After one of the shortest weeks from hell and two years of talking about making this trip, we finally did it. Since my cousin was moved up there by the diocese about two years ago, we’ve been trying to find a free weekend in all our busy schedules to go up there. It took a while but we finally found one and jumped on it. So, our close friend/ once-upon-a-time baby sitter picked me up from the Dirty Burg Friday afternoon and after a short stop for dinner and coffee, we were on our way to the one and only Clarksdale, Mississippi to visit my cousin.

So, Ms. Kim and I headed north in yet another spontaneous south Mississippi monsoon. Once we got past Canton and closer to Yazoo City, it got real dark and real flat. Super flat and super dark if we’re being real. We zipped on through a couple of the sketchier little small towns along the way and made our way into the second storm of the night. This time, it was raining bugs, officially welcoming us to the delta. Then we made it to Parchman, thinking better of stopping to get a picture since there are armed guards all around and getting shot wasn’t on our list of things to do this weekend.

We made it to Clarksdale and got settled into our rooms in the rectory or as they call it, the Hilton of Clarksdale. After a good night’s rest, we got up, had breakfast, and then did something so very stereotypical for southerners, shot guns. However, I wasn’t raised around guns and had only fired one on one other occasion. So, I was a little freaked out but I manned up and shot some, too.

Once we’d successfully demolished some paper targets, we strolled around the picturesque and still flat downtown area. Our next adventure was a delicious homemade Lebanese lunch at Resthaven, including raw kibbe. Ms. Kim bravely tried it for the first time despite the fact she was knowingly consuming raw beef. Still not sure how that works with health inspection guidelines but it’s tasty.

After lunch, Ms. Kim and I wandered to Cleveland to the Grammy Museum where we got to write a song, play around on different instruments, and see just how important Mississippi and the south were in cultivating Rock n Roll. Needless to say, this was one of my favorite parts of the trip.

That night, my sister drove up and we had a night out on the town in Clarksdale. The three of us went to a little hole in the wall where the ceiling was barely hanging on by a thread, AKA, Red’s. The majority of the floor space in front of the bar was being used by the band with people stuffed in on all sides, enjoying one of the great practitioners of the delta’s claim to fame, the blues. When Mr. Walker took a break and it was time for the next round of drinks, we walked over to Ground Zero, a cool but completely different, much larger space than Red’s. If you ask me, it felt a lot less authentic and more like a bar frequented by party crazed kids or adults. There’s just something about sitting on the same level as the musicians that makes it much more intimate and therefore awesome. My conclusion is: if it's a dilapidated, small joint, that's where you should go.

We ventured back to Red’s after much silliness and good covers of some classics, confirming it was the crossroads at Rosedale, not Clarksdale, where Robert Johnson sold his soul. His song, “Cross Road Blues,” says so, so it must be true. Back at Red’s, Mr. Walker was still going strong despite a very thin crowd. But the people who stay till the end are the real fans, the true music fanatics. There was even some spirited dancing before he called it a night. Thus our adventures into the delta night life concluded.

As I’m riding south back into the land of rolling hills, reflecting on a much needed weekend away, I realize the more I’m a tourist in my own state and see what lies beyond the little I know, the more I fall in love with it. But just days before, I was ready to pack my bags, move further south and hop the state line into Louisiana.

I’m sure I’m not the only Mississippi native that feels so conflicted about this strange, enchanting place we call home; it’s almost like it’s a part of living here, knowing it’s your home and feeling anchored here but simultaneously feeling this itch to get away from a place that’s still very stuck in its ways in favor of someplace where open minds are more abundant; where change is accepted as it comes, not resisted and finally made somewhat okay fifty years later. I guess it is true that most southerners have skulls as thick as rocks and an even thicker attachment to our traditions and “the way it’s always been.” Maybe we always will, or maybe one day we’ll finally get the right people in the right offices to help catch us up with the world. I’m crossing my fingers that one day we won’t be the butt of America’s jokes.

Being in the delta for the first time as an adult made me see the delta is no different than the rest of the state; if anything, it’s worse. The region is one of the poorest in the state with little change in sight. But the people up there carry on and get by however they can, just like they have for years now. It’s a region with a rich, controversial history and a unique way of life. I’m sure they wouldn’t exactly change overnight, no matter how thick and green the kudzu is on the other side.

My thought always is, “How do you go about breathing a new life into an area like that?” I have yet to come up with an answer. Perhaps persuading some entrepreneurs to invest in businesses or simply improving the school systems to grow the population would help. Something like that is easier said than done around here, though. The scary part of it is, it’s going to fall on my generation’s shoulders sooner than later. What can we do to bring this new life to the regions of our state that desperately need it? There’s no better time to start thinking about it than the present.

Baby steps, right?