I took the pilgrimage to have a proper good time
- Michelle Wood: SWCD
- November 5, 2017
- 1208
Just over a week ago I hopped a plane for Nashville, grabbed a rental car and headed south.
And as a white man who shaves his head on a regular basis, I felt it prudent to overemphasize that my destination was, in fact, Lynchburg, Tennessee, the historic site of Jack Daniel’s Distillery.
That’s because only 20 minutes away were two “white lives matter” rallies scheduled during the same weekend. Given my typical appearance, I wanted to be overly sure all those who saw me knew why I was traveling in and didn’t automatically assume I judge folks based on the color of their skin.
Actually, if you must know, I choose to judge people based on other, more appropriate standards, like if they drive diagonally across a busy parking lot, how many selfies they post on social media and how they like their steak cooked. Ya know, things that actually matter.
But I digress.
I was in town for the annual Jack Daniel’s World Barbecue Championship Invitational, which, for a meathead who loves brisket and whisky, is kinda like getting sideline passes to the Super Bowl.
Thousands of folks from around the planet take the pilgrimage each year to the tiny town known for its delightful spirits: some to cook, some to eat and all to have a proper good time.
But unless you were there or somehow live in the same meaty world as I, you probably had no idea it was happening.
That’s because the only news coming out of Southern Tennessee on a national scale was focused on the two rallies. The first in Shelbyville drew less than 200 “white pride” demonstrators, who consequently were outnumbered 3-1 by counter demonstrators.
The second never got started, canceled by organizers as a result of such a poor showing at the first.
Please don’t misread where I’m going. Media need to report on this stuff. It’s their job. We can’t turn a blind eye to hate. Because, ya know, if you’re not paying attention, it just might grow.
But don’t forget about all the good going on. And in this instance, that was just 20 miles down the road.
In one weekend I shook hands, fist-bumped, hugged and clinked glasses together with Japanese, Italians, Mexicans, Scandinavians, Germans and Americans of every race, religion and ethnic background imaginable.
And it wasn’t just me. There were 27,000 others doing exactly the same. And it was all happening in the deep south, where supposedly outsiders aren’t often welcome.
As a society we have a nasty habit of giving the most attention to the least desirable aspects of our existence. It’s human nature, I suppose. Positive things just aren’t nearly as interesting most of the time.
But it’s necessary to know they’re out there. And they’re happening all the time.
When I booked my flight weeks before, it was a pretty good bet that the best part of my trip would involve what was on my plate and what was in my glass.
Never did I imagine that the biggest impression I’d take away was from those around me.