Addie-Grace Cook
In first grade, we performed a play, the ABCs of South Carolina. I marched on stage, holding my puzzle letter X in a sparkly black dress like Vanna White. We held
famous people close here, as if we knew them personally- Viola Davis, Chadwick Boseman, and A’ja Wilson. We had to because when we saw South Carolina in a history
textbook, it’s normally not because of anything good. On top of that, a lot of the
true story is conveniently “left out,” focusing on the perspective of the rich, the white,
and the male. In third grade, my classmates each drew a state symbol of South Carolina, then
my teacher stitched them together in a quilt- a geometric amethyst, a wiggly spotted
salamander, and a brown rectangle labeled sweet tea.
My mom made me wear my American Flag t-shirt that day in June. The whole family piled into our blue Honda odyssey and we drove downtown. I don’t remember anything else until we were in the dense crowd, sweating. A man ran by with a giant
confederate flag. We backed up; afraid it would whack us in the face. I stood on my
tippy toes as the confederate flag of the statehouse lowered inch by inch down the sleek
silver pole. The crowd erupted. It was like finally losing a tooth that wouldn’t quite fall
out, brown and decaying, you keep wiggling it with your tongue. We walked to our car that
was blocks away. A man with something that my parents called a “boombox” strutted
by on the street, the words “Na na na na, na na na na, hey, hey, hey, goodbye” flowed out of speakers and into my ears.
On the way to the beach, we whizzed by vacant small towns, empty main streets, “for lease” signs, Dollar Generals, Arby’s, Hardees, and Pit Stops. It is easier on
the highway; easier to ignore the stillness and silence of once vibrant towns. At Edisto
beach, covered in sand, I knelt on a towel, helping my aunt dig up a nest of baby
sea turtles. My salty hair swept into my face. Using my hands like shovels, I felt a squirmy
creature wriggling in the sand. I held him in cupped hands, showing the little five-year-old’s who were slathered in sunscreen and cracker crumbs. We drew lines in the sand
to guide the turtles, throwing shells at the screeching gulls to stop them from eating
the baby sea turtles. When an unmoving turtle came out of the nest, we covered it quickly
so the kids couldn't see. I ran into the ocean in my damp bathing suit covered by a t-shirt.
The waves crashed over my head.
Today, when most people ask me where I want to go after senior year, my answer is automatic: “out of South Carolina”. I felt lost when my AP Lang teacher assigned
us the essay prompt, “How should we improve the state of South Carolina?” It seemed like
too much to fix; education, healthcare, covid-19 protocols, racial injustice, infrastructure, poverty, obesity, climate change, and more. I’ve felt shame for this
state and for our history. I’ve wished I lived somewhere else; I will be honest. But disregarding South Carolina is also disregarding the aid provided by neighbors after
the 2015 flood, the sweetgrass baskets on the country backroads and Charleston markets,
the boiled peanuts and low country boils, and the block parties and potlucks. So,
I hold them both in my mind, because the fact is, we are a messy state.
However, that does not mean we cannot improve. Such improvement does not come from partisan policy, Facebook opinion rants, or fences to keep the unknown out
and the safe in. Our only hope is to sit down on the front porch, doorstep, or apartment
balcony with another person, one who doesn’t talk like you, look like you, or believe
what you do, and look them in the eyes, hear their story and try our best to love
them. Hear their stories of elementary school plays and family beach trips, of the things
that sing South Carolina. Because if we don't love our fellow South Carolinians, we cannot
fully love our state. The only way to better this state is to take our individual
stories, lives, experiences, and sew them together like a 3rd-grade class quilt; rips, tears,
and unevenness, and all.