There are many reasons I like calling North Carolina home. One is my hometown. Nestled at the mouth of the Cape Fear River is a picturesque little fishing village called Southport. This is the place that shaped me. The place that made me. St. George Street is where I played tag and baseball and even “kissing man.” We played outside all day and made feasts of red plums and blackberries. This is where I played outside until the streetlights came on, and Daddy whistled that special whistle that every one of my friends knew meant it was time for me to head home. Clarendon Avenue is the place where I laid my head. My parents and four siblings shared the space but were one family in separate dwellings. Grandma’s house was two doors down. Aunt Maye’s house was between Grandma’s and Aunt Inez’s houses. On the other side of Grandma’s house was the Café and, eventually, Cousin Tim’s house.
Southport is also the home of the official NC 4th of July Festival. This festival includes street dancing and live bands of all genres. Growing up, I found the festival to be the highlight of the summer. Cousins from out of town and even out of state come home for the fun. The adjacent streets around the waterfront park are blocked off. There are food trucks and vendors of all types. While the festival is centered around the holiday, we don’t focus on the insufficient freedom that this day claims to represent. We, those of us who are blessed to be melanated, use this time of year as a family reunion type of scenario. We gather around the grill and celebrate the fact that we are yet alive to see each other’s faces.
It can be difficult and even disconcerting to return to where you grew up, and it is so extremely gentrified that you get lost driving down a street you have walked all your life. The first time it happened to me, I had a full-on meltdown, crying and snotting because I realized that my home no longer felt welcoming to me. I was angry that, once again, something that belonged to us was “discovered” by someone with more money and privilege and the wherewithal to change the look of an entire town.
They may be able to change the look, but I am happy to say that the spirit of Southport that I know is not dead. It is being preserved and kept alive by the Southport Unity Committee. I have attended several events the committee has sponsored over the years, and I have been a speaker and emcee for some of them. This year was the first time that I had the opportunity to attend the 5th Annual Kickball Game. This was not just a kickball game.
A.C. Caviness Park was packed with activities. A.C. Caviness Park is significant in our community because Mr. Alvin C. Caviness was the principal of Brunswick County Training School for a long time. This was the school that we, Black Folk, attended in Southport. Everyone of African descent who attended school for who knows how long until the class of 1969 (K-12) went to BTC.
I first noticed two gigantic waterslides at one end of the park and the colorful tents and vendors’ tables strategically located between them. Members of the committee took turns at the grill because there was free food for the kids. Between the tents and vendors’ tables and under cover of the shelter sat my cousins and friends and loved ones and classmates and the children of people I knew or remembered and went to school with and ran with reckless abandon from the park to the waterslide to the field where the games were taking place.
The beautiful thing about this day was that even though it was hot, there was shade, and a tree became the meeting post to catch up on the last 30 years since we’ve seen each other or find out how your friend’s mother is doing or informing the elder who has not been doing well that you prayed for her. It was a place to encourage and give unsolicited advice to the young’uns and to be among people who love each other and celebrate each other. I left there encouraged for our future as a people. It often feels like we cannot speak each other’s language; perhaps the interpreter we need is love.
