The Rising Flood

I was born in Dixie. Middle Georgia, to be more precise. I was born a year before the last big flood we had this way, and obviously, I don’t remember it. The town I was born in had this post office with a steeple of sorts that could be entered and sat in for as long as you please. I had heard time and again throughout my years about how when the water came up over the steps of the bank, my mother toted me up into that steeple and there we sat, her on a stool up there and myself on her knee, to wait out that flood.

We haven’t seen water that high in Middle Georgia since.

It’s come close; I’ve seen the Ocmulgee threaten to swallow the two bridges leading in and out of town, but it never quite did get back to where it was back in 1994. If I still spoke to my mother and if I weren’t twice her small size today, I’d sit on her knee and wait out this coming flood.

I was raised in Dixie, most by a grandfather who would claim up and down and as long as the sky was wide that we were directly descended from Stonewall. His evidence was that we were born in the South and one half of my family had the same last name as him. I’d call it a stretch to assume that, and I imagine whoever is descended from Stonewall has documentation to prove it.

My grandfather was born and raised in Dixie also, hailing from Brunswick, Georgia. He was steeped in Dixie more so than myself was and perhaps am even today. I remember when I was around ten or eleven, he told me about how anything shown by Michael Moore wasn’t allowed to be played on a television in his house under guarantee of the screen getting a bullet put through it. It wasn’t long after this promise and, from what I can recall, my very first exposure to an ardent right wing belief set, that I was told the truth about such things as the War of Northern Aggression and the strange mechanisms of the coloured and yankee brains.

As a matter of fact, because of him, I’d go on to understand how the soil of this country, even the soil of Dixie, is not magical. After my parent’s divorce, I can remember talking to my father about how those nice Mexican folks who worked in the fields were “the same damn Mexicans as they were in Mexico”. Those were my exact words, and I was twelve years old. All I have today of my grandfather is the memories of his guidance and a small money clip emblazoned with the Confederate Battle Flag, both these things tucked away safely in mine and my woman’s house today.

Oh, but if there were a Dixian of my grandfather’s caliber to lead us today. I go by Olive Drab today for y’all, for a couple of reasons. I’m a man who loves our Dixie, my woman, my dog, my woman’s housecat, my future children I haven’t yet met, and the home we’ll all eventually share together. I’m a man of constant pursuit of physical and intellectual excellence and perpetual struggle towards being a good influence to my fellow Dixians.

I’m a man of environmental conscience, as all nationalists should be, and a firm believer that Dixie will be the greatest assumer of the mantle of environmental responsibility, preservation, and eventual perfection in harmony between ourselves and our soil. I’m a man who prizes small groupings on the range and Alabama’s signature barbecue sauce above the rest of them. Beyond this all, most unyieldingly I am a man of deep thought towards the current events we Dixians face, especially those of the last few weeks.

They have stirred me to anger of nuclear proportions. I didn’t know I would be writing this or considering any role beyond street activism like we had at Auburn and Charlottesville until I saw the unmitigated impiety at Durham last week, an event which took almost a full day for local police to even consider to enforce the law. When I woke up one morning, strong coloured womyn and a future gubernatorial candidate for this fine state, Stacey Abrams, has suggested that we deface Stone Mountain and obey the whims of seven-thousand-and-five-hundred coloured signatures from Atlanta to rename streets bearing the legacy of Confederate warriors and heroes.

Atlanta is a hellhole as it stands, and I’m not quite sure how we’d be able to navigate a city where every street is named after either a number, a compass direction, Martin Luther King, or a peach. I’d already known that reconstruction and the war had never truly ended, but to live through it so viscerally in this very second as I type this at the crest of this great wave is a completely new experience. This wave will break soon, and then will come that next great flood.

My name is Olive Drab, and I look forward to our free Dixie.

-By Olive Drab