Identity Politics

A thought experiment, the experts say. In my mind, as my family likes to say.

I suppose a good starting point is when the State in its infinite wisdom decreed descendants of French Huguenots must wear the Huguenot Cross patch. Regulations called for it to be of silver thread, at least 3 inches in length, 2” wide, and worn 4” below the center of the neckline.

This far, far side of my family came into Charleston during the mid-1700s. Only by short-term decision-making did my family start to move back into South Carolina 30+ years ago—no grand plan, no sense of our historical connection to the place.

I wore my cross—6” and 4”. Bold, said I. Friends used other words. Detractors said the kind of things to my face or at the barber shop or in the grocery store that until lately only appeared anonymously in social media. One of my favorite local restaurants wrote on a credit card receipt “Please, do not come back”.

The deportation order came worded as a request: “The Sovereign State of South Carolina asks you to take up residence outside its territorial borders by midnight, June 1, 2016.”

How genteel. The confiscations would start at twelve-o-one.

My option—only option according to the mandates—was a small cruise ship that would take me along with another 400 or 500 souls to Savannah. My family in Greenville would go by train to Charlotte.

No, I could not bring my dog. Fortunately a former student, now a vet tech, quietly arranged to pick him up from me.

No, none of my belongings could be shipped outside the state. Two bags that I could carry would be all that I would have in the world when I walked up that gangplank.

My banker, a sailing comrade, made arrangements to wire all of my savings to a bank in Asheville. My state retirement check would be suspended indefinitely—nice word that, suspended—beginning June 1.

It was a heck of a garage sale, let me tell you. Turns out my reading material really was idiosyncratic. No more than half the thousand books sold. Not even for a quarter apiece could I find buyers for hundreds of titles.

The cane back couch—a family heirloom more than a 100 years old went for $200. The hundred-year-old white oak buffet built in Michigan, $100. The gentleman’s armoire with mother-of-pearl crescents, $40. My leather recliner, $20. Lawnmower, $5. Etc, etc, etc. Framed photos taken by students, a painting, too. Just a buck or two. Five rooms of furniture and the kitchen and outdoor/lawn equipment, gone.

Five weeks can pass quickly. The goodbyes—so many friends and colleagues after almost 31 years—were squeezes of my hands, kisses on the cheek, hugs that seemed heartfelt.

Prescriptions were forwarded to a pharmacy in Asheville. My doctor made a few calls and found a general practitioner who would take me in as a patient. At least for the short term.

Sold my truck for three grand to a kid who lives down the street.

The afternoon at the ship was as I expected. On one side was the jeering mob, on the other side a smaller gathering wearing armbands with the emblem of the cross—a kind, if foolish gesture. Mobs, you know.

Yes, there were some folks I knew boarding. Some well-known locals, too. One of the local new scene’s brightest star, two city councilmen, a member of county council. A former mayor. There would be 10 more boat loads, at least.

The plan was simple enough. Disembark in Savannah, take a bus to Atlanta, switch to a bus to Chattanooga, then another to Asheville.

Asheville is another ancestral home—English on that far, far side.

My family—parents, sister and brother-in-law, 6 nieces and nephews, 4 in-laws, and 17 of my sister’s grandchildren would be in Charlotte. No jobs, two bags per head, and whatever was going to happen.

By the time I found a hotel room in Asheville, the news was already out, the North Carolina state legislature was concerned about the costs being incurred with the flood of immigrants. Perhaps, expulsion would be best.

I thought about Chattanooga, my mother’s birthplace. Or Knoxville, a friend of mine from high school lived there. Just outside Cleveland with a former colleague and his wife. Or maybe to Houston and my brother.

Perhaps I would join the rest of the family and together we would try to rebuild rather than scattering.

Oh, one more thing. I do speak American English, so I have that going for me.

Nova Scotia?