In the South... Not the sunny south of Florida, but the Southern South, where they eat grits, fried chicken, and tawlk with lowng drawn ouwt vouwels. This is the south which seceded, in which the first shots of civil war were fired, and battles were fought from forts and plantations over the fundamental right of freedom. I read yesterday on an old man's t-shirt, "Freedom Isn't Free!" and unless I have missed something significant, it wasn't for the rights of those who were not free, for which the south was fighting. In this regard it has been disheartening to experience the "patriotic" flavour of the South. I love the places geographically and esthetically, but I could feel an almost imperceptible segregation that still lingers in the cities, in the parks, and in the unmentioned history in the museums. I had to question if we really have established freedom?

I found my answer in the heart of Yule-May, a delightful widow of African descent. We met in Savannah at the First African Baptist Church founded in 1777 by slaves. We sat on a wooden pew engulfed in the harmony and synchronization of the Hallelujah Train Choir. I was weeping, she was clapping, as the choir sang their story and the preacher "preached" their history in that old southern gospel way. This all Black church has freedom but it wasn't established on a battle field or by a charitable government. It is defined within their being, and their souls have clung to it throughout all the opposition and challenges they have faced. Freedom is a verb and it lives within you.

As Yule-May so graciously challenged me - a white woman blessed for no good reason - I wonder, am I truly free?