‘‘Tell Me, Tell Me’’ (Kenan), 205–8,
Southern gentleman, 5, 32, 96, 100, 247, 248, 250. See also Kenan,
106, 109–11, 119, 123–24, 131–33; Randall
the homosocial, 121 Theweleit, Klaus, 121–22
Southern homes, 164, 166–67, 207, The Thorn Birds, 54
216, 218–20, 225–28, 253, 287 n.6; Thurmond, Strom, 73
as plantation, 5, 39–47, 82, 88–91, Tourism, 9, 13, 32, 76, 175, 210; and
103, 151, 158, 279 n.7 casinos, 12; Civil War, 96–101; and
Southern hospitality. See Etiquette Confederate flag, 34–35; and his-
Southern lady (belle), 3, 19–24, 32, 39, torical memory, 99–101; Old South
47, 52–57, 70–73, 79, 81, 93, 100, and plantation, 40–45, 54, 73
109, 135–38, 151, 158, 171–72, 189– Trinh T. Minh-ha, 202, 283 n.35
93, 202, 210, 227, 232; as asymp- Truth, Sojourner, 64
totes, 152; and the land/plantation,
39–40, 43–45, 49, 89; in popular Walker, Alice, 174
press, 74–76, 153–56; and romance Walker, Kara, 82–86, 92–94, 145, 187,
and weddings, 154, 156, 160–61, 252
169; and southern manners, 150– Wallace, Michelle, 267 n.29
58, 240–43; as steel magnolia, 75, Wells, Ida B., 48, 136
152–53 Welty, Eudora, 11
The Southern Lady (Scott), 189–92 White, Deborah Gray, 60
Southern League, 107 Whiteness: and ethnicity, 70–73, 111–
Southern studies, 8–11, 249, 12, 203, 250; and identity, 112–15,
257–58 n.6 245–47, 255
Southern suffragettes, 48–49, 189–92 Whiteness studies, 250, 262 n.31
Index 317
White privilege, 228, 239, 252, 255 Wojcik, Pamela Robertson, 23
White trashness, 109, 156, 173, 194– Wolfe, Margaret Ripley, 192
95, 203, 250, 291–92 n.31; in Gone Woodward, C. Vann, 11
with the Wind, 57
Wiegman, Robyn, 26, 80, 263 n.33 Yaeger, Patricia, 10, 126, 150, 171, 249
Williams, Linda, 162 Yates, Gayle Graham, 218–20, 223–24
Williams, Raymond, 59 Young, Elizabeth, 10, 272 n.5
318 Index
Tara McPherson is Associate Professor within the Division of Critical
Studies at the School of Cinema-Television, University of Southern
California. She is coeditor (with Henry Jenkins and Jane Shattuc) of
Hop on Pop: The Politics and Pleasure of Popular Culture (Duke University
Press 2002) and a founding organizer of the ‘‘Race in Digital Space’’
conference series.