My son, Eli, and I spent the weekend at Talladega, a NASCAR track in Alabama. It was our first NASCAR event.
I might love NASCAR, the wholesomeness of it, the innocence, the obliviousness, the sensuality, the Americanness; the families and strollers and pretty young couples, the people in wheelchairs and limping behind walkers, the t-shirts and hats in team colors boasting car and driver and Sharpie-scrawled signature, the adults in fake racing suits to match the Nomex suits of heroes, the young kids darting through the crowds unsupervised and free, the booty shorts and tiny tops and cowboy boots, the lesbian couples, the POC (not many but they’re there), the mixed race couples holding hands, the well-put-together gay guys, the stern young VIPs with their laminated VIP cards and long strides. And yes, the drunks. But not many. And the Trump swag, but not much of that, either.
Talladega seats 175,000 people. Wading through the crowds, the gentleness, the politeness, the respectfulness as elbows, shoulders, hips and feet inevitably collide is a cacophony of “excuse me” “my bad,” “ya’ll go ahead,” “ya’ll have a nice day.” There’s the holding of doors and stepping aside. There’s chattiness and jokes in the seats and standing in line for pulled pork, fries and a Bud Light (I couldn’t help myself…). There’s the pre-race “Garage Experience” where fans can talk with the crews of their favorite cars. I had a long chat with Jeremy from the #34 Love’s team, no condescension or hurry, just nuts and bolts car talk.
NASCAR is pro-wresting with a roll cage. It’s a show. It’s a suspension of belief. It’s made-up cars competing in a made-up event; it’s half-million dollar, purpose-built machines driving around a 2.77 mile oval 188 times, every turn a left turn. The race cars are cars that vaguely resemble street-going grocery-getters. And have nothing else in common with the cars parked in front of the Piggly Wiggly, not engine, not drivetrain, not chassis, not brakes, not tires; nothing is shared but a brand logo and the profile of the bodywork (which is measured with lasers to ensure nobody’s cheating. Although, as they say in NASCAR, “If you’re not cheating, you’re not trying.”) So, next time you go car shopping, don’t buy a Ford Mustang because you saw Michael McDowell in the #34 Love’s car go fast in one at Talladega. The car your dealer wants to get you behind the wheel of will be different, much different. Besides, Michael came in 21st. We’d hoped for better.
The joy of NASCAR is primal. Lap after lap, there is a clutch and release to the roar of thirty-eight five-hundred horsepower V8 engines (less crash attrition), a rhythmic rise and fall in sound that every 50 seconds or so builds to climax, pummeling the ears, eyes and psyche with the raw power of its decibels and spectacle. As the cars thunder past in a 200 mile-per-hour rainbow blur, the decibels drop and fade and there is a drained and weary bliss in the stands, and a shame that isn’t talked about. The shame lasts until the next lap when the decibels and joy build again. It’s exhilarating. It’s exhausting. It’s embarrassing.
It could be that NASCAR is America at it’s finest, gentle, polite, accepting, funny, loud, oblivious and weirdly sexy. It celebrates a world that is fast leaving us and we have no idea where it’s going. Amid the tumult of change and fear, America stands once again at a crossroads, struggling to live up to our ideals and promise, struggling to recognize our greatest strength, our greatest asset: our neighbors. Old fashioned ideas about gods, race and the penis are a distraction in the battles for America’s promise. At Talladega, that promise, those ideals are on their feet in the stands. I think I might love it.
It was 96 degrees yesterday in Montgomery, Alabama. I sat in the shade under the canopy of The Legacy Museum and had a conversation with the security guard. Her name is Ivory. We talked for an hour.
She’s sixty-two and remembers as a child helping her great-grandmother pick cotton, dragging her small sack through the fields following after Big Mama. She remembers riding the Trailways bus into Montgomery for groceries, and the long walk back to the farm in the evening lugging groceries from the bus stop.
Ivory spent thirty years working for the Montgomery County Sheriffs Department in Juvenile Detention. When she retired, she went to work part time for the firm that provides security to the museum. She has four kids, Bakith, Anthony, Precious and Marquis. Only one of her children is biological, the other three she adopted from the detention center. Anthony was a preemie and spent months in the NICU before she brought him home. Precious was five when Ivory adopted her.
Ivory was a single mother. Her mother helped. Ivory took mornings and nights. Her mother did the cooking, was there after school and made sure they did their homework.
Bakith is an over-the-road truck driver, he owns his own rig. Anthony lives in Montgomery and works for Hyundai. Precious is married and lives in Pensacola. Marquis lives in Birmingham. Ivory has sixteen grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. Over the Fourth of July, there was a first-birthday party for one of her great-grandchildren and all four of her kids were there.
I asked Ivory about the museum, “The museum is difficult, it’s a lot to stomach.” I asked her where I should go in Montgomery; she encouraged me to go to the new waterpark.
Ivory has a sister. Her sister had several miscarriages before George was born. He was her only child. Four years ago, George was killed. His pregnant girlfriend’s new boyfriend shot him, six times while he was standing then emptied the gun into his body as he lay dying on the ground. George’s daughter is six, his son, who wasn’t born when he was killed, is four. Ivory’s sister is fifty-three and drinks heavily now.
Two nights ago, I stayed at Jackson’s Trace motel in Sylacauga, Alabama. In the morning, Alexander from two doors down told me he had chest pain and that he’d had open heart surgery, he yanked down the neck of his t-shirt to show me the scar. The shirt was stained and already so stretched it didn’t take much yanking. He said his house had burned down and his car had been vandalized and that he needed to meet with the judge. Cornelius, another neighbor, was born and raised in Sylacauga and wanted to talk about the Revival. He’s unemployed looking for a job.
I stopped at Heart of Dixie Harley Davidson in Pelham, Alabama to pick up a quart of oil. They have at least one black customer.
Heart of Dixie Harley Davidson
White guy in golf shirt, Bermuda shorts, flip flops in a parking lot asks about The Revival and me. I said I was here to talk with people I might not agree with, to try to break through the media filter. He said, “I’m with you. I watch Tucker every night”. He was on his way to the waterpark with his wife.
I motored past a roadside stand selling jellies and pickles and turned around and went back. I got some blueberry jelly for Jane and some sweet pickles for me. Jayde was a victim of sex trafficking by men in the Marine Corps and unable to escape. Her mother hadn’t believed her. She’s 36 and has been in the program for two months. She talked for several minutes.
City of Lights Dream Center is a 12-month support program for drug rehab, victims of domestic violence, poverty and the like. They asked me to write about them. Photo left to right: Jordyn, Jayde, Kim, all in the program. The jam and pickles were twelve bucks, I gave them a twenty and told them to keep the change.
I chatted with Hehe last night at the Redwood Inn while I was doing my laundry. She’s fourteen going into her sophomore year. Her parents are from Mumbai and own the motel. She’d never been to India and wanted to hear about it, wanted to know if I’d liked it. I told her that Jane and I were engaged at the Taj Mahal. Hehe has three sisters, two are in college. It looks like Grandma lives here, too.
In the Army, Billy T was a friend and roommate. He was from Chattanooga. I thought I’d try to look him up.
