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Georgia
A few miles past the state line a blue pickup with a loose muffler and a confederate flag hanging largely in the rear window rumbles by close enough to nearly clip my left hand. The force of the wind pushes my bicycle strongly to the shoulder and all at once a beer bottle hurtles end-over-end just inches from my head.
I glance off the roadway and catch glimpses of poverty such as I have never seen. The squalor is overwhelming. Young black children stand or sit motionless on the porches, partly clothed or naked in the trees. There is no laughter and rarely the bark of a dog. A thin plume of smoke rises from a stovepipe. After a while I try not to look their way oddly feeling guilty. Maybe that lady in Memphis was right, ‘rich white kids on vacation.’ There are other shacks so deep in the woods the outlines are barely visible. My troubles are miles away.