Reflections on the Delta

I got home late last night (early this morning, to be exact) from my trip to the Deep South, and sleep deprivation hit me harder than I thought. It was 9:30AM when I got up – late considering the two hour time difference between California and Mississippi – and after breakfast, I got ready to head out. My appointment at Google for a usability study is scheduled for a bit before noon, and their offices are less than a mile from my house. It’s a beautiful 72° today, and after the long flight, 10 days of zero exercise, and a steady diet of fried everything, I decided to walk.

It’s a good opportunity to reflect on the past few days, and in particular, last Sunday afternoon. That's the day Ruthann and I picked to attend church services, something we both thought of as a cultural rather than religious experience and were eager to see. Our professor, Dr. Luther Brown, suggested Little Zion Missionary Baptist Church for their 2:00 service. “I can’t describe it,” he said. “You just have to go.”

So off we went. 

Little Zion is halfway between Greenwood and Money, in the heart of the Mississippi Delta. It’s an area of the country that is unbelievably flat – miles and miles of corn, soybeans, and cotton fields. The night before, we’d gotten lost driving through back roads, so we’re starting to feel at home with the landscape.

The horizon is a ruler-straight line, dividing the land from the blue, cloud-filled sky. The drive takes over an hour, and we pass very few cars on the road. 

We amuse ourselves looking for armadillo roadkill. 

The address of Little Zion is “2 miles North on Money Road, Greenwood, MS.” The tiny cemetery next to the church is one of the alleged burial sites of bluesman Robert Johnson. Legend has it Johnson made a deal with the devil at midnight at the Crossroads near Dockery plantation, trading his soul for the ability to play the blues. 

We arrive early for the service, so we walk over to visit his grave. Pilgrims have left offerings on and around the tombstone: plastic flowers, full and empty beers, jewelry, a toy car. We spend extra time visiting his neglected neighbors. 

Outside the church, two women and a man are unloading folding chairs from their car. The man is wearing a tangerine orange suit and tie, and the women have color-coordinating outfits and hats that put Ascot to shame. They welcome us and invite us in for the service.

The inside of the church is small but well maintained and, more importantly, air conditioned. It’s still warm, but not uncomfortably so. The pews are hard slatted wood and we take a seat near the back row, well aware how conspicuously we stand out: a tall, blue-eyed Jew and a Chinese atheist. I feel a bit like a fraud. 


An older man comes up to shake our hands; he’s the piano player. “Do you sing?” he asks, and we tell him we don’t. “That’s all right,” he says, and invites us to come up and join the choir anyway. We politely decline; he presses; we decline again. When he leaves to take his seat at the piano, we stare at each other. “That would’ve be a story,” Ruthann whispers.

The service starts 20 minutes later than the posted 2:00 PM schedule, but there are only about 15 people in the church: 4 women in the choir, 3 deacons sitting at a table at the front of the room, the piano player, and the rest of us in the pews. The piano begins playing and everyone stands and starts to sing.

I can’t help but sway and clap along. There are no bibles, prayer books, or hymnals, but everyone knows the words. After a moment, Ruthann and I start to sing along – we can’t help it. Music swells, permeating the room as though every seat is filled.

During this time, more churchgoers are trickling in. After two more songs, the deacons give their devotion. Three men sit at the front of the church and begin to pray. Everything is sung. The middle deacon, a handsome older man who looks like the Allstate spokesman, reads from his bible. The man to his right kneels on one knee with his back to us, reading or reciting something else. Their voices are strong and their prayers, while totally different, meld together to form a hypnotic chant. It’s mesmerizing.

Now the Mt. Pleasant Male Choir takes over. The 8 members range in age from teenagers to men in their 70’s. One of the teens looks bored and sullen, staring out the window.

Two giant black wasps fly around, divebombing the congregation. “Don’t you sting me,” the woman behind us mutters to nobody. “Last two times, I had to go to the hospital!” The reverend’s wife passes out fans; it is growing hotter, with the singing and the standing and the clapping. I use mine to swat at the wasps.

Several songs later, the guest speaker is introduced by his wife. “He’s a small piece of leather, but he’s well put together!” she proudly announces. By now, the church is half filled. Men are in suits; women have colorful dresses, matching hats, and uncomfortable-looking shoes.

Reverend Sawyer’s sermon is reminiscent of Reverend Nix’s Black Diamond Express to Hell. He stomps. He looks to heaven. He screams into the microphone - a chant - the amp turned up so high his voice is distorted and I can only comprehend one in four words. I don’t need to understand, I just have to feel. A keyboardist accompanies him, and the congregation freely interjects whenever they are compelled: “AMEN!”, “You said it!”, “Hallelujah!”, “Mm hmm!” 

It is glorious.

Then comes the offering. Baskets aren’t passed around; instead, each section of the church takes their turn to parade up to the front and place their donation into the plates set directly in front of the deacons. Everyone knows how much you give.

More songs follow. When it is over, the Allstate deacon comes over to say hello. “Thank you for coming to our little country church,” he says. “Come back anytime!” He, like everyone else we met in Mississippi, is incredibly open and welcoming.

This is a striking characteristic of the Delta – the friendliness of the people. Everywhere we ventured, people went out of their way to be nice. The girl we asked for directions on the street of Merigold took the time to personally escort us to McCarty’s Pottery, when she easily could have pointed the way. The manager at the campus bookstore at Delta State arranged to open early to accommodate our schedule. Men eating their meals at restaurants said hello and asked where we were from.

As I walk across the highway towards Google, a girl walks towards me. I hold my head up, wondering if she’ll greet me. When she gets close enough, she glances down at her cell phone and begins texting as we pass. She doesn’t look up. 

Silicon Valley, California is one of the wealthiest and most technologically advanced places on earth. It’s hard not to be inspired by the innovation and entrepreneurial spirit. Everyone is thinking and moving and doing. The pace is fast. But it’s sterile.

I take a shortcut through a back parking lot at Google, past a line of charging stations for electric cars. An ubiquitous yellow/red/green bicycle lies abandoned on the sidewalk – these are scattered all over Mountain View so that Googlers can take any one and ride around to other offices. When I get to the street, a Google self-driving car cruises by. It’s a white Lexus SUV with a robotic camera eye installed on the roof, aimlessly staring. 

I walk towards the Building 43 lobby, in the main building. A t-rex skeleton famously sits in front, adorned as usual with pink plastic lawn flamingoes. Today, someone has knit little yellow scarves to keep the flamingoes warm. 

Seeing the t-rex reminds me of the skeletons of the Delta. Many buildings are old and run down; there is an air of desperation. Those that are empty are left to the elements, their remains slowly decomposing, until the land is reclaimed by the Delta. 

This summer, I’ve also been to Taipei, Taiwan and Cambridge, England, but by far the biggest culture shock has been the Mississippi Delta: it was eye opening, it was exciting, it was excruciating. The feelings you get in the Delta can’t be described in books. The sorrow and anger standing in front of the remains of Bryant’s Grocery, where Emmett Till had his fateful encounter with Carolyn Bryant. The pulse of the music in a crowded, smoky juke joint where Po' Monkey himself greeted us. The creepiness of Glendora, where Clinton Melton was killed and the town and the residents seem haunted. The smell of fried chicken while standing in a buffet line. The taste of sweet tea.

There is no place on earth like it. And I miss it. 

May Ball

For years, I've been begging my friend Anil to take me to one of Cambridge University's famous (infamous?) May Balls. These are all-night black-tie parties done only the way the British can do a schmancy affair. And yes, May Balls are almost always held in the month of June. Weirdos.

Finally this year Anil told me that he could get tickets for St. John's College. Normally, most of Cambridge chants, "I'd rather be at Oxford than St. John's..." but Johns is one of the fanciest of the schmancies (and once called the 7th best party in the world by Time Magazine.) At £350 a ticket, it was sure to be a night to remember... how could I say no? So I dusted off my sparkly ball gown (doesn't every girl have one hidden in the depths of her closet?) and headed off across the pond.

It was almost intimidating. The dress code is strict (below-the-knee dresses for women, black tie only for men), security is tight, and the theme and entertainment is kept a secret. They requested my full name months before the event, and I soon found out why...                                                 

When we arrived, we found out the theme for the evening: Ars Gratia Artis - art for art's sake. 

           

We got our ticket from Malte (here with his date Julia). We arrived at around 8PM and waited in the line that snaked through the Fellow's Gardens, at the back of the college. That meant we had some entertainment while we waited for the doors opened at 9PM. They checked our IDs and issued wristbands (an embroidered ribbon, no less), that was checked and re-checked upon entering every Court lest a gate-crasher attempt to pass.



The big May Balls are famous for the Ents - the continuous stream of entertainment throughout the night - and John's did not disappoint. At any given time, there were up to 7 different acts to choose from, including the headliners Aluna George and Rudimental:

First thing we saw upon entering were mounds of strawberries with champagne. Holy strawberries. We each grabbed a glass and made our way across The Backs (with a view of the New Court) to the main part of the college.

Everyone was dressed to the nines. I'm sure this is what an Oscar party must look like - elegant people partaking in bacchanalian debauchery.

Thirsty? Scattered around were punts, the flat-bottomed boats that are usually found floating on the River Cam, that had been dragged throughout the college and filled with various drinks.


(Needless to say, as the evening wore on it became apparent who were the excited undergrads who felt the need to drink their money's worth...)

On a side note, there was a 'No Bins' policy - i.e. we were encouraged to throw our rubbish on the ground, so poor peasant workers could come around to pick up after us.

We took our champagne and crossed the Kitchen Bridge, where we had a good view of the Bridge of Sighs (connecting the Third Court with New Court.)

Later that evening, the Kitchen bridge was a good vantage for the Cam, which was slowly filling with punters trying to get a glimpse of the action. Most of the gawkers were waiting for the fireworks shows from both Queen's College and St. John's.

The fireworks began at 11PM, and we had an excellent view from The Backs:

Immediately after the show, we decided to play a bit of mini-golf and then ride the Dodgems (known in America as bumper cars). Nothing beats bumper cars in a ball gown:

When it got cold, we went into the casino to play a little blackjack, or stopped for some wine and cheese and a bit of music in the Hall:

The front side of the Cam is where the main (older) part of St. John's College is located. Going away from the river, we walked through Third Court, Second Court, and First Court. Each had a variety of tents, entertainment, and food, including this freaky stilt-walker:

and this, the comedy tent in the Second Court:

There was a different theme in each Court, with accompanying food and drink:

And there was food aplenty. Everywhere you turned was another tent, fountain, cart, or table laden with some treat or another. Thank god for Spanx...:

The main act, Rudimental, was actually pretty good:

In the early morning hours, we took a breather in the Acoustic Tent in Chapel Court:

and when we stepped outside at 4AM, it was already getting light out. Genius that I am, I'd flown in from California the day before and hadn't gotten used to the time change, so I was still awake:

The final act of the night is always The Gentlemen of St. John's, who played at 5AM on the main stage. By then we were exhausted, so when it started to rain at around 6:30, we were ready to call ourselves survivors.

Thanks Anil, Malte, Julia, and St. John's College, for an amazing night!

OK, so yes, while I was in Cambridge, I might as well get my fill of the May Ball parties. So Anil, Amir, Martina, David, and Ivana decided to go to Wolfson's event later that week. Two May Balls in four days? Why yes!

Wolfson's is definitely more casual than John's - the theme was Wolfstock, and it was a much more relaxed mood and dress. Still lots of fun, and an experience to remember.