Mississippi Native: Julie Liddell Whitehead

"I want to show that one can be born and raised in Mississippi, educated in Mississippi, working in Mississippi, and writing in Mississippi and be a success. It can be done."

What does it mean to call Mississippi home? Why do people choose to leave or live in this weird, wonderful, and sometimes infuriating place? Growing up in Choctaw County, Julie Liddell Whitehead strained against the limited expectations for girls and women: “There was an expectation that I’d grow up, marry a local boy, and raise me a bunch of kids. Or I might could be a teacher because I would be off school with my kids and it was a good pay for a woman. I rejected all of that wholeheartedly.” Julie now lives in Brandon, and her debut collection of short fiction, Hurricane Baby: Stories, will be published this month. Today Julie shares why she’s decided to stay in her home state and make a name for herself as a Mississippi writer.

Julie Liddell Whitehead lives in Brandon.

Where are you from?

I was born at the hospital in Attala County, Mississippi but grew up from the age of three in Fentress, Mississippi, five miles west of Ackerman and two miles east of Weir. My parents still live in the same house in Choctaw County.

How long have you lived in Mississippi?

All 53 years of my life. Never lived anywhere else.

What does “home” mean to you? How does Mississippi fit into that definition?

Home is where you’re from, in my mind. It’s sometimes a different place than where we live. When I talk about “home”, I usually mean my house in Brandon. But when I say “back home,” I mean Choctaw County in the house I grew up in. Mississippi just happens to be where I’m from.

How have you cultivated community in Mississippi? Who are the people who have made you feel rooted here?

Again, for me it comes back to family. Back home, I have my parents, my sister, my cousins, my aunts and uncles. These are people who remember my daddy’s cousin Richard calling me Lucy when I was five years old. That’s going a ways back. But community here in Brandon is also focused on family. I raised three daughters here—when we talk, it’s like we read each others’ minds. We lived decades together here.  Other ways include our church, our favorite waitresses at our favorite restaurants, our regular gas station attendant. Kindness goes a long way in Mississippi in a way it might not others.

Julie as a child in Choctaw county.

What’s the weirdest question or assumption you’ve encountered about Mississippi (or about you as a Mississippian) by someone who’s never been here?

“Why do you talk so funny?” Everywhere I’ve ever been, that’s the question. I have to talk louder, talk slower, repeat myself to be understood.

How has living in Mississippi affected your identity and your life’s path?

When you live in Mississippi, you live with a chip on your shoulder. You constantly have to justify why you stay in Mississippi and sometimes justify your very existence as a Mississippian. I can talk about the largely unspoiled landscape, the friendly people that exist almost everywhere, the way you learn to tell the best stories from the best storytellers that no one else has ever heard of. Doesn’t make a dent. We’re marked.

What is something that you’ve learned about Mississippi only by living here? In what ways has Mississippi lived up to your expectations?

Mississippi is a hard place to be from if you want something more for yourself. I was born in a poor family. I had to prove to people that I knew how to read at age three. I was told girls weren’t supposed to be smart. There was an expectation that I’d grow up, marry a local boy, and raise me a bunch of kids. Or I might could be a teacher because I would be off school with my kids and it was a good pay for a woman. I rejected all of that wholeheartedly. I have fought all my life to get my voice heard on matters that mattered to me—education, reading, mental health advocacy. And my life here is a complete mystery to the folks “back home” because some of them in well-intentioned ways tried to keep my from being too big for my britches.

Julie’s forthcoming book, Hurricane Baby, weaves together the stories of people whose lives were upended by Hurricane Katrina. Pre-order your copy from Bookshop.org.

Do you ever consider moving away someday? Does a sense of duty keep you rooted here?  Do you have a “tipping point”?

I do not want to leave Mississippi if I can help it. There are a lot of writers, artists, singers, you name it, who make very good livings being from Mississippi—who live somewhere else. I want to show that one can be born and raised in Mississippi, educated in Mississippi, working in Mississippi, and writing in Mississippi and be a success. It can be done. And that’s my plan. 

What do you wish the rest of the country understood about Mississippi?

That we’re not going to believe something just on your say-so, especially if you left Mississippi and came back to learn us some manners. We think things over and talk things over forever before we change our minds. Does that cause problems at times? Yes. Is saying so going to make any difference to us? No. Why do you think desegregation took from 1955 to 1970? That kind of hardheadedness is not something to be proud of. That doesn’t change that fact that that’s the way it is.

Do you have a favorite Mississippi writer, artist, or musician who you think everyone needs to know about?

I know a whole family—Susan Clark, who sculpts clay angels and other figures; her youngest son, Matthew Clark, singer-songwriter and author; his brother Sam Clark, who sculpts dragon and trolls and all kinds of creatures. One sister, Angela, is an architect, and another sister, Caroline, who I believe works as a pediatric nurse and showcases her talent in caring for the children. All raised in Choctaw County and making their mark in the arts. So much talent in one family. It blows my mind.

Julie in conversation with Steve Yates, whose book The Lakes of Southern Hollow was published last month.

If you had one billion dollars to invest in Mississippi, how would you spend your money?

I would not give one thin dime to the state of Mississippi; I watched what they did with Jim Barksdale’s 100 million dollars to increase literacy. I would give it to David and Amy Lancaster at We Will Go Ministries, a nonprofit in Jackson, Mississippi. They have worked to reclaim Farish Street and that entire neighborhood one house at a time, one street at a time. They have programs aiding the schools, the food insecure, and the children they care for in various afterschool and summer programs, a system to buy and rehabilitate houses on the street. They were in my church and have built one of the greatest forces of good in Jackson, Mississippi.

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.)

I suppose this is where I talk about Hurricane Baby: Stories, publishing on August 20, 2024. I began this book within a couple of days after Hurricane Katrina blew through Mississippi, and when it didn’t sell immediately, I shelved it. After I finished my MFA at The W, I pulled the manuscript out, pulled it apart, tossed all the boring parts, and recast it as a short story collection. There are four separate storylines that weave together in time; each plotline has five stories examining the lives of people whose lives were upended by Hurricane Katrina. Lemuria Bookstore in Jackson, Mississippi is hosting a signing on Saturday, August 24, at noon.  

---

Julie Liddell Whitehead lives and writes from Mississippi. An award-winning freelance writer, Julie covered disasters from 9/11 to Hurricane Katrina throughout her career. She writes on mental health, mental health education, and mental health advocacy. She has a bachelor’s degree in communication, with a journalism emphasis, and a master’s degree in English, both from Mississippi State University. In August 2021, she completed her MFA from Mississippi University for Women.