Mississippi Transplant: Rachel Dangermond
Mississippi Transplant: Rachel Dangermond
"There are many reasons I could leave, but just like when Trump was elected and I wanted to move to Canada, a friend said, 'No, we stay, we fight, we make it right.'"
What does it mean to call Mississippi home? Why do people choose to leave or live in this weird, wonderful, and sometimes infuriating place? Today we hear from writer, mother, and owner of historic 100 Men Hall, Rachel Dangermond.
Where are you from?
I call New Orleans home, or rather I did for most of my life, but after Katrina and the decades plus years of trying to make my home there once again, I gave up and moved to the Gulf Coast. Sad to say, I haven’t looked back. For a very long time there was no place like home and then home became a much more fluid idea of rootedness. I’m rooted in a history of diaspora from my ancestors who left Toledo in 1492 during the Spanish Inquisition, to my grandparents who left Constantinople when it became Istanbul, to my immediate family who left Cuba with me in utero two months before my birth because Castro had marched victorious into Havana.
When did you move to Mississippi and why did you move here?
I moved to Bay Saint Louis Mississippi in July of 2018. I remember that day like it was yesterday because I was closing on my house in New Orleans and the 100 Men Hall that I was moving into in Bay Saint Louis all on the same day. My friend Darrin had driven the U-Haul truck and we parked it at the Hall, and we both spent the night at my friend Tommy’s beach house on Main Street. After the second closing, I came back to Tommy’s house and was alone and I just sat at his kitchen counter and cried.
Mississippi is also a myth—most friends were aghast that I would bring my African American son to Mississippi to live, and yet Bay Saint Louis has felt like home from jump.
I bought the Hall because I was in a state of desperation financially and spiritually. The house I sold in New Orleans had been nicknamed the Spirit House because I bought it when we had to sell the house I was supposed to die in—the LaLa—this was in 2013 when I had lost my career job. For the next decade plus I was trying to grasp an ever-elusive financial security. So, after gunshots outside the Spirit House made my son and I scramble to the floor, and my Ford F150 went halfway under water with just a hard rain, I was done with the life I was white knuckling to hang onto and ready for the next chapter to begin.
The Hall was to be a place for me to have writer’s workshops and do racial equity work, but I had no idea what was about to happen in this chapter and looking back from a space of nearly five years, if I had known what I was growing into I would have been too scared to even envision it.
What does “home” mean to you? How does Mississippi fit into that definition?
Home is a motherlode of a word—it embodies all the misunderstanding and fantastical and mythical porousness that other words like mother, lover, child hold—in fact it is a word that does not have meaning; it is imbued with meaning from our past, present and future lives, all the lives, the ones lived, not lived, and desired. Home means sanctuary. Home means sacred. Home means love dwells there. Home means stocking feet, hot tea, softness, dogs, cat, sometimes a fish and a muscular enclosure that keeps me safe.
Mississippi is also a myth—most friends were aghast that I would bring my African American son to Mississippi to live, and yet Bay Saint Louis has felt like home from jump. Unlike New Orleans where I feared every day for Tin’s life, I feel somewhat more comfortable with him having a longer leash to ride his bike, go to the beach, and hang out with friends here. The community has embraced us in a way that New Orleans wouldn’t—it’s been a real strong comeuppance for New Orleans that I always called home, because the community here in Bay Saint Louis has been superior in their support of me, my son, my work. It has been nothing short of a miracle.
What do you miss most about the place where you’re from?
Bay Saint Louis is a small town by the sea and I miss food! LOL—New Orleans has such great restaurants. I miss access to some of the cultural happenings in New Orleans. However, the city is tied up with my mother and father, and both have been gone for a while, and so I don’t feel tethered to the place like I used to.
How have you cultivated community in Mississippi? Who are the people who have made you feel rooted here?
I bought an African American landmark and had no idea of the richness of its history and meaning. As I began to explore its story, so began a desire to tell its story and the community here has stepped up and stepped in to help me do this in a grand display of generosity, spirit and magic. If I had to name people I might leave someone out—there are my neighbors who are just the best neighbors in the world, and I have quite a few of them; there is Ann Madden who brought me into her world of friends and family and continues to be the best idea generator for the Hall ever; there are people from New Orleans who have moved here or own homes here who also are supporters and friends; and there is a whole community of people that I have met here that have just stepped right up and could almost be called family the way they show up— Sandra Price and her crew, embraced and supported us before anyone else did.
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?
The assumption is my own—when I left New Orleans I had wanted to move out of the South, especially the Deep South. I thought this Southern town was a stopping place, just a temporary small town to live in while my son went to school and completed high school. Until one day I was thinking about where it is that I would move, and I realized I love this place, these people. I can’t believe Mississippi would be the place that would feel the most like home to me, but there you have it.
There are many reasons I could leave, but just like when Trump was elected and I wanted to move to Canada, a friend said, “No, we stay, we fight, we make it right.”
How has living in Mississippi affected your identity and your life’s path?
I feel so ingrained as a Southerner and feel as if Mississippi has a tremendous story to tell about Black communities and self-reliance and self-directedness. In this little town I live in, there is so much homegrown Black brilliance here, and this is just one small spot. The stories of all the magic that was created here are overshadowed by all the horror that has happened here, but both stories deserve to be told. I’m now of the opinion that Mississippi could be a place for African Americans to feel at home, for anybody who left to return to. I feel that this is a place so steeped in history and wonder—it’s also a place where you could create the life you want.
What is something that you’ve learned about Mississippi only by living here? In what ways has Mississippi lived up to your expectations?
Although I’m from New Orleans, I knew very little about Mississippi. In many small road trips, I have learned more about the state and I haven’t even scratched the surface of what is here. I’m amazed at the plethora of musicians, writers, artists and creators who were born here. It is a fascinating state with many pockets of rich history and fascinating people. The people who are drawn to Mississippi are themselves a fascinating lot and just keep adding to the layers of cool here.
Have you ever thought about moving away? Does a sense of duty keep you rooted here? Do you have a “tipping point”?
I think about moving away all the time—I am a child of the diaspora—I’m always going somewhere in my mind. There have been those encounters with ignorance that have made me think maybe I shouldn’t be raising my son here. There have been hurdles with my business, with being a woman, with small-minded people who have made me believe things may never change. There are many reasons I could leave, but just like when Trump was elected and I wanted to move to Canada, a friend said, “No, we stay, we fight, we make it right.” And she was a Black woman who had had the opportunity to leave the United States when it seemed like on the daily Black people were getting killed, but she chooses to stay. So what is my tipping point? Right now it’s hard to say—I would have said 2016 was.
I can’t believe Mississippi would be the place that would feel the most like home to me, but there you have it.
What do you wish the rest of the country understood about Mississippi?
I own the 100 Men Hall, a place that tells a more nuanced story of Mississippi than any you will hear outside of this state. It is a story of how a Black community overcame the dark forces of Jim Crow and segregation to build an empire of joy within its walls. Legendary Black musicians traveling the south played on stage here—Ray Charles, James Brown, Etta James, and James Booker and so many more. So much magic and fabulousness happened at the Hall that every day I am amazed by the community that created it and till the end of my days I could not give enough props to what they did under the circumstances they did it in.
Do you have a favorite Mississippi writer, artist, or musician who you think everyone needs to know about?
Where would I start? We will be honoring Richmond Barthé for our centennial celebration called the Harlem Renaissance weekend. He was a local artist turned Harlem Renaissance star sculptor. James Carroll Booker III is who we pay homage to in our annual Booker Fest held each Labor Day weekend. Born in New Orleans but raised in Bay Saint Louis, he was a musical genius and a fascinating human. We—look at me saying we—lay claim to some brilliant and talented writers. Jesmyn Ward had her birthday at the Hall in 2022—I could read anything she writes!
If you had 1 billion dollars to invest in Mississippi, how would you spend your money?
That is so easy—I have a dream to annex land next to the Hall and build a musicians’ village. Musicians spend so much time learning, honing and practicing their craft to come out and give us 15 minutes of joy and most can barely afford to raise a family. There is no doubt the first money would go to a musicians’ village that would then spawn music classes for kids and adults. I would get the recording studio built onto the Tin Shed. I would build a community pool—hard to believe that Bay Saint Louis is by the water and there is no public pool. I would invest in scholarships for our 100 WOMEN DBA membership organization and help women of color start businesses here. That is our mission but with some money to give some oomph to our programming, the sky is the limit.
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.)
The Hall. When I bought this place, the previous owner had added a two-bedroom apartment on the back and so I was able to trade my house in New Orleans to live in the Hall. But I feel more like the custodian of this special place and I do want to create a legacy foundation that could keep this in the public realm and afford the maintenance and preservation of the building that has survived 100 years of manmade and natural disasters. We host many music and performance events to raise money and awareness, we have a membership organization that helps us keep the lights on, but we—like most landmarks—need need need in order to give give give. We need major sponsors—the Silver Slipper Casino has been our guardian angel—we have been able to do some cool projects with the help of the MS Coast National Heritage Area and Coast Electric Round Up grants but we need corporations and private individuals who could sponsor us to keep it all going.