Mississippi Expat: Beth Kander
"Somehow even after leaving Mississippi, I keep developing new connections there. I’m no longer a resident, but I’m still part of the Mississippi community."
What does it mean to call Mississippi home? Why do people choose to leave or live in this weird, wonderful, and sometimes infuriating place? Author and playwright Beth Kander spent eleven formative years in Jackson, Mississippi, before moving to Chicago. “Mississippi doesn’t just fit into my definition of home—my time there truly helped me come up with my definition of home,” she writes. Though chances are slim of Beth moving back to Mississippi, she still continues to develop and nourish new connections here. Beth’s forthcoming novel, I Made It Out of Clay, will be published in December, and she’ll be back in the South soon for book events! Today Beth shares how living in Mississippi shaped the person she is now.
Where are you originally from? When did you move to Mississippi?
The “where are you originally from” question is a tricky one for me. I was born in Chicago, but my family moved to rural Michigan before my first birthday. So while I was technically born in Chicago—and now, I’m raising my kids here!—I didn’t grow up here. I lived in four different small midwestern towns by the time I was eight, and I was homeschooled. So even when folks prod: “Well, where did you go to high school?”…there’s still no actual answer.
You know what? I’m just going to start saying my origins are mysterious. People love mysterious origins, right?
In the wake of my enigmatic youth (mysterious origins!), I left for college in Boston at seventeen. When I graduated, at barely twenty-one, I moved to Jackson. I never could have imagined transplanting into the warm southern soil as well as I ultimately did. Though the opportunity that initially brought me to Jackson was a two-year fellowship, I wound up staying in the area for over a decade. To this day, I have more ties to Mississippi than probably anywhere else.
It’s too easy to say “the people,” but you know what? It’s the people. There’s an interconnectedness in Mississippi that I’ve never found anywhere else.
When did you move to Chicago and why did you move there?
The short answer is that we moved to Chicago in 2014 because my husband, Danny, had a job offer. The longer answer is that we’d been eying Chicago for quite some time. My brother lives here, which was a huge selling point. Danny and I are also both Theatre People, and Chicago has a great theatre scene, and several of our Mississippi theatre friends had already made the move up I-55 to Chicago… but leaving Jackson was still a complicated and emotional decision (also, I had not missed northern winters). Still, when opportunity knocked, we decided to mix metaphors and take the leap! We got married in March at the Ohr O’Keefe Museum in Biloxi; by early April, we were settling into an apartment in Lincoln Square; not long thereafter, parenthood shook things up even more.
What does “home” mean to you? How does Mississippi fit into that definition?
Much like the trickiness of the “where are you from” question, for a long time, I struggled to define “home.” Having moved around so much (and layering that in with immigrant grandparents and a whole mess of other complex family lore; mysterious origins!), I felt I could neither claim nor be claimed by any particular place. So instead, I sought out the people that always felt like family to me: theatre people, book people, the volunteers at animal shelters and afterschool programs and marches. And then, you know. I made them dinner, showed up for their events, volunteered and auditioned and cheered for them. I offered people what I was longing for, and in so doing, found what I needed.
Recently I came across the Yiddish word doikayt, which translates to something like “place-ness” or “here-ness”; it means wherever you are, that’s where you can—and must—make a home for yourself. I immediately thought, Yes, yes, that’s what I’ve been doing! I want to claim that approach to home-making.
Which is all to say, Mississippi doesn’t just fit into my definition of home—my time there truly helped me come up with my definition of home. It’s a definition rooted in radical belonging, a value instilled in me early by my parents and honed by throwing myself into new situations. Home is about “here-ness.” Being present, and welcomed, and welcoming. It’s where we pitch in with dinner prep before we’re asked. It’s where more is expected of us, and more is offered to us. That’s what my life looked like when I lived in Mississippi, and what makes it still feel like home.
Recently I came across the Yiddish word doikayt, which translates to something like “place-ness” or “here-ness”; it means wherever you are, that’s where you can—and must—make a home for yourself. I immediately thought, Yes, yes, that’s what I’ve been doing! I want to claim that approach to home-making.
What do you miss most about Mississippi?
It’s too easy to say “the people,” but you know what? It’s the people. There’s an interconnectedness in Mississippi that I’ve never found anywhere else. After more than a decade of living in Jackson, I didn’t just know folks in Jackson, I knew folks in Mississippi: the Coast, the Delta, the Golden Triangle, all over. I’ve now lived for almost as long in Chicago, and I know plenty of folks in my neighborhood and throughout Chicagoland, but I know next to nothing about (and next to no one in) the rest of Illinois. There really is a shared statewide sense of connection unique to Mississippi. I miss that. I especially miss the tight-knit theatre community—late night rehearsals at New Stage, Mississippi Theatre Association conventions, my Fondren Theatre Workshop family.
How have you cultivated community in Chicago? Do you still feel rooted to Mississippi?
I’m lucky to have cultivated some really wonderful community in Chicago. I did what worked for me in Mississippi: I sought out the theatre people, the book lovers, the advocates and allies, fed them until we became besties, etc. There is one big difference about what community means to me now, though, and it has nothing to do with geography and everything to do with life stage: I was never a parent in Mississippi, but I became a parent early on in my Chicago era. In this era, I need my community to be full of people who support not only me, but also my children. (Which doesn’t just mean “other parents”!) That, more than anything, shapes who I hold close these days.
I’ve branched out a lot here, but I still feel rooted to Mississippi. It’s not only because it’s where I found myself, met my husband, all the other things I’ve shared—but also because y’all, I’m too deeply rooted to ever untangle myself! My in-laws are on the Coast; some of my dearest friends are in Jackson; I attended the low-residency MFA program at the W a few years after moving up to Chicago, and I’m now adjunct faculty in that very same MFA program! Somehow even after leaving Mississippi, I keep developing new connections there. I’m no longer a resident, but I’m still part of the Mississippi community.
What’s the weirdest question or assumption you’ve encountered about Mississippi (or about you as a Mississippian) by someone who’s never been there?
Everyone assumes I must have left Mississippi because I was miserable there. I can’t count the number of times I’ve had people congratulate me on “getting out” or say some variation of “Mississippi?! Oof, I’m sorry.” And I know what they mean: they’re not trying to disparage the people of Mississippi, per se; they’re referring to politics, and history, and the perception that even today, Mississippi has a lot of catching up to do. It would be dishonest to say that none of that is true—but it’s also dishonest to insinuate that Mississippi’s problems are not America’s problems. The South generally, and Mississippi specifically, is a popular scapegoat for social ills. But it’s lazy to abdicate national issues and look down at the South when this whole nation has our work cut out for us.
Everyone assumes I must have left Mississippi because I was miserable there. I can’t count the number of times I’ve had people congratulate me on “getting out” or say some variation of “Mississippi?! Oof, I’m sorry.”
How has spending years living in Mississippi affected your identity and your life’s path?
This is as cliched a thing as I’ll ever say, but I wouldn’t be the person I am today if I hadn’t lived in Mississippi. I moved there knowing no one; my grandparents in Alabama were my nearest kin. It was in Mississippi that I proved to myself that I could handle my newly-minted adult life. It’s where I developed my voice as a writer. It’s where I learned how to keep advocating even when there are costs to doing so. It’s where I figured out what really mattered to me, switched careers a couple times, had my heart shattered, learned a heart could heal, met my husband…the list goes on and on.
I can’t even count the number of formative experiences I had in Mississippi, from attending the fortieth memorial of the murders of James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner in Neshoba County (a day when I got to shake Rep. John R. Lewis’s hand and hear Dick Molpus’s indicting speech); to meeting so many literary luminaries who came to town (Natasha Trethewey and David Sedaris, to name two standouts); to “wasting” so many nights at Fenian’s Pub and feeling the loss when it closed (something I wrote about recently). I got to be a Buckethead Judge at Hal’s St. Paddy’s Day Parade, I served on multiple local and statewide boards, I visited the now-shuttered Graceland Too, I wrote for the local newspaper, I fostered more than a dozen dogs, I collected more stories and characters than any writer could hope to amass in a lifetime. Who, and where, would I be…without Mississippi? I have no earthly idea.
What is something that you’ve come to understand about Mississippi by living elsewhere?
That a place can visit you, for one thing. I dream about Mississippi a lot (that’s something I wrote about recently, too). That “it’s a small world after all” must be referring to Mississippi, where everyone really does seem to know everyone. And truly, at the risk of sounding like a broken record, before living there and leaving there, I wasn’t so deeply aware of how much flak Mississippi catches for what every other place in America is just a little bit better at hiding, denying, or painting over.
Have you ever thought about moving back? What would need to happen in order for you to move back to Mississippi?
Never say never—but it feels unlikely. (Don’t tell my in-laws!) The reason we moved up here was for a job, but the reason we stay is for our family. I feel guilty confessing this; a lot of our reasons for staying here echo the reasons people assumed we left. Politics and policies, especially around education, inclusion, and reproductive health. I want my kids to be able to access to every source of affirmation, information, and care possible, and Illinois is doing better with all of that than Mississippi. The guilt is because that’s such a privileged decision. There’s plenty of change to fight for up here, but it’s not the same as in Mississippi, and I’m keenly aware of that. Things might be different if everything were either perfect or terrible in Chicago; instead, it's another place where there's a lot to love, and a lot to work on—which ties us here, too.
So that’s my exceptionally long-winded way of saying I’m not sure what it would take for us to move back to Mississippi full-time. Our kids being out of the house? A specific creative/professional opportunity that invited me to make a difference, with the stars aligning to also offer my husband a lateral-or-better career move, and it all felt like the right choice for our children, too? There’s probably something that could happen to open the door, but it hasn’t happened yet and I’m not sure what it would look like. But I’m glad that Mississippi is a place I get to frequently visit.
I wish the rest of the country understood that Mississippi is America, in all her grit (and grits!) and glory. In all her uncomfortable shortcomings. In all her potential and all her peril.
What do you wish the rest of the country understood about Mississippi?
I think William Faulkner said it best: “To understand the world, you must first understand a place like Mississippi.” I wish the rest of the country understood that Mississippi is America, in all her grit (and grits!) and glory. In all her uncomfortable shortcomings. In all her potential and all her peril. Mississippi isn’t a place to be understood at a distance or held at arm’s length. She’s how we zoom in on absolutely everything, and we need to embrace her.
Do you have a favorite Mississippi writer, artist, or musician who you think everyone needs to know about?
I can’t pick a favorite Mississippi writer, because I have too many! So instead I want to give a shout-out to some of the incredible folks in my first-MFA-cohort at the W: Exodus Oktavia Brownlow, Katrina Byrd, Thomas Richardson, C.T. Salazar, and Julie Whitehead are all Mississippi writers who have moving, riveting work that you can—and absolutely should—read. (The non-Mississippi-based writers in the cohort are wonderful, too.) I also have to highlight that the artist-activist scene in Mississippi is inspiring, and everyone should know that. Start by following my friend Talamieka Brice, a visual artist and social visionary making a difference daily. And just for the record: some of America’s very best indie bookstores are in Mississippi.
If you had one billion dollars to invest in Mississippi, how would you spend your money?
First of all, can you imagine if someone out there reading this HAS a billion dollars and is just waiting for the right Rooted response to sign that check? Even if it’s not me, Wealthy Person Reading This, please do give those dollars to someone committed to making Mississippi shine!
If selected for this billion-dollar adventure, I would invest in four areas: education, healthcare, the environment, and the arts—but they wouldn’t be separate buckets. The funding would support existing grassroots efforts, and cultivate new grassroots efforts, and bring together innovators in each area to create concentric circles acknowledging that each issue impacts the other. Education, the stories we tell, and how we treat the earth and care for her people are all deeply interconnected. There’s no future without protecting the planet, no way to thrive on said planet without education and healthcare, no point in doing so without the arts enriching and unpacking our experiences here.
Plus, can y’all just imagine if Mississippi became the national leader on climate issues and healthcare? It’s an agricultural state, has multiple medical hubs, is full of creative people–the potential is absolutely there.
(But we might need two billion dollars, Wealthy Person Reading This, just to really get things rolling.)
What or who do you want to shamelessly promote? (It can absolutely be a project you’re working on, or something you are involved in.)
Okay, yes, I’m going to shamelessly promote my book. I Made It Out of Clay is a weird grief/friendship/love/midlife crisis story, with a monster in it. It comes out this December from Mira Books (HarperCollins). This book has almost zero connection to Mississippi—but I promise, my next book projects have Mississippi connections, and I’ll only get to publish those ones if people buy this one! Pre-ordering a book is one of the most helpful things you can do for an emerging author, so here’s that link.
“ I offered people what I was longing for, and in so doing, found what I needed.”
Love this sentiment. Love this interview. Beth is wonderful ☺️
I love the idea of doikayt! Thanks for introducing me to this new word!