I drove up to the small town of Ball Ground (just north of Atlanta) this morning to help celebrate the 89th Birthday of my father, Harold Hulon Saye Sr.
What a JOY both my parents are! They still make me laugh like nobody else can.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD!
I drove up to North Georgia last weekend to visit my undergraduate alma mater, Berry College and the city of Rome.
And look at this pretty Roman lady I ran into:
I hadn’t visited Rome in years, but I knew my first stop (since lunch time loomed) had to be the Partridge Restaurant on Broad Street downtown.
I loved this restautant as a student. (Would it still be as good???)
They serve up the southern cooking family style. Well actually Kyra Sedgwick from TNT’s The Closer does! Look!
Not only did she have the physical resemblance, but my incredible waitress sounded just like the Deputy Chief Brenda Johnson character, if not a tad more Southern. Her real name is Wilma Temples, and I LOVED her. When she asked me if I liked the fried chicken,
(now that’s a piece of fried chicken)
and I told her that yes, it was delicious, she clapped her hands in delight.
What an incredibly tasty meal!
(Wait, look, there she is again, right behind me.)
But on to Berry College I stufflingly (for this post, let’s pretend that’s a word) went. Next stop: Oak Hill, the antebellum family home of Berry Founder Martha Berry.
And the backyard:
My childhood home doesn’t quite look like Martha’s:
What a wonderful feeling to drive through Berry’s main gate again, The Gate of Opportunity. And at nearly 30,000 acres, Berry College boasts the world’s largest campus.
Ridiculously silly video introducing Dana Hall (toward the end I got distracted by students who yelled at me from their car):
I somehow managed to convince an RA to let me into my former dorm, Dana Hall and found my old room, #235.
I also tried to tell the kids about the cool Sock Hops we used to have, but they looked at me like I was from another century. (Just hush.)
Outside Dana Hall:
The Berry Chapel:
Pausing at Martha Berry’s gravesite. Yes, it’s right there next to Dana Hall beside the chapel.
And on to arguably the most beautiful section of campus, the Ford complex (Henry Ford funded this part of Berry).
I used to eat in the Ford Dining Hall below. (Also the site for yesteryear’s Sock Hops that those baby Berry students knew nothing about.)
Ah, the memories.
Finally, I drove about five miles (yes, still on Berry property) to the old Berry Academy part of campus to see my favorite spot of all, the Old Mill.
Believe it or not, we used to try to (illegally) climb that thing!
But not anymore. Nowadays these boots are just made for walking. And sitting.
What a great Rome-ing day.
I have been so blessed to be a part of three beautiful and top-notch schools: Berry, Georgia Southern University and now SCAD (the Savannah College of Art and Design).
Other related posts and links:
“My Berry”:
New life helps you see clearly.
August–the time of year when school bells ring again. Teachers everywhere commence their incredible annual charge of encouraging students to develop their true sight, their true voices, and their intellectual joy. School at every level should be a haven where young learners want to be. And the teacher, though underpaid and overworked, is key. Some years back, as I spent a summer month participating in the Georgia Southern Writing Project, I was asked to write about what birthed the teacher in me. I knew immediately the answer: The World’s Smallest Lady.
The World’s Smallest Lady
As I dialed the telephone recently to check on the condition of the terminally ill father of a childhood friend from my hometown, I kept trying to keep the memory from surfacing. I hadn’t thought about it in ages. An incident from several decades ago surely didn’t still have the power to take control of my thoughts, to interrupt my life. But the truth is, that memory is too powerful to ignore, too embarrassing, too haunting to dismiss. And as I listened to Ricky’s phone ringing in one ear, the years faded, and the jumbled noises of an old Cherokee County Fair started sounding in the other, accompanied by reminiscent sights and even smells, which are such an integral part of a southern autumn carnival…
…I was thirteen, old enough to know better. Ricky, Fred, and I had just staggered off The Bullet and found ourselves walking down Freak Show Alley. Outside one attraction, a hawker was shouting at passersby to “Step inside and see The World’s Smallest Lady! Only twenty-six inches tall! For only a quarter!” So, laughing, into the tent we hurried, just the three of us.
And there, surprisingly close to us on a small black round table, stood what indeed had to be The World’s Smallest Lady. She was dressed in a little gaudily sequined gypsy outfit. A short screaming-red skirt revealed two chubby stumps of legs. But she wasn’t a child, even though she was so tiny. Her face looked old, and I could see wrinkles beneath the cheap, garish make-up. It was her very large head, however, topped with a gaudy, shiny gold crown, which really captured my attention. I couldn’t stop staring, and why should I? I’d paid my quarter.
So we gawked and snickered, three carefree young teenagers at the fair, secure and even innocent in our youth, our health, our futures, our “normality.” Then Fred loudly whispered, “Damn, y’all, look at the size of that head compared to the rest of her body. And her butt is bigger than mine!”
But it was Ricky, the member of our inseparable trio capable of doing and saying anything for a laugh–who, in reckless teenage cruelty, did the unimaginable. Before anyone had time to react, Ricky stepped over the velvet rope, reached out to The World’s Smallest Lady, and jerked her gypsy skirt down to her ankles. He ran out of the tent, followed by Fred, giggling and yelling, “Neal, let’s get out of here!”
But I couldn’t. My feet were glued to the sawdust, and for a second or two, my eyes looked directly into those of The World’s Smallest Lady. The dimension of time ceased, no one existed except for her and me, and those humiliated, prostituted, tiny eyes took away my innocence and my security. As I stared, and stared, the plates beneath my small, comfortable, well-defined earth were shifting, ever so slightly, quaking. Finally, as she reached down, pulling up her skirt to cover her nakedness, The World’s Smallest Lady spoke in a voice that seemed more resigned than angry: “You boys can just go to hell.”
As I hurried out of that tent and away from that sawdust and those piercing eyes, a startling transformation occurred, the full impact of which I wasn’t aware at the time: a sideshow midget, a twenty-five cent carnival attraction, a freak, became a regular human being with regular human feelings in the frightened yet awakening eyes of a thirteen-year-old boy.
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I learned from my encounter with The World’s Smallest Lady the danger and horror of living in a world where we construct walls which establish the category of “other”–with ourselves being the privileged, the truly knowledgeable, the valuable, the ones who really count, the normal…and “other” being defined by gender, race, class, IQ, physical disability, sexual orientation, etc. I learned that when we cast our dominant “gaze” patronizingly on others, we diminish ourselves as human beings as well as do violence to those we belittle. I also learned–years later and after much reflection and life experience–that a teacher is one who refuses to allow the binary of “us/them” to operate in (or outside) the classroom.
May the new school year be one of JOY for students and teachers the world over.
NealEnJoy 