A person with black hair and ancestral roots in South Dakota moves to the deep South

Suggested listening

Carrizo Plain | Gardens & Villa

then

Two Step | BRONCHO

Hot and humid summer days are when I’m most creative. I moved south around a decade after I graduated college for this very reason. I was a cold writer, whose ideas and motivations were frozen by the South Dakota winters. I made the decision to move hastily, during a family gathering where I lost connection to my home.

I’d certainly set this stage years earlier by refusing to buy a house and instead choosing to putter around in a 2-bedroom apartment. I didn’t own a television; I didn’t own a dresser. My clothes hung in the small closet in one bedroom and the few that couldn’t be placed on hangers were neatly folded in my suitcase I’d placed deliberately in center of the closet. I bought a futon at Goodwill just to have something to sit on in the living room. I had picked it out based on cleanliness and a couple of teenagers helped me wrestle it into the back of my pickup truck. In the dim mornings I sat on the futon and drank black coffee in my sweatshirt and jeans.

At this family gathering, an aunt’s birthday or something like that, I sat at a table in the corner, legs crossed. I held a white coffee cup tightly in my small hands. Relatives moved about me, slowly and without deliberation. They were heavy in the hips, low centers of gravity, holding just as tightly to their coffee cups and diet cokes. They had built good lives here in the Dakotas, they had jobs with pensions, a little bit of land, a dentist they liked. They were content. My wandering gaze found a window in this town hall of whatever type of pole shed event center it was. I looked at the landscape outside. In South Dakota most windows show you landscape, and the landscape is almost always compelling.

South Dakota has a ragged, barren type of beauty. The edges of the hills stop suddenly, juxtaposed against the gray sky. There is no attempt to dress it up with impressive buildings, it stands naked in front of you and allows you to marvel at its nuance. The colors are muted, even in summer, the sounds a little dampened, even the thunder. But all the same, it’s god’s abstract painting. Not vibrant, not breathtaking, but complicated. There is more beneath, and your eyes scan the landscape so quickly you spend hours refocusing and noticing the details, the little brushstrokes. I can imagine my ancestors standing in their doorways, weary, placing their hands on this land that served them so well, retreating into their new roles as intruders in their own home.

This landscape once held meaning for me. I used to find comfort in its bleakness and beauty. But it now was meaningless, I found no inspiration and I had no connection. It had become so ordinary it was like looking at nothing at all. I finished my coffee and kissed my grandma on the cheek. I drove home in my sputtering pickup truck, an embarrassment to the truck loving population of South Dakota.

Two at a time I pounded up the stairs to my apartment. Sweaty, my black hair stuck to the back of my neck.. I knocked on my downstairs neighbor’s door. A nursing student, petite and blonde. “Can you help me pack,” I swallowed hard, deep breath, “you can take whatever you want.” As if pulled by a marionette string she straightened.

I gave her a coffee pot, all my silverware, my futon, her eyes sparkled at all the things, she petted them. While I shoved my clothes into my suitcase, and packed my books into boxes, she told me about her plans to get married, have babies and send them to the private school two towns over. She was animated. She waved her hands while talking about a future life so many had already lived, and she was so clearly comforted by these quantifiable measures of success. “I’m going to be a pediatric nurse” she placed her pointer finger on my countertop with force, “my clinical instructor said I’ll be excellent” she tapped her finger as though to drive that point home. “I have no doubt” I handed her a lamp. “This works” I assured her.  

She wasn’t particularly helpful with packing; I think she was too nostalgic a person to efficiently do such a task. She asked me questions about every picture, coffee cup, and book. She was unsatisfied with my answers. I could have done better but I was single-minded in my endeavor, my wiry limbs straining as I hefted boxes into the back of my truck. “Here,” I handed her my keys “I’ll call the landlord, will you give these to him?”. She wrote her phone number on the corner of a one of the apple boxes in which I’d packed books. I thanked her and wiped my palms on my jeans before I shook her hand.

At the gas station I bought coffee, some candy, and a sandwich. I paid the cashier with a smile on my face. Her hollow eyes made me sad but did not break my spirit. The drive was long and as I approached my stomach turned. Around 4am I pulled into a rest stop to sleep, the velvety darkness blanketing me and hiding my surroundings. As I closed my eyes, I imagined what I’d passed on the road, and where I was going.

I opened my eyes as the sun filled up the rest stop. Kudzu lilted from the trees, a foggy humidity hung heavy, the whole world looked soft and tender and green. I got out of my truck feeling a buoyancy in my joints. Mildew was in the air, but it was the smell of damp earth that overwhelmed my senses. Walking on this new ground I felt moved to tears and I sat on a wet picnic table to weep. I had no thoughts of my future, no reminiscing on my past. My eyes were open and bright, awed at the vibrancy of my new home.

South Dakota | Summer, 2017