The Laurin Stennis Flag

There are a number of stories I feel like I should tell. I'm currently working on one about why there are shark teeth in Jackson, Mississippi. It involves prohibition, an awful lot of drinking, Ross Barnett, Boy Scouts, evangelical Christians, topography, geology, and a version of Jackson that was gone long before I was old enough to understand it.

I should finish it, I dunno, today or tomorrow. There's no conflict. I'm just lazy and I want to work on my play.

Usually, when there's a story I feel like I should tell, but don't tell, it's because I'm ashamed of my part in it (usually my failure in it), the complexity of going into and out of the story, or it just makes me sad.

There's a girl named Susan who I sometimes hint at that I'll never tell the whole story about because she was a lot sadder than she had a right to be and it didn't end the way I would have it end—the ending she deserved.

Once upon a time, I was invited to a virtual discussion of the Mississippi State Flag. I'm not sure why I was invited. At that point, I had not been involved in Mississippi politics or anything else for quite a while. If I poked my head out at all, it was to troll idiots on the internet. Someone remembered me, or was desperate, or remembered me because they were desperate.

At the time, everybody on the planet called it “The Laurin Stennis Flag.” Partially because she designed it, partially because she advocated for it, partly because her design had made more progress than anyone in the history of Mississippi, but mainly because her name was Stennis.

Laurin attended Millsaps at a time when I came back to Millsaps because Lance Goss had a heart attack. Just prior to the heart attack, I leaped off a ladder while stacking lumber backstage and broke my leg.

I said, “Oh my! I do believe I have the vapors! Catch me, Brent!” and he said, “What the hell is taking you so long with that lumber?”

That’s actually not true. If there was anyone I would ever stack lumber for or break my leg for, it’d be Brent. I don’t think another living creature ever taught me so much. Maybe one day I’ll break the other leg for him.

If there was ever anyone suited to redesign the Mississippi State Flag, it was Laurin. At Millsaps, she studied art and religion and became quite an accomplished printmaker, renting one of the artist studios in the warren atop Hal and Mal’s restaurant. She also has a unique spot in the history of Mississippi.

Whatever her famous grandfather might have been, at Millsaps, Laurin was generally considered a communist and a militant second-wave feminist. She and most of her friends considered me a member of the oppressive white patriarchy. They were probably right.

At the time, I’d had just about as much as I could take of women, their issues, and their problems. I had no interest at all in feminism. That’s a story I hint at sometimes but don’t tell very often. I suppose if anybody ever produces my play, the story will be out.

Laurin didn’t know it, or if she did, she didn’t believe it, but I was her biggest fan. Being the grandchild of a famous Mississippian is not an easy gig (he said, eating lunch across from Laurin in the Boyd Campbell Student Union).

She was fierce, not easily swayed, and she had a vision for Mississippi that she felt compelled to bring to fruition. She had a fire in the belly I lost long before. Still, she was a communist, and I was openly a Republican, so we didn’t get along.

She wasn’t ever actually a communist. In Mississippi, if you’re not very careful of what you say, someone will call you a communist. The only actual communist I ever met was Chokwe Lumumba (the father, not the son). He was fiercely proud of his communism and was once nearly shot by the Jackson Police Department for it.

The son claimed to be a communist but wanted to live in Eastover and keep a girlfriend. I pointed out that communists living in Eastover is literally a chapter in “Animal Farm” and cheating on a woman as remarkable as his wife was just goddamn dumb.

The discussion about the Confederate flag in Mississippi began at Ole Miss, where black athletes started saying, “I dunno y’all. I don’t really want to play football under this bullshit.” While plenty of Rebel fans were more than happy to say, “Oh yeah? Well, we don’t need your black ass!” There were enough others who said, “Now, hold on, fellas. Let’s think this through.” Confederate heritage is one thing, trying to win games in the SEC without black players is another.

It was ultimately concern about college football in Mississippi that convinced the Lieutenant Governor and others to change the Mississippi state flag, almost in a secret midnight meeting, after the good people of Mississippi voted the idea down pretty soundly. That’s another story. If you tried to bet me on whether or not a new flag referendum would win in Mississippi today, I would decline to bet and decline to comment. Maybe that’s why we can’t have referendums.

Laurin and her supporters, I think, were quite surprised that I felt very strongly that she should prevail. Maybe the news never actually reached her. I didn’t want to be a part of that fight, but I had very strong feelings about who should win. I still do.

Laurin’s a controversial character. Hard to get along with and more opinionated than she has a right to be. That’s something else we share.

Laurin’s flag is similar to the flag that ultimately became law, except the magnolia was replaced by a single star, and she didn’t have the “In God We Trust” on it. This makes it impossible to have a sewn Mississippi state flag because “in god we trust” won’t reverse. Flags generally fly outside. In sunlight, printed Mississippi state flags fade pretty quickly.

Ultimately, Laurin's flag, her ideas, and her influence on Mississippi might fade away while white men in the Capitol building take credit for the sort of underhanded way they changed the flag. One of them, I hear, is considering a run at her grandfather’s job. The patriarchy she disliked so much screwed her over, but ultimately did the right thing, just not in the right way.

In Mississippi, for some reason, we can’t ever seem to draw a straight line from where we’re at to where we’re supposed to be. When it comes to doing the right thing because it’s the right thing is something an awful lot of people are just agen’ it. Don’t ask me why.

I’ll remember, though. Whatever anybody else thinks, I’m still a fan.