7 September 2023

The first official day of my fellowship in Spartanburg. The name sounds formal and official: the Southern Studies Fellowship in Arts & Letters. I’m a Watson Brown fellow. Or something like that. Several organizations and people got involved to make this possible.

THAT doesn’t feel daunting.

In reality, the fellowship started earlier. Didn’t it? I had to pack and decide what to bring across six states from Chicago, a city I’ve rapidly grown to love (although it may never replace my years in NYC). Maybe it started before that: the oscillation between excitement and anxiety about moving to a college town (or “town of colleges” as I’ve learned) in the Deep South, away from people and places that I want to be in my life. Will I be far enough away from book-banning school boards and politicians who frighten like kittens with the explosive boom of young minds expanding and critically thinking about the world? Will I face snide remarks if my boyfriend holds my hand in public?

I’ve met my cofellow - Mo Kessler - a fantastic sculptor who, like me, has lived East and North and South. We’re eager to get to know each other and explore how things and words can tell a story together. The folks at Hub City Press and Chapman Cultural Center share in this excitement.

An unexpected question keeps percolating: am I really here? Long-term fellowships that provide housing and at least a small stipend are… lost unicorns. At least in the U.S. The past concept of “patronage” doesn’t really exist here. Lately, I’ve thought about the WPA from my grandparents’ era: the government hired creatives to write, photograph, paint, draw, design… resulting in tremendous cultural output. A priority that vanished.

This new adventure feels a tad iridescent, almost like the world will shift if I walk toward that rainbow.

Don’t wake me just yet.