The annual lake trout fishing derby is going on in Geneva today. Paul and I jogged by there and I noticed that prizes were awarded by both fisher (age of person fishing) and fish (weight of fish). Different kinds of fish were eligible--lake trout, rainbow trout, brown trout, and land-locked salmon. This reminded me of being taken fishing in the bayous near Pascagoula, MS when I was a kid in the sixties. And it reminded me of lessons in racism.
My grandparents distinguished between fish that were for white people and fish that were for black people (not their term). More accurately, the difference was between fish that everyone ate and fish that only black people ate. If we caught these fish, we either threw back or brought them to Margaret and Sam, the old couple who worked for my grandparents. Black people ate sheepheads and croakers. White people didn't. Sheepheads were apparently too boney for white people. And white people 'just didn't like' croakers. No real reason--but that's how racism works, the difference that makes the difference, that is in something more than itself.
I recall the term 'croaker sack' as racially loaded, but I don't recall how. It suggests to me now a link to the racist unconscious in that even if it only referred to a bag of fish it turned this bag of fish into something vaguely obscene. Differently put, even if 'the facts' of everyday life on the Gulf Coast in the sixties are that there is nothing racist about 'croaker sack' it marks for me the unconscious of the Other: what were my grandparents really saying?
Not all foods, or practices of turning stuff in the world into food, are racializing. And I wonder if my grandparents or my childhood self absorbing their language thought that the racial dimension of food was fixed (the unspoken truth underlying and supporting Jim Crow) or whether if they thought that they as white people had some say, some role, in determining how food raced. For example, I recall that my grandparents ate squirrel, but rarely, maybe just once or twice and this not after the mid sixties. I recall discomfort--my grandmother's?--when the squirrel stew was prepared and served; my sense was that there was something dirty, unmentionable, about it, that it had something to do with a past that was better left forgotten. Was that because they by that point had moved on from their share-cropping poor white past to become comfortably middle class? Or was it because the civil rights movement was challenging their position and identity as white such that they needed greater distance from lesser foods? (These choices are not either/or).
I have no idea whether black people in and around Pascagoula (and Moss Point and Gautier) ate squirrels. That's also an aspect of racism, both that I don't know (a result of segregation) and that I suspect that there might something to know, some kind of indication of a racial difference that cuts through commonalities in food arising from climate and location (what grows, the fishing season) and that persists underneath centuries of slavery, exclusion, and oppression. This second aspect points again to objet a in the racist unconscious.
On the one hand, everyone (seen from the perspective of a small child) was all together, the same, all fishing in the bayous and sweating in the heat, all eating cobbler and grits and peas and greens and crab and okra and tomatoes. As a very young white child, I was around black people more than I would be after I started school; black women cared for the white babies in the nursery of First Baptist Church (the reality of the segregated churches thus didn't appear to a young child who spent all of Sunday in their care; that would come later, in Sunday school and the worship services). Black women also worked in the kitchens of the nursing home my grandfathered owned and the Blue Willow Cafe run by a friend of my mother's in Charleston. Food and care, then, weren't raced so much as they were sexed.
On the other hand, there were total racial differences. Growing up in racism meant not only that one didn't know what the differences were (and so fantasized about them) but also that one didn't know that some of these differences were Real, that is, minimal differences, the indiscernible objet a that turned nothing into something. For example, I never remember my grandmother serving or eating or having cheese, but this doesn't seem a marker of anything.So I've always thought that southerners just don't cook much with cheese, except maybe velveeta or pimento cheese. No minimal difference here. Rather, the raced difference would be in the supposition that there is something else in the set of foods southerners eat that is different for black and white and that this something matters, that is, it attests to the jouissance that separates us from the them.
The jouissance of the croaker sack.
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