The Armpit of America: Theirs and Mine

There are quite a few good reads in today’s WaPo, most of them celebrating the 20^th anniversary of the paper’s slick magazine, titled simply The Washington Post Magazine (strangely enough). The celebration is in the publishing of the magazine's "Greatest Hits" from the past 20 years, and more than a few are quite good reading. I've spent the last three hours or so reading them and can honestly say: recommended.

Here’s one of those greatest hits that caught my eye: “Why Not The Worst?” subtitled “We promised to find the armpit of America. Turns out it's only about five inches from the heart” An excerpt from near the end:

Having objectively examined the evidence, which is clear and convincing, and having reached its conclusion beyond a reasonable doubt, The Washington Post Magazine hereby confers upon the town of Battle Mountain, Nev., the title of Armpit of America, with all the privileges and responsibilities therein.

Ah, but it’s the journey, not the destination, that’s often the point, and so it is with this essay. An interesting read, and one that made me think about the worst place I ever lived. After much consideration, my personal candidate for the title of Armpit of America is…

Biloxi, Mississippi.

Except I usually say that if the USA ever needs an enema they’ll stick the nozzle in Biloxi, because…well...it’s just that much worse than the armpit of America. By far.

I lived in and around Biloxi for a sum total of two-plus years, spread out over four separate assignments to Keesler AFB, from 1963 to 1980. Always as a TDY (military shorthand for temporary duty) student and never, Thank God, as “permanent party.” It’s said you only get one chance to make a good first impression, and Biloxi failed in its attempt to impress me when I first encountered that benighted burg back in 1963. The root cause of that failure was Biloxi’s segregated municipal bus system with the ubiquitous “Colored to the Rear” signs in all the busses and the segregated “facilities” in the city bus terminal. The bus system was simply the most visible part of that odious way of life; there were myriad other aspects of segregation in Biloxi, some subtle, most others blatant. It may be unfair to single out Biloxi in this regard, because Biloxi was just one of innumerable southern towns clinging for dear life to its racist roots. But, my initial encounter with Biloxi deeply offended me and the memory remains, just or unjust.

It wasn’t just the blatant racism. There was the weather…oppressively hot and humid in the summer, oppressive beyond my ability to describe it. Sweat poured from every pore of my body non-stop from May until well into September during every minute outside of (the few) air conditioned buildings. Marching to and from school when I was a “boot” trainee was miserable beyond description. It was so bad during the summer that we usually carried an extra fatigue shirt in our ditty bags to change into once we arrived at school, about a mile and a half away from our barracks area. And our barracks weren’t air conditioned at the time, either, making sleep almost impossible in July and August.

Winter, on the other hand, was bearable, but only just. The humidity remained, and humidity amplifies cold. Trust me. I was also on-hand when Biloxi got one of its rare snowfalls, and the resulting carnage would have been amusing if it wasn’t so damned tragic, as it’s said. Well, it wasn’t exactly carnage…just a tremendous number of fender-benders. Southerners, as a class, can’t drive in snow. That’s a given. But Biloxi-ites take that cliché and amplify it to a dizzying intensity.

And then there are the bugs. Biloxi is home to world-class cockroaches and other assorted creepy-crawlies. I once was thrown out of a Biloxi bar because I was making sport out of killing the cockroaches that skittered across the bar in front of me, loudly announcing “Six! Seven! Eight!” and so on as I whacked the little bastards. The First Mrs. Pennington and I dropped hundreds of dollars on bug sprays, bug bombs, roach motels, and the like during my second tour at Keesler. We never did win the “war on bugs,” we simply held the line, giving as little ground as possible. And putting every bit of food, and anything else a bug would eat (a subject unto itself), in metal canisters, this being an age before the invention of the re-sealable Baggie.

I won’t delve into the people beyond what I’ve already said. My initial diatribe about the blatant racism should suffice. The racism was endemic, and it didn’t change a lot over the years, it just went underground.

I’m sure Biloxi has changed; at least I hope it has changed. The last time I lived there for any length of time was in 1980, and that was a long time ago. 1980 was also well before the influx of the gaming industry. I suspect the arrival of the casinos had a cultural as well as a financial impact on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Much of what I found wrong with Biloxi back in the day probably was a result of cultural in-breeding. The locals didn’t get out much and most of their contact with the outside world revolved around the military folks that came and went at Keesler. That’s a personal observation and is probably pure speculation, admittedly.

And I know it’s not nice to speak badly about folks under duress or those who have suffered terrible misfortune. Katrina destroyed most of Biloxi’s infrastructure, wrecking a large community and displacing thousands of people. That is a terrible thing, and I don’t wish that sort of adversity on anyone. But it’s apples and oranges...a case of “that was then, this is now.” For me, Biloxi remains The Armpit of America. Battle Mountain, NV, just couldn’t be worse. It’s not possible.