Bound Miami SunPost September 24, 2009
Standard-Bearers
New Stories from the South Lives Up to Tradition
John Hood
There must be something in the muddy water south of the Mason-Dixon Line that makes folks inordinately drawn to story, especially the short story. Maybe it’s the way the form allows one to neatly arrange things that are inherently messy. Perhaps it’s that a tale seems to be best told in a single afternoon or evening. Or it could just be that the legacies left behind by writers like Eudora Welty and Flannery O‘Connor are too rich to not be continued. Whatever it is, the South does tend to lend itself to narrative. And Southerners seem ever ready to step up and do the narrating.
That’s why collections such as New Stories from the South (Algonquin $14.95) appear every year; and why every year more and more people appear to be reading new stories from the South.
The thing about it is though, as this edition’s editor Madison Smartt Bell so succinctly notes in his “Introduction,” the South, particularly the white Old South, “has pretty well gone up in smoke.” “To the traditional white and black recipe have been added new shades and strains, from Asia and Central and South America, and just about everywhere else on the shrinking globe,” writes Bell. Consequently, the rootedness which “used to be the core quality of Southern culture… has drifted into polarity with the nomadic quality of so many Southerners’ lives.”
Yet even if the South, such as it was, has long disappeared. The geography of place cannot be denied, whether you’re an arrowhead counterfeiter in South Carolina (George Singleton’s “Between Wrecks”) or burying a dead dog in an Oklahoma backyard (Clinton J. Stewart’s “Bird Dog”).
Of course Southerners don’t have a monopoly on being broke and wishing you were drunk (Kevin Wilson’s “No Joke, This is Going to Be Painful”), nor are they the only people who want to get back at the one that was loved enough to do everything they asked (Jill McCorkle’s “Magic Words”). And high school girls get pregnant everywhere (Geoff Wyss’s “Child of God”). But even universalialities such as these seem to take on a higher color when they’re told with a certain twang.
And, as Bell indicates, the twang itself has begun to go global, be it through something as simple as the Chinese take-out in Michael Knight’s “Grand Old Party” or the Little Indian immigrant song of Rahul Mehta’s “Quarantine.”
This is the 24th edition of New Stories, and its 21 tales were culled from the original 80 that Algonquin editor Kathy Pories offered up for inclusion. And though I consider myself to be relatively well-read (hey, 20 books a month has to be considered something), there were but three writers with whom I was already familiar, and only one (excluding Bell) that I had previously read. I don’t know about you, but I dig stumbling upon a scribe for the very first time. It kinda makes me feel I’m learning something.
So why not do like Stephanie Soileau’s heroine does in “The Camera Obscura” and “pick someone you like well enough and dig in.” ‘Cause chances are you’re gonna get to like ‘em more and more as you read along. And who knows? You may even end up liking their friends.