[Opinion] Jackson Loves Jackson

File Photo

"Fearless" Jackson Breland.

by Jackson Breland
July 8, 2009

When I made the decision to leave Ole Miss and venture down to Jackson, I was admittedly scared. While taking breaks from epic “Halo 2” battles and scourging fraternity pledges, I had caught breaking news flashes of Jackson’s zany mayor busting into residential buildings and wearing Kevlar vests.

I thought this was totally awesome. But the idea that a metropolitan city was in such terrible shape that the mayor was able to act as an officer of the law was frightening.

Classmates from Jackson spoke of the city in hushed tones, as if it were a town on the cusp of extinction. Some spoke of their hometown with pride, treating their driver’s license as if it were a badge of courage. This did not sound like the perfect vacation spot. Why didn’t Truman just nuke this Gomorrah?

Funny how things change.

In October 2008, I was sipping on a smoothie at the Main Squeeze Juice Bar in downtown Oxford, hiding from my graduate studies and reading an article detailing corruption in bingo parlors across the state. I was intrigued. After finishing my fruity drink, I flipped to the cover of the free publication to figure out what paper had the gonads to research a story as controversial as this. It read: “Jackson Free Press.”

I gasped. That city hadn’t burned to the ground, yet?

I then read another article. Then another. The paper had some spunk, I’ll give ’em that. An advertisement then caught my eye. “Intern at the JFP.” Alas, a way to temporarily escape the accounting ledgers that torment me in my sleep. Jackson, Miss., here I come.

Last February, I arrived in Jackson with only a pile of dirty clothes and a red “Masters” golf tournament cap. I quickly met new people and reconnected with old friends. I found a quaint apartment, and through the graciousness of the owner/saint, was able to secure a more-than-charitable payment system.

Something else happened: I soon realized Jackson wasn’t that bad. In fact, it wasn’t bad at all. I was enjoying myself immensely. I wasn’t afraid to stroll through downtown with friends at night to take in the scenery. I wasn’t afraid to talk to strangers. I wasn’t afraid to be myself. Jackson was doing just fine. (No pun intended.)

I’ve also found that Jackson is full of characters—ranging from the late Frank Melton to my neighbor who has shared intimate secrets with me that are too bizarre to reveal in this article. I’ve met Rastafarians and trustafarians, libertarians and vegetarians, Democrats and Dixiecrats—you name it. The diversity has been refreshing. Unique personalities interacting despite differences in race, ethnicity, creed, color, favorite Beatles album, etc: This is my kind of town.

In addition to finding these treasures, I also found a female friend. She is more educated than I and drives a nicer car. She is older and potentially wiser. We are similar in many ways, but very different in our beliefs.

She, for one, worked for Ronnie Musgrove this past election season when he ran for the Senate. I am so apolitical it would make you sick. She backed Barack Obama, and I never registered to vote. She believes in free speech. I believe in free guns. She hates pizza, and I bleed Pizza Shack. We both love Netflix, however, and the world is right again.

Recently, we were taking a morning walk around Fondren and happened upon the Jackson Women’s Health Organization. Although I hold no opinion on abortion rights because of the dense gray areas, I strongly disagree with unruly individuals protesting outside a building where impoverished women are contemplating making one of the most difficult decisions of their lives.

From across the street, I angrily glared at the clueless, heartless bags-of-hate. Next to these apes were children. Children. How sick do you have to be to enslave your kids to wave signs protesting an action they do not comprehend?

With her by my side, I openly remarked, “Who would do such a thing?”

“I would,” she replied. She has a dry sense of humor, so I knew she was joking.

“I mean, I did,” she again answered. I was in shock. The joke was over. In fact, there was no original humor. The girl walking next to me—the Obama supporter, Musgrove apologist—had once stood in the very same spot as these screaming pedestrians.

We debated a bit longer and finally settled on the notion that we don’t know enough about the subject to seriously consider ourselves “well-informed.”

This is why I love Jackson. You can meet anybody and everybody, and swear that no two people are alike. Everyone seems to have a quirk.

Former JFP staffer Bryan Doyle recently opined, “Move to Mississippi.” Well, I take that one step further: Move to Jackson.

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