The Big House

Since living in Selma, I've had to get used to living in the big house. No, I don't mean a prison; I mean "big house" in the "Gone with the Wind" sense. As in, place where Massa lives. As in, place where clueless tourists visit to see the "splendor" of the Old South.

You can probably understand why I think this is pretty creepy.

When Jerome and I arrived in Selma, we learned that the apartment we'd be subletting is part of a huge historic home built in 1850. It's even listed on the National Register of Historic Places. The neighborhood, called the "Old Town District," is home to antebellum houses that once served as vacation homes for wealthy planters on vacation. Some people, namely the ones who enjoy the "moonlight and magnolias" version of Southern history, would be pleased as punch to live in a place like this. I am not one of those people.

So, why do I know live here? Honestly, I didn't know the house's history before we moved in. Also, the rent is dirt cheap. I know that's a crap excuse, but we're ballin on a budget, so we had to take what we could get. Besides, just because the house was built in 1850 and happens to be in a neighborhood of planters' homes doesn't mean that ours was built with cotton money. It doesn't mean that some rich slave owner ever lived here with his chattel. In fact, the house doesn't even look like a typical antebellum house. This is all true. But I just can't shake the feeling that this was once a house of slavery.

Now I'm conflicted. Am I taking back what my ancestors built and making it my own? You know, reclaiming this space as black space… Or am I just a black chick living in the big house?