Just One Night in Mississippi
A taste of the South's diversity, vibrance, and sense of community—found in Meridian
It was an easy fifteen-minute streetcar ride from the French Quarter to the Union Passenger Terminal, where my train left for Meridian, Mississippi at 9:15 in the morning. In the waiting hall, I admired Conrad Albrizio’s lively murals sprawling across the walls. Amtrak announced my train, and I boarded and settled in for the four-hour ride. As we crossed Lake Pontchartrain, I gazed out the window, listening to the rhythm of the rail. My stop in the town of 34,000 would be a quick layover on the way to Atlanta. After Atlanta I would catch a flight and begin my journey back to Australia, where I’ve lived for the last decade.
Some backstory is required. I’m an American woman, age thirty-six, born and bred in South Carolina, having lived in Kentucky and North Carolina as well. In July of last year I decided to embark on a Southern adventure and explore more of the regions around where I grew up. For five weeks, I took Amtraks, Megabuses, and Greyhounds to the soul of America, writing about my time and interviewing people along the way. It started in Austin, Texas then carried on through Arkansas, Tennessee, Kentucky, the Carolinas, Georgia, Alabama, and Louisiana.
In July of last year I decided to embark on a Southern adventure and explore more of the regions around where I grew up. For five weeks, I took Amtraks, Megabuses, and Greyhounds to the soul of America, writing about my time and interviewing people along the way. —Alexandra Morris
Mississippi was my final destination before I flew out of Atlanta. This would be my first time in the Magnolia State. When planning the trip, I debated painstakingly over which of the four Mississippian cities on the Crescent Line to disembark: Meridian, Hattiesburg, Laurel, or Picayune.
What I know of the Home of the Blues is its renown for poverty. I know that it’s the state where Emmett Till was lynched—that sensational, devastating crime a symptom of a more entrenched culture of white supremacy. I know that Mississippi only swapped its confederate battle emblem for a Magnolia flower in 2021, after George Floyd’s murder shook the nation the year before. Underneath the white magnolia are the words “In God We Trust.” Like the rest of the South, Mississippi holds a cruel history of enslavement. But also, Mississippi is home to more African Americans per capita than any other state.
I opted for Meridian, the last stop before the train left the state, splitting my trip to Atlanta up as evenly as possible, time wise. The train arrived at Union Station at 1:30 pm, and I strolled into the humid Meridian heat. The first thing I noticed was the star-lined sidewalks, named after artists of every creative discipline with a connection to Mississippi. I recognized names like Jerry Lee Lewis, Robert Johnson, John Lee Hooker, and Margaret Walker. It was like Southern Hollywood, and I was plum star struck.
Determined to stay close to town, I used what was left of my rapidly dwindling budget to book the ThreeFoot Hotel, a recently restored art deco building, built in 1929. It was beautiful, but more importantly, the only option within walking distance from the train station. (No hostels to be found in Meridian.) I dropped off my backpack and headed out again. I ate an enormous “vegetable” plate at the oldest restaurant in Mississippi, Weidmann’s, circa 1870. They served me incredible turnip greens, a fried green tomato, macaroni and cheese, and a cornbread muffin while I eavesdropped on two men at the bar. They were drinking and talking sports, guffawing and debating how dangerous it is to visit New Orleans these days.
Next I wandered down the street into the Mississippi Arts and Entertainment Experience (nicknamed The MAX), and realized I might be falling in love with this place. Over the course of my trip, I’d visited so many great venues and museums, but this one stuck out like the last piece of peach pie at a potluck. The museum celebrated the legacies of people like Sam Cooke, Ida B. Wells, William Faulkner, Tammy Wynette, Muddy Waters, and so many more. While I was there, I managed to meet the museum’s interim president, Laura Hester. “This is the way that we can showcase the best that Mississippi has,” she told me of the MAX. “Our Southern roots and culture are really expressed. We have a welcoming city, a welcoming community.”
She explained that when considering which of the many Mississippi icons the museum features, “it’s always about who inspires, who people can relate to, understand, and aspire to be. We want a child to walk through our doors and find inspiration. How can they see success?”
For Hester, Oprah Winfrey does a great job of this. (Oprah was born smack dab in the middle of Mississippi, in Kosciusko.)
Impressed and moved by this massive music and arts museum, I wandered up the street to the Brickhaus Brewtique and found myself sitting down with the owner Bill Arlinghaus and his parents, Bill and Sandy. All three had decided to move from Michigan to Meridian. Bill (the owner) told me that downtown Meridian was the safest part of the city.
Before long, I found myself getting tipsy, increasingly intoxicated by this interesting little town. As I walked back to my hotel, I noticed a crowd of people in lawn chairs in front of a platform adorned in American flags and other patriotic banners. A man in a cowboy hat cracked jokes into a microphone. Earlier that day Laura had mentioned that there was an upcoming election.
In my hotel room I banged out a story about New Orleans for my Australian readers before heading up to the ThreeFoot’s rooftop to enjoy a cocktail—a “Mississippi punch” of course, a simply sensational beverage made up of rum, whiskey, and lemon juice. The sun set over Meridian, and then I went back to the Brickhaus, curious if things got as wild on a Tuesday night as Bill claimed.
An hour later, I was back in their courtyard, surrounded by locals and cigarette smoke. Everyone had stories about life in Mississippi. I learned of the upcoming anniversary of a highly-publicized killing of local police officer Kennis Croom. Politics came up, division in America came up, Meridian’s lack of traffic (repeatedly) came up. Then suddenly I was howling Pat Benatar lyrics at the front of the bar with a wild woman named Cristy.
The next morning I woke up dusty but on a mission. Sandy had introduced me to Jacque Harms, general manager of the city’s WTOK TV station. Their headquarters were right up the street from the ThreeFoot.
Harms showed me around and told me about herself. A storm chaser from Nebraska, she moved to Mississippi just four years ago.
”To truly experience diversity, it’s in the South,” she told me. “What I was woefully lacking in the first fifty some-odd years of my life was a true understanding of what the South was really all about and its role in history and the flavor and the soul that it gives this country.”
Like Hester from MAX Museum, Harms had poetic things to say about this part of the world.
"Folks in the South have such a tremendous soul and a big heart and will give you anything you ask for. Their struggle is real; their success is real. There’s such a rich music history because folks just sing and tell stories from their heart like no one else will,” she told me.
Over the course of about twenty-four hours, I had met so many transplants here in Meridian, and I was about to meet one more. After WTOK, I had lunch at Jean’s, which had been repeatedly recommended to me by the locals. My friendly waiter, Stephen Thomas, was hard at work; we only had a moment to talk. A Black gay man originally from Texas, he has a lot of friends from the Lonestar State who look out for him. But people have his back here in Meridian, too.
“It’s a lot more receptive than I would have thought when I first moved here in 2011.”
I wolfed down my tomatoes, fried okra, and sweet potato soufflé, and thought about my short time in Meridian. I wanted to savor it all just a little bit more. But I had another train to catch.