The Briar Patch

Brer Rabbit in the Briar Patch
Please don’t throw me in that Briar Patch!

“I’m gonna knock your head CLEAN OFF!”  Brer Bear would say to Brer Rabbit, and my Poppa would say to me. It was a game we played whenever we went for a drive, if he was in a good mood. Poppa looked like a Brer Bear: big, rough, and ready to knock somebody’s head in. I usually tried to be sweet, so it wouldn’t be my head, but I could tease him without fear during the game. He would open the passenger door for me and I would hop in, then, quick as I could, I would lean over and lock his door. He would grumble and threaten while I giggled, playing Brer Bear to my Brer Rabbit. After a few minutes of his roaring, I would unlock the door and let him in. We would start our drive and we would start singing. Good moods and road trips meant music, and the first song was always Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah, then some songs from Oklahoma, a medley of George Jones, Waylon Jennings and Hank Williams, maybe a hymn or two. My father came from a musical family; he loved to sing and had a strong clear voice. My grandmother had perfect pitch, which I unfortunately did not inherit. But I always sang loud anyway: “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay / My, oh, my, what a wonderful day / Plenty of sunshine headin’ my way / Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay!”


“To those 70 million of us whose ancestors fought for the South, it [the Confederate flag] is a symbol of family members who fought for what they thought was right in their time, and whose valor became legendary in military history. This is not nostalgia. It is our legacy… Quite simply, we are up against it. Those whose profession it is to vilify the South and Southern culture and heritage have surrounded us with their perfidious propaganda. They have enormous resources. They have a national media which is almost entirely ‘woke’ with the maxims of the radical left…They don’t want to hear that our nation is fed up with ‘snowflakes’, ‘social justice warriors’ and upper class ‘victims’ of whatever the fashionable ‘oppression’ is.”  – My father, Ben Jones, former Congressman from Georgia and actor on the Dukes of Hazzard, on removing Confederate flags and statues from public spaces.


It has been over three years since Heather Heyer was killed by a Neo-Nazi during the Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville. It has been over five years since the mass murder at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston. But controversies over the Civil War have not ended, and there are new headlines daily. NASCAR and the military have recently banned the display of the Confederate flag; Mississippi is removing it from their state flag. Confederate memorials and statues are being taken down around the country at a rapid pace.

History is a dynamic process, not a static thing. We are participating in its making right now. Some people are disturbed by these challenges of nostalgia; others, including myself, rejoice.

It has been a year since I’ve published anything. I’ve written a little—sentences, paragraphs, sometimes a page or two—but I’m struggling because it has been a rough year, obviously, not just for me but for all of us. I’ve been inside my Brooklyn apartment for months, except for going out to participate in the Black Lives Matter protests, worrying my wife.

I’m also struggling because I usually write about my family and my childhood. Writing honestly requires me to bring up past events and memories, an unsettling process. A few members of my family have found what I’ve written offensive. Others have told me they appreciated my speaking up.

My family, on both paternal and maternal sides, has a history that involves intergenerational abuse and trauma. This abuse was usually directed by men at women and children, and was fueled at times by poverty and addictions. Painful patterns were passed down, and are hard to talk about without blame or rebuke. Both my parents were traumatized by their childhoods. My paternal grandfather was incredibly cruel, and I wonder what effect that had on my father’s aggressive defense of his “heritage” and “pride”.

It has been over two years, I think, since my estrangement from my father began. I won’t pretend it isn’t painful, but it isn’t unexpected. Our relationship has always been complicated. It has been difficult and wonderful to be his daughter in equal measure. Being with him was sometimes adventurous, other times stressful. During our times together, there was often tremendous focus on his fame and career, especially during his political campaigns.

Our current estrangement is due in part to political differences, over Trump, homosexuality, feminism, racism, and police brutality. It is also due to personal differences. I got angry at my stepmother and lost my temper. My stepmother has always viewed her stepchildren as a threat; every conversation I had with her was like a knife fight, and I was often left bleeding. I don’t miss her presence in my life.

As a result of this blow-up and our political differences, my father is angry at me. He dismisses me as a spoiled brat, social justice warrior, elitist snowflake, and worst of all, a Yankee. But I feel the way I do, not because of where I live or where I work or where I went to school, but because I was raised by a Southern mother who did not glorify her heritage or ancestors, nor did she downplay the racism she witnessed growing up in 1950-60s rural Georgia.

My father claims he speaks for 70 million descendants of Confederate soldiers, but how can one person feel entitled to represent so many others? That 70 million includes many Black descendants, who certainly have different opinions than his. That 70 million also includes many whites who believe in reparations, for example, my mother and myself. She didn’t give me Gone with the Wind to read, instead she gave me The Color Purple.


“Joel Chandler Harris and I were raised in the same town, although nearly 100 years apart. As far as I’m concerned, he stole a good part of my heritage. How did he steal it? By making me feel ashamed of it. In creating Uncle Remus, he placed an effective barrier between me and the stories that meant so much to me, the stories that could have meant so much to all of our children, the stories that they would have heard from us and not from Walt Disney.” – Alice Walker

My mother grew up on a dairy farm outside Eatonton, a small town in middle Georgia nicknamed The Briar Patch. When I was little and we were living in Atlanta, my parents would often take me to visit. The farm was on land that had been in my family since before the Civil War. There was always a lot happening there—kittens, porch swings, horses, tree houses, and other childhood thrills. My grandmother indulged me and my cousins and let us run wild, with just a few warnings about avoiding rattlesnakes, hornets, and bulls out in the pastures.

You may have heard of Eatonton: it is tiny, but its writers have had an outsized influence on American literature and culture. Alice Walker, author of The Color Purple, is the most famous writer born there, but Joel Chandler Harris is famous too because of the Brer Rabbit folk tales. (Brer Rabbit was the inspiration for Song of the South and also Bugs Bunny.) Flannery O’Connor lived with her mother and her peacocks nearby.

The farm where my mother grew up is just down the road from Turnwold Plantation, where enslaved peoples told Harris stories about Brer Rabbit. Alice Walker’s homeplace is just a few miles in another direction. My grandmother bought peacocks from the O’Connors. My cousins and I would chase them around the yard, to see them put their tails up. They would fly up into the Mimosa trees and then shriek and scold us from above.

“Harris…has been commended for keeping the folktales alive and accurately recording African American vernacular. However, he has also been heavily criticized for supporting slavery and contributing to the creation of patronizing and damaging stereotypes that romanticize the antebellum era.” – Emily Zobel Marshall in American Trickster: Trauma, Tradition and Brer Rabbit.

Joel Chandler Harris had kind intentions, it seems, and he transcribed stories that may have been lost otherwise. But folk tales about a trickster rabbit have been told in Africa for millennia. Harris didn’t create Brer Rabbit; the enslaved people around him kindly shared their stories with him. He did, however, create Uncle Remus to narrate the tales for a white audience, and he became famous as a result. On the strength of the stories he “borrowed” and published, he established himself as a journalist in Atlanta, doing quite well for himself.

Alice Walker, Eatonton’s most famous writer, is almost the same age as my mother, but their paths never crossed. They grew up just a few miles from each other, but in completely different worlds. Schools, churches, stores, restaurants, and theaters were all segregated in Georgia during their childhoods.  

As a child, I listened to the Brer Rabbit stories and watched Song of the South many times. I never thought critically about it; I just accepted it as entertainment, like the Muppets or Love Boat. As an adult, I was surprised when someone suggested the material was racist. But then I thought about it, and I read the stories and watched the movie again. I was horrified: Song of the South and Uncle Remus make slavery seem like a friendly, acceptable, even kind social arrangement. My childhood favorites promoted white supremacy.

I asked my mother what she thought about Alice Walker’s comments. She told me about a white man, the town pharmacist, who dressed up as Uncle Remus every year and came to her school to tell the Brer Rabbit stories. The children were all white, the teachers were all white, the storyteller was in blackface, and the school was segregated.

I also asked my mother if slavery was ever talked about, in her family (who had owned slaves before the Civil War) or at school or church or anywhere else among the white people of Eatonton. She said no. This astonished me. How could we avoid talking about such an important part of our past? I began to understand Alice Walker’s anger.

“In Eatonton, Georgia, to this day, there is a large iron rabbit on the court house lawn in honor of Joel Chandler Harris, creator of Uncle Remus. There is now and has been for several years an Uncle Remus museum. There was also, until a few years ago, an Uncle Remus restaurant. There used to be a dummy of a black man, an elderly, kindly, cottony-haired darkie, seated in a rocking chair in the restaurant window. In fantasy, I frequently liberated him using army tanks and guns.” – Alice Walker

I felt terrible that I’d never considered the racist aspects of Brer Rabbit. I also felt sad because I loved Brer Rabbit as a child—he was little and weak (like me) but was still able to outwit all the bigger critters (which I wished I could). But the truth is that the Brer Rabbit stories don’t belong to me or to other white people. He was taken from people we’d already taken too much from, and used to denigrate them, insult on injury.

The trickster tales came with people captured in Africa and delivered to the red dirt fields of Georgia, where they were treated like mules or worse. They were whipped, hanged, burned, raped, and killed. Those who managed to survive taught others the means for survival. They shared strategies for getting out of trouble, for avoiding punishment, for staying alive. They did this in part by telling tales about Brer Rabbit’s escapades.

Sometimes Brer Rabbit had to bend the rules. The rules were just for the master’s benefit anyway. Sometimes he stole, but only when he had to, and only from those who had plenty. Sometimes he played tricks, but only on those who with more power or brute strength. He was also very good at talking his way out of bad situations. For example, about to be killed and eaten, he persuaded Brer Fox and Brer Bear to throw him into the Briar Patch as punishment instead. Being born and raised in thorns and brambles, Brer Rabbit easily escaped his captors.

Brer Rabbit taught me many survival skills that I remain grateful for. But his stories and their power and magic were not truly intended for me. If I had been born on the family plantation in pre-Civil War Georgia, I would have grown up a slave owner. According to the 1860 US Federal Census, Slave Schedule,[1] my family owned human beings as well as plantations in Eatonton.

My great, great grandmother Susan Johnson enslaved 31 people. My ggg-great grandfather Allen Beall enslaved 50 people. My ggg-grandfather Bradley Slaughter enslaved 34 people. My gggg-grandfather Thomas Respass also enslaved 34 people. In just one record, for one county in one state, I can find evidence that my ancestors enriched themselves through the buying, using, and selling of 149 human beings. I also have found many other slave-owning ancestors, passing other people down like property through generations.

I hope that if I’d been born before the Civil War, I would have seen the evil of slavery and fought it, but who knows? One discovery I made while doing family research gives me hope for my antebellum self: my maternal great grandmother, Maymie Green Little, was descended from Quakers who had traveled from the Carolinas to Georgia, where they established Wrightsboro (now mostly abandoned). They were fierce abolitionists.

[1] The 1860 U.S. Census Slave Schedules for Putnam County, Georgia (NARA microfilm series M653, Roll 150) includes a total of 7,138 slaves. The transcription includes 125 slaveholders who held 20 or more slaves in Putnam County, accounting for 5,048 slaves, or about 71% of the County total.

Honoring My Ancestors: For Heather Heyer

Me, on the set of the Dukes of Hazzard, 1977

“In an era of great division, a point that is often missed in the Confederate monuments debate is that most factions rightly agree that history should not be erased. The question is in how it should be remembered.” — Dr. Susannah J. Ural, “Let Us Speak of What We have Done” is a Pandora’s Box. I always knew that there were wealthy slaveholders on my mother’s side, who owned large plantations in Georgia before the Civil War. But I had been told by my father that they were the exception, not the rule; and that his ancestors had been of a different class, working poor who couldn’t have owned slaves even if they’d wanted to. But the hours I’ve spent on research have disproven any imagined innocence of my paternal line. Census record after census record show that many of my predecessors on both sides owned slaves. Some may have owned just a few, but others hundreds. Sometimes the first names of these slaves are listed in census documents, but more often not, as they were considered property. There are no records of them beyond that, where they were from or where they were buried. Their descendants can’t build family trees.

All of my ancestral lines came to America early. They turn up in the first censuses taken in colonies in what are now Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Maryland, Virginia, and the Carolinas. A few were Pilgrims, several were Quakers (something I never knew) and a number were Huguenots (far more than I realized) who came here to escape religious persecution. Some came as indentured servants or prisoners of war, some as wealthy planters or traders. I’ve found four ancestors accused of being witches in colonial Massachusetts, and one hung for heresy. Many fought in the Revolutionary War, and many would fight in the Civil War, for the South. I qualify as both a “Daughter of the Revolution” and a “Daughter of the Confederacy” many times over. In other words, I’m the product of settler colonialism, both Northern and Southern.

Perhaps the biggest surprise was that one branch of my family tree was triracial (Native, Anglo, African). My great, great, great grandmother was Annie Jean Jacobs of North Carolina. The North Carolina Jacobs have been multi-racial for generations, and can be traced back to one slave, Gabriel Jacobs, who was freed around 1690. My father told me that my grandmother had some Native American ancestry, although he kept changing the name of the tribe: Tuscarora, or Waccamaw, or Lumbee. He didn’t say anything about her African American ancestry because it had been a family secret, I think, for years. Studying the census, I can see that my Jacobs ancestors made a choice around 1850 to present as white; they had previously identified as free people of color. Other Jacobs identified as Native Americans, and I have found records that classify the same person as “Mulatto”, “White”, and “Indian”. The more that I look, the more stories I uncover about the “tri-racial isolates” (as anthropologists call them) of North Carolina. Their histories are case studies about the complex realities of racial identity in early America. I can see on paper the effects of changing laws (for example the one-drop rule) on the Jacobs over generations.

I wish I could share these discoveries with my father, but he isn’t speaking to me, because I don’t like Trump or the Confederate flag.


When people ask me where I am from, I tell them Atlanta, Georgia. If they ask me if I consider myself Southern, I say yes. I suppose if I tracked all my days from the ages of 0 to 18, most of them would have been lived above the Mason Dixon. But I spent the first 6 years of my life in Georgia, and my ancestors have lived in the South since before the Revolutionary War. Moving as a child to the most Yankee of places—Mystic, Connecticut—didn’t change that.

For those who aren’t locals, Mystic is beautiful historic village on the coast of Connecticut, close to the Rhode Island border. The Mystic Seaport is there, and the Charles Morgan, the only wooden whaling ship left in the world. Mystic is a place where the lines between past and present constantly blur, and it is easy to time travel there (especially as a teenager on acid).

After my stepfather got a job at the Mystic Seaport, he moved us into a house on Pequot Avenue, a street that cuts across the hills above town, running parallel to the river, down to the sea. Clift Street climbs up from the river to meet Pequot Avenue at its top. At the intersection of Clift and Pequot, there is an odd little roundabout, just a circle of grass, that forces drivers around it for no discernible reason. The roundabout isn’t a speed bump or an abandoned garden; instead it served for many years as the base for a statue of John Mason, a local colonial hero.

Mason’s statue was erected to commemorate a raid that he led on the Pequot tribe in 1637, afterwards known as the Mystic Massacre: “Major John Mason… said, We must burn them, and … brought out a firebrand, and putting it into the matts with which they were covered, set the wigwams on fire. Within minutes, Mistick Fort was engulfed … In one hour, more than 400 Pequot men, women and children were killed.”

The Pequot War is a pivotal moment in colonial history; the tribe was vanquished so the English could continue to take over Connecticut. Mason’s statue was placed near the approximate location of the Pequots’ fort, and its purpose was forthright: it was to mark, in space and time, the successful displacement of natives by settlers. The local people (including some Mason descendants) who devoted themselves to the cause of raising a memorial on Pequot Avenue—a considerable investment of time, energy, and money—did not question his heroism. Their intention was that the statue would evoke awe and gratitude in its viewers. After all, without Mason, there wouldn’t be white people in Mystic, or Connecticut for that matter.

As a kid, I didn’t understand that my house was built where hundreds of Native people burned to death. But the woods behind our house scared me, and I never explored it. I waited for the school bus at Mason, sometimes leaning against him, or climbing over him, or chasing my friends around him. I read the inscription on his base again and again—“Erected AD 1889 By the State of Connecticut to commemorate the heroic achievement of Major John Mason and his comrades, who near this spot in 1637, overthrew the Pequot Indians, and preserved the settlements from destruction”—but I didn’t wonder about the story being told, let alone the stories being left out. He was huge, bronze, and he had a sword. Looked like a hero to me!

But as I grew older, my feelings about Mason and his statue changed. I was not alone. Mason and his troops, despite their best efforts, didn’t kill off all the Pequots, and descendants of the massacre survivors still live in the area. After getting federal recognition in 1983, they built a huge casino on their reservation, Foxwoods, which became a spectacular success. Regaining economic and political power in Connecticut after centuries of marginalization, the tribe again became a force to reckon with, and they directed some of that force at taking Mason down. For them, the statue was an insult, the equivalent of a murderer doing a victory dance on top of his victims, and its removal was imperative. After years of efforts by activists, Mason was relocated, peacefully, away from the site of the massacre, leaving only grass behind. There was some local fuss but certainly nothing like the deadly riots over the Robert E. Lee memorial in Charlottesville. My stepfather, an old Yankee through and through, was fascinated by the archeologists digging around his yard. He did not protest Mason’s removal, unlike some of our neighbors, but he was once a history teacher, and better prepared than most to think through the complexities of public memorialization.


When the topic of Confederate memorials started appearing in headlines a few years ago, my first reaction was their removal was a bad idea. I imagined all the statues in little towns across the South, and then Charlottesville-style violence erupting at each one because of outsiders coming into peaceful communities. Leave those statues alone, I thought, don’t make trouble!

But then a friend from Mystic reminded me of Mason coming down. The statue’s removal and relocation were reparative acts. Instead of just accepting history as told by “the winners”, Pequot activists demanded acknowledgement of other perspectives. For them, Mason is nothing to celebrate; he destroyed their culture. By challenging the established narrative of his heroism, they made room for other views, for example that colonization is a cruel and destructive process, based on theft and murder. Their perspective is valid, and could apply to many other memorials on American soil as well.

My initial resistance to the removal of Confederate memorials was due to my consideration of only one side of the story. There are several men in my family tree who fought for the South. My mother’s elderly relatives in Eatonton, Georgia, still referred to “The War” and told stories passed down about Sherman’s March (his troops stole all the food but spared the Steinway piano). My father told me more times than I can count that the display of Confederate memorials and flags is intended to “honor our ancestors”. What he never mentioned, and still doesn’t seem to consider, is the perspective of the descendants of slaves. The Civil War and its aftermath are still quite present for them too, but there aren’t any flags or statues for their ancestors, although they suffered much more than ours did before, during, and after “The War”.

Many of my ancestors once owned slaves, and fought a war so that they could keep on with that owning. There is no way to separate that truth from the existence of Confederate memorials. Public sculptures aren’t just gravestones, created to honor individual family members. They are monuments in common space that everyone sees while going about their daily business. In my opinion, we should certainly remember and memorialize our dead, but we can’t ask (or force) others to honor them, as Confederate statues in public space demand. There are many bodies in Southern ground unmarked by even the smallest of stones: the bodies of people stolen from their families, then abused, and then buried in strange soil. We should remember and honor their lives too, rather than continuing to erase their histories.


Two years ago, in July 2017, I attended a festival organized by my father, Ben “Cooter” Jones, at his Dukes of Hazzard museum and store in Luray, Virginia. Although I was glad to be with my family, I was uneasy about everything else. My father had created the festival as a response to the ongoing controversy over Confederate symbols. It had been two years at that point since the Charleston shooting, and during that time, my father had doubled-down on his defense of Confederate flags and memorials, even serving as spokesperson for the Sons of Confederate Veterans.

Because of his role as Cooter Davenport on The Dukes of Hazzard, my father still has a certain celebrity. His events can draw thousands of fans. As a public figure, his opinions carry weight and have consequences outside our family. While wandering the midway, I tried to laugh with the crowds at the monster truck races and wrestling matches, but what I really felt was dread. I kept repeating “freedom of speech, freedom of speech” to myself, as if that would fix what was going on around and inside me. My father’s anger at “Political Correctness” was spilling out more often, both onstage and off, and he was directing some of it at me, the lefty, queer New Yorker. The audience gave him validation for his beliefs, something I could no longer do.

In August 2017, just a month after my father’s festival, a group of white supremacists held a rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, a town an hour south of Luray. They came to protest the removal of the Robert E. Lee memorial. They flew Nazi and Confederate flags, burned torches, and chanted racist and fascist slogans like: “Jews Will Not Replace Us.” During the rally, James Fields, a neo-Nazi, rammed his car into a crowd of counter-protestors, killing Heather Heyer and injuring almost 20 other people. He was sentenced to life in prison for this act, after pleading guilty to 29 hate crime charges.

My father is holding another festival this summer, two years almost to the day of the Charlottesville riot. I wonder if he chose the dates that he did because he is aware that some of his fans were likely at the rally in 2017, flying Confederate flags purchased from his stores. Perhaps he is trying to offer them an alternative venue for their complaints, to make things safer for them and for those they disagree with. I hope so.

I’m sad about my estrangement from my father, because I love him, no matter what differences we have. This is not our first falling out, and perhaps we will be able to reconcile again. But it is more likely that our Civil War will continue. My father is furious because he feels that his freedom of speech is under assault, although in reality he remains completely free to fly the Confederate flag and to state his beliefs. And I’m furious too, about his demands that I respect and agree with ALL of his opinions, while not being allowed to have any of my own. It is an oppressive dynamic, a dictatorship rather than a relationship, and a double standard that is no longer acceptable to me.

Getting Above My Raising

Do you remember the Dukes of Hazzard? The television show about a moonshining, carjumping, redneck family (white trash if you are unkind)? Most people my age do remember it – the Dukes was huge in the late 70s and early 80s, and has been in reruns ever since. It went on the air in 1979, and for years was the #2 show in America, in part because of its slot right before #1, Dallas. Kids in my generation (Gen X) grew up with Dukes of Hazzard matchbox cars, action figures, lunchboxes, underroos, etc.

What made the show and its huge success surreal, and fateful, for me was that my father, Ben Jones – a stage actor based in Atlanta, Georgia – had somehow landed a co-starring role. There he was on television, every Friday night, playing Cooter, sidekick to the Duke Boys. He had a lot of lines. It never ceases to amaze me how many people know exactly who he is, from my generation and the ones before and after. He may be the most famous tow-truck driver ever.

I saw the show much more than I saw my father. I had custody visits with him at Christmas and for several weeks each summer. He and my mom split up when I was two and both remarried (in his case, several more times). She married a much older man who relocated us up North. I did not like either the man or the move. The rest of my family was in Georgia and North Carolina, but I grew up in Delaware and then Connecticut, losing my accent and close family ties.

For much of my childhood, my father was in Hollywood, earning more money than he knew what to do with. He spent quite a lot of it on going home regularly to Georgia, because he hated Hollywood and he missed his dogs. And he also spent some on flying me out to wherever he was. We would stay in Burbank while he was shooting at the Warner Brothers studios, or we would drive around the U.S. from one autograph signing to another, or we would lay low at his place in Georgia. The Georgia house was way “out in the country” – his favorite place to be. To get there, we would drive down highways, then eventually back roads, then a dirt road that went deep into piney woods. I still miss that front porch, especially its rocking chairs, perfect for reading on rainy afternoons.

My father is a large man, built like a football player, blessed with a lot of charisma and a sharp intelligence. Gregarious and opinionated, he usually dominates whatever room he is in, and charms whatever crowd he is playing for. He thrives on the attention of others and he wants to be where the action is. And he usually is; after the Dukes went off the air, he parlayed his celebrity and savvy into two terms as a U.S. Congressman from Georgia. (Not bad for a boy who grew up without electricity or indoor plumbing.) After his political career ended, he started a chain of stores throughout the South. He and his current wife make a comfortable living selling Dukes of Hazzard memorabilia.

He lives in a spectacularly beautiful place, a 50 acre “compound” (I call it) nestled in a hollow below the Blue Ridge Mountains. Once I moved to Brooklyn, I began visiting him every few months, always happy to exchange the dirty city for a weekend in the country. His favorite thing to do when I visit is to drive me around. So we spend a lot of time touring the backroads of the Shenandoah Valley and the Blue Ridge Parkway, windows all the way down and radio all the way up. My father has always been full of energy, maybe a little manic to be honest, and he enjoys the hell out of being alive. I love that about him.

But my trips to the compound were fun before Trump, when we could talk about politics and the state of the world, and agree on many, if not all, things. My father has been a Democrat his entire life, and mine, until now. His politics are about the working class, and he disdains the elites of either party. I am far more to the left and I often disagree with his take on things. Sometimes I tell him so, but not always. Disagreement provokes him and then I have to dig in for battle. He loves to debate, and at times he can get very aggressive – a trait that works well for him with fellow politicians, but not so much with me. Fighting with him over anything exhausts and depresses me. I would usually much rather just change the subject.

But there is one subject that I can’t get my father away from, and now he brings it up in almost every conversation we have: the Confederate flag. The recent controversies over that flag and Confederate monuments have resulted in fights and estrangements in many Southern families, including my own. The past few years have changed my father into a different person politically. He once took part in the Civil Rights Movement when he was a student at Chapel Hill, but now he rails against the UNC students who toppled Silent Sam.

That flag is all over the products sold in his stores. He is defiant against those who want it and other symbols of the Confederacy removed from public view. He is angry about what he sees as an erasing of Southern history and culture. He feels that he is fighting a battle against political correctness and class snobbery. His loyalty is to the people he grew up with, and who have been his audience and customers – white working class people in the South.

These people are also my people, or were until my mother moved us North and sent me to prep school and then college. She was determined that I would get a decent education – something my working class grandmother had wanted for her  – and she made sure I traveled too. In part because of this, I become more aware of nonwhite, nonSouthern perspectives. I also came to the conclusion that I don’t like the flag and don’t approve of flying it. My reasons are simple, and based on my sense of fairness. When descendants of people who were enslaved by my ancestors ask, in the name of reparations, for a change to be made, for example a flag or a monument to be taken down, I believe that I should listen to them and respect their wishes. I also don’t want to display anything connected to the multi-generational traumas (slavery, lynchings, the Charleston shooting, and other horrors) of my African American neighbors. It feels cruel, and it certainly does not symbolize the elements of Southern culture that I am proud of.

Part of what makes my conversations about the flag with my father so difficult is the tension between us about social class. Class, and moving between classes, has been a huge theme in our lives. He grew up dirt poor, an experience that continues to shape how he sees the world. Everything he has, he earned. I grew up in middle class comfort, for the most part, and I enjoyed many more opportunities than he did growing up. Of course that experience shapes my worldview too.

He paid for my college education with earnings from the Dukes. He also never fails to tell me that he is proud of my educational accomplishments (and doesn’t seem to mind that I’ve never done much with my graduate degrees). But my education also gets in between us. For my father, my lefty politics, which he thinks I picked up from my Northern elitist professors, mean that I am a traitor. By rejecting the flag, I’ve committed the ultimate sins: I’ve “gotten above my raising”, “forgotten where I’m from”, and betrayed my working class family and culture. But for me, by rejecting the flag, I am only being true to my beliefs. He always taught me to be independent, to think for myself, and to fight for what I think is right.

I don’t know where our relationship is going from here. Because I reject the flag, he feels rejected, and then he rejects me in turn. I do know my father will never give an inch on the issue. And because I am his daughter, a rebel girl through and through, neither will I.