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.