BLESSINGS AND DISASTERS

A native daughter returns to Alabama, a state much misunderstood—and for plentiful reasons.

New Yorker staff writer Okeowo was born in Houston and lived there for her first six years, but her parents, Nigerian immigrants, felt more at home in Alabama. So does she: “Montgomery is the only place I consider my hometown, the place where the bare bones of my self grew and fused together and gently solidified.” Having reported for years in Africa, she finds Alabama a place similarly both “stereotyped and neglected.” There’s cause for that stereotyping, for Alabama harbors sharply antagonistic racial divides—as she wryly notes, every time her aspirational parents moved into a white neighborhood, the whites moved elsewhere, only to find that “Black people followed them there, too.” The divides are real and persistent. One of Okeowo’s chief interlocutors is a descendant of secessionists who “has an unrelenting pride in his story…the kind of pride that still revered the indecency of his elders.” Even so, he tries to connect with her and she with him, “because that’s what you do down here.” Such connections are not always easy to make: By Okeowo’s account, many of Alabama’s Native Americans, few but politically astute and relatively affluent, seem as wary of their Black neighbors as of their white ones, while the white mayor of Montgomery permitted the erection of historical markers relating to slavery only because he reckoned that they would draw tourist dollars. Okeowo ventures theses that Alabamians and others will find fascinating and provocative, among them the thought that the Lost Cause myth was in good part crafted by “certain white women” and that much of the ugliness of Alabama’s past—“Indian removal, the slave trade, Reconstruction, and Jim Crow”—is absent by design from official histories and “public stories.”

Okeowo delivers a portrait of a past-haunted place that is at once empathetic, sad, and troubling.