Whenever I get ready to go on a long research trip, I put together a detailed itinerary, listing each library, synagogue, and cemetery I plan to visit, as well as the people I will interview or with whom I plan to meet. I make sure to add addresses, contact numbers, and hotel and rental car confirmation numbers. Once all this information is compiled, I start working on my favorite part of the trip: figuring out where I am going to eat each day.
It’s not unusual for me to spend twice as much time combing through reviews on Urbanspoon or Roadfood.com than reading through libraries’ online catalogs. Of course, I spend far more time in the archives than in restaurants, but one of the perks of my job is the chance to become an expert on regional southern cuisine. For me, this opportunity has become a serious responsibility!
Whenever I’m on the road, I try to find out about the unique regional specialties, from hot tamales in the Mississippi Delta or dry rubbed beef brisket in central Texas, to burgoo in western Kentucky. Once, when I was visiting Laredo and other Jewish communities along the Texas-Mexico border, I spent hours figuring out precisely which Mexican restaurants offered the most authentic and tastiest version of the local cuisine. I would hate to visit a town and miss the best place to eat.
But sometimes, I must take into account other considerations. When I recently traveled to western Kentucky, I was faced with the prospect of eating mutton barbecue for three days straight. Since I’ve entered my 40s, I knew that such a schedule would wreak havoc on my archive productivity (not to mention my digestive system!). So I mixed in an occasional salad and bought fruit at a local grocery store for healthy snacks. Finding green things to eat can be a challenge on the road.
One of the effects of the Immigration Act of 1965 – the most underrated federal law of the past 50 years, if you ask me – is the spread of Asian immigrants to cities and towns around the country. I have learned to scout out Asian restaurants in unusual places. I have had amazing Vietnamese pho in Oklahoma City and great pad thai in Paducah, Kentucky.
In preparation for a trip to Virginia two weeks ago, I was most excited to eat at Peter Chang’s, a new restaurant recently opened by the famous peripatetic master of Chinese cuisine, whose sudden disappearances and movements have been tracked by foodies across the country, including Calvin Trillin in the New Yorker magazine. Chang has recently opened restaurants in Charlottesville, Richmond, and Williamsburg – three cities I just happened to be visiting.
While I can assure you this was a coincidence, I’ll happily admit that his restaurants graced my itinerary three times over a four day stretch.
What are your favorite Southern specialties? What about out-of-region surprises?
When historians write about social or political transformation, they often make a distinction between “change from above” and “change from below.” Change from above comes directly from the leadership—Franklin Roosevelt and the New Deal is a good example. Change from below is brought about by the efforts of regular people, whether directly from their actions or as a result of pressures brought to bear on those in power. The Civil Rights Movement is an especially compelling example of this. In researching the Jewish history of Louisville, Kentucky, I found a fascinating instance of “change from below” that literally came from above.
Keneseth Israel was created in 1926 from the merger of Louisville’s two oldest Orthodox congregations, both of which had been established by Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe in the late 19th century. By the mid-20th century, a new generation of members had begun to chafe under the requirements of strict Orthodoxy. After World War II, the younger members of the congregation, especially its women, began to push for mixed-gender seating. In 1950, a group of female members, who normally sat in the synagogue balcony, held “sit-down strikes” in the downstairs men’s section during services. During one of these demonstrations, the police were called to restore order, and some members threatened a court injunction to stop the protests. Keneseth Israel’s Rabbi Benjamin Brilliant supported the traditionalists and refused to continue services while women were sitting in the men’s section.
Finally, the board sought to strike a compromise by allowing women to sit on the main floor of the sanctuary separated from the men by a mechitza, though this solution did not satisfy the protestors. Finally, after Rabbi Brilliant left Keneseth Israel in 1952, the congregation voted to institute mixed seating in the middle section of the sanctuary, with separate sections for men and women at the sides. Over the years, the congregation would continue to struggle with how to balance traditional Judaism with the demands of the modern world. Later, Keneseth Israel affiliated with the Conservative Movement and become fully egalitarian.
It’s quite remarkable that thirteen years before Betty Friedan published of The Feminine Mystique, which helped spark the second wave of American feminism, the women of Keneseth Israel decided to challenge the gender inequality of their congregation in such a direct way. Their effort is a perfect example of how most social change comes from pressure from below, even if it actually comes from the balcony!
Since moving to Mississippi ten years ago, I have been continually struck by the state’s rich but complicated history. One of the most overused quotes down here is from William Faulkner: “the past isn’t dead, it isn’t even past.” Indeed, my state’s past still haunts and inspires Mississippians today. For many southern whites, the past evokes tangled feelings of both pride and shame. They wrestle with the question of whether they can celebrate the bravery of Confederate ancestors while acknowledging the central role of slavery in the Civil War. The imposition of Jim Crow after Reconstruction and the violence directed against southern blacks during the Civil Rights era remain difficult for many southern whites to face, many of whom insist that this ugly history is best forgotten. Yet the wounds of this dark past are not yet fully healed, and black and white southerners still struggle with how to move forward as a unified society.
Figuring out how Jews fit into this southern story has been a central focus of my career as a historian. Recently, a visit to Columbus, Georgia, got me thinking about how Jews have interacted with the South’s conflicted history. Columbus is home to an old Jewish community that goes back before the Civil War. One of its early Jewish residents was Raphael Moses, a lawyer who moved to Columbus in 1849. Wanting to join the ranks of southern planters, Moses bought a plantation on a hill outside the city, which he named Esquiline. By 1850, Moses already owned sixteen slaves, five of whom were children. Moses focused his plantation on growing peaches, and he became the first planter to sell the fruit outside of the state. By 1860, Moses had 47 slaves working on his plantation.
During the Civil War, Moses joined the Confederate army, but was too old to serve in combat. Instead, he became Confederate Commissary of Georgia, responsible for supplying and feeding 54,000 Confederate troops. He was close with General Robert E. Lee, and was with him at the Battle of Gettysburg. Three of Moses’ sons fought for the South; one died in the war. After emancipation, Moses was shocked when all but one of his slaves decided to leave Esquiline once they gained their freedom. Moses, like other slave owners, believed in the delusional and paternalistic notion that their slaves greatly appreciated their masters for caring for them over the years. Moses became a political leader after the war, serving in the state legislature during Reconstruction. When a political opponent raised his Jewishness as a disqualifying factor, Moses wrote a famous letter asserting his Jewish pride: “I feel it an honor to be of a race whom persecution cannot crush, whom prejudice has in vain endeavored to subdue.” The irony of a former slave owner decrying persecution and prejudice was apparently lost on Moses.
When I was in Columbus, I was very excited to learn that the Esquiline Cemetery, containing the graves of Moses and his family, was still there. The plantation is long gone. The grand home owned by Moses burned down in the early 20th century. Eventually, the family sold off the 1000-acre plantation, and now the cemetery is surrounded by a housing subdivision. Parking on a cul-de-sac filled with modest homes, my local guides led me through a clearing in the adjacent woods. After a short distance, we came upon the small cemetery, ringed by a chain-linked fence topped with barbed wire. Though many of the stones have been broken over the years, a heavy sense of history still infuses this small plot of ground.
Columbus Jews today are rightfully proud of Moses. He was one of the city’s most prominent citizens, and his advancements in the storage and shipping of peaches helped make the fruit one of Georgia’s most lucrative crops. He ascended the social ranks of plantation owners, proving that his Jewishness was no barrier to entry. He is evidence that Jews were loyal southerners, and were fully integrated within southern life and culture. And yet, it’s hard to embrace Moses fully. While the names of Moses and his ancestors are etched into stone in the Esquiline Cemetery and in history books, we don’t know the names of the slaves and their children who once called the plantation home. What were their lives like? How did they respond to the opportunities and challenges of freedom? These questions went through my head as I visited the graves at Esquiline.
This ambivalence and uneasiness with the past echoes a larger tension that still permeates southern life today. White southerners often have a complicated relationship with the region’s history. That southern Jews do as well is yet another indication of just how southern we are.