by William Levine (Belmont, MA)
In a Yankee cemetery in 2006, my eulogy for my Atlanta born and bred mom, dead at 82, didn’t do her justice. I didn’t play Dixie. I had contemplated using Elvis’s version from 1972, but my sense of political correctness trumped my Southern born and raised mom’s legacy.
While I was growing up in suburban Boston in the ‘50s and ‘60s, Dixie was the only song my Boston born dad and my mom asked orchestras to play. It was an anthem for mom.
Though mom lived over 5 decades in Massachusetts, and only two decades in Atlanta, she never stirred herself into the clam chowder melting pot. She may have lost some of her accent over the years, but Atlanta and Georgia were always on her mind. New England’s climate was always too cold and as were most of its inhabitants. She in turn always had that Southern graciousness so she fielded all her phone calls, from friend or foe, with a warm chatty, “How are you, dear.”
Her real pet-peeve about Yankee living was the cost of it. She would often tout the cheap household labor in the South, not apologizing for Jim Crow. Her well-off family always had live-in help and mom would sometimes sadly admit her maids raised her, an only child, as much as her parents did. She would occasionally strongly suggest to my dad, an only moderately successful dentist, that we hire a maid.
Once as a precious elementary schooler, I told mom about the amazing Mount Rushmore in the far away South Dakota with humongous carvings of the presidents. She countered with Stone Mountain in Atlanta in which Southern heroes Stonewall Jackson. Robert E. Lee and Jefferson Davis were carved into immortality. What’s more she had actually seen Stone Mountain in person. Whereas South Dakota in the early ‘60s might as well have been on the moon.
In the early 1960s, I asked mom about the two senators from Georgia, Richard Russell and Herman Talmadge. This inquiry most likely came after I had devoured the paperback, Meet the Senators, and wanted to get her informed opinion. I remember that mom extolled both legislators as Lions of The Senate types, ignoring their arch-segregationist credentials.
Occasionally, her Yankee family would take a gentle swipe at her beloved South. Mom would then sometimes counter with “The South Shall Rise Again,” mostly joking.
Of course, I am raising the point that my mother sounded more like a Daughter of the Confederacy, than the grand-daughter of Russian empire Jewish immigrants, who arrived in Atlanta about 25 years after it burned down. Mom’s paternal Jewish family was large and well-known. Her father was one of 11 Bresslers and the spot of his department store in Atlanta is a registered neighborhood historic site. Her uncle was president of Atlanta’s conservative synagogue. My mother, Irma Bressler, immersed herself in the clannish world of Atlanta’s Jewish population. This world of temple, Jewish social events, Jewish organizations dances was the impetus for her happy teen years. She didn’t date Rhett Butler types, but was instead very happy to be popular with the boys at Georgia Tech’s Jewish frat.
Her Jewish insularity most likely softened the antisemitism of 1920s and 1930s Georgia. Mom was born in Atlanta in 1924, just 9 years after the infamous lynching of the Jewish pencil factory manager, Leo Frank, wrongly convicted, due to antisemitism, of murdering a young girl employee. The Frank Case drove 3,000 worried Jews out of Georgia, though mom’s future parents were not among them. When mom turned 1 in 1925, there were more Klansmen than Jews in the US. The New Georgia Encyclopedia says about the post Frank trial years in Georgia, “During the succeeding decades Jews were attacked by the Klan, the Columbians, and other right-wing groups. They were tolerated but also singled out as different.”
It does seem ironic then that mom, a Southern outsider, embraced the Southern culture’s uber-maxim of “The Lost Cause” that emphasized the honor of the valor of a Confederacy fighting for states rights and home-turf protection and not slavery. But though her innermost concentric cultural circles were Jewish, the larger, peripheral concentric circles advocating the Lost Cause were hard to ignore. Most likely she first learned of the War of Northern Aggression in the textbooks at the historic Spring Street school in the early 1930s. From then there was Confederate Memorial Day, the statues of Civil War heroes, and social norms to reinforce her regional pride.
My mother’s racial biases were more societal than personal. Thus, she was easily awakened to the Civil Rights movement’s goals, I remember her being excited to attend a lecture by a Southern civil rights journalist in the late 1960s. She always voted Democratic, as the South moved Republican after 1960. Most tellingly, I don’t know of any band playing Dixie for her, after a Bar Mitzvah my family attended in 1964.
Before Alzheimer’s locked down mom’s brain when she was 75, she understood that “Dixie” had become an anthem with many negative connotations. My sister and I also understood this, but we also understood that Dixie was a short-cut to her treasured Southern identity. In 2014, we unveiled my dad’s grave marker. Dad and Mom are buried in the same plot. The gathering was just my son and I, and my sister and her two kids We recited a few required prayers. Then we added our own flourish. My nephew, amped by his IPOD and Elvis, sang a few bars of his version of “Dixie.” To our family this memorial requiem was not Lost Cause specific, or callously played. The song just defined who mom was, a Jewish Southern Belle, for better or worse.
Bill Levine is a retired IT professional and an active freelance writer residing in Belmont MA. He still prefers pecan pie to Boston creme.
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