I've been out of action for a while for various reasons. Let's just say I've had a bad summer, and I'm in a complicated situation with someone I care about. It's not something I care to explore here.
*****
On Saturday my parents came to visit me in Mississippi. We decided to go see the birthplace of Elvis, a little shotgun shack in a nondescript lower-class neighborhood of Tupelo, MS. On the way there you travel down the main drag of Tupelo, past old sandwich shops and barbecue joints that look like they've been around since the 1950s. The road is lined with Payday loans, a Walmart, hole-in-the-wall "stylists" emblazoned with fake Nagel paintings, and Baptist churches within spitting distance of each other. A sign proclaims "Tupelo, First TVA City."
There's an Orthodox Mission station on the main drag as well, but I saw no sign of it. It blows my mind that there is an Orthodox mission in Elvis' hometown. Unfortunately, they aren't very visible.
Once you pass through the downtown area you find yourself in the "bad" part of town. I do not mean to speak ill of the residents, but the area is obviously poor, poorly kempt, and dominated by an architectural style that could be described as "depressed." They're not any different from the sort of mill houses that populate the piedmont towns of North Carolina where I grew up - but with one crucial difference: these are built on holy ground.
We crossed over a bridge. There's a billboard that says something about "Apparations of Mary," and features a soft, tacky painting of the Mother of God. We had entered a weird spiritual universe that we did not yet fully comprehend.
Tucked down a nondescript sidestreet is the little white shotgun shack that Elvis was born in, complete with porch swing. It's been heavily restored, and probably looks better now than it ever did during its life as a dwelling. A strange religiosity pervades everything. You get the feeling you're at the closest thing southern protestants have to a holy place - at least one not related to the Civil War. I sat on the porch swing for a few minutes by myself while the tour groups were away and I could properly enjoy the place that had formed the world's greatest entertainer (sorry, Neil Diamond).
The house itself faces a Methodist church. As I was sitting there in the relative quiet, shaded from the oppressive Mississippi sun, I noticed the sounds of a gospel choir emanating from the Methodist church just 50 feet away. On the marquee: "Worship the real King & see Elvis in heaven." I walked in to find a gospel quartet belting out. It was a very
southern place and moment; to be in a church listening to the music Elvis grew up listening to, across the street from the house he grew up in. Parked outside was a pink Cadillac.
I was irritated by the fact that so many of the tourists thronging the gift shop and museum were utterly uninterested in this scene. There is a definite tension at this site between the "authentic" poor boy named Elvis Presley who grew up with old time religion, gospel music, and idolized black and white musicians, and the larger than life, overexposed, drug-addled superstar who practically embodies all that is tacky. I can't tell which is more dominant, although this is certainly not the spectacle that is Graceland.
To the right of the shotgun shack is a plain, white Assembly of God church, which Elvis attended with his parents as a boy. Elvis' love of music was born in this church. The building has been moved from its previous location to this spot - inside they present a program that recreates what a 1930s Pentecostal service was like. Despite a sign over the doorframe that says "You are welcome," you must have a ticket to get in. We didn't have tickets, but you can hear the voices spilling out of the clapboard building.
Much more fascinating to me was the Elvis Presley Memorial Chapel. Immediately upon entering I was reminded of the early Church's practice of building churches, baptismal fonts, and shrines over the birthplaces or homes of saints. The chapel smells of incense, although I doubt that's what it is, and recordings of Elvis's gospel songs play over a speaker system. The front of the chapel is ornamented with a large stained-glass window; in the center is a white-clad figure, its hands raised to the cross. It looks strangely like Elvis in one of his trademark white jumpsuits, hands raised in supplication - although it's not explicit. On the back wall of the church are smaller stained glass windows representing various points of doctrine. What grabbed my attention was how "orthodox" all of it was, and how it utilized imagery to convey doctrinal teaching.
The window representing the TrinityThe museum at the site does a decent job of interpreting not only Elvis's life, but the area in which he lived - but it seems that more people are interested in all of the gewgaws that Elvis wore than anything else, and there are plenty of those sort of things. A group of tourists who spoke Spanish were in the museum with us at the same time, and despite a sign that said "No photography," one of the men in the group was videotaping the exhibits. One of the elderly tour guides, rather rudely I think, came up to him and said roughly, "No photography!" The man, perpelexed, turned to him and said in a thick accent, "This is not photography. Video." The old man repeated his statement, only more loudly and all the more roughly: "NO PHOTOGRAPHY!" A woman in the group turned and interjected, "it is video. Not photography. No flash." When it appeared that they couldn't understand him he got louder and louder. "ERASE IT! ERASE IT NOW!" The tourist struggled with his video camera, while the old man looked on to make
absolutely sure he had erased the offending footage of Elvis's report cards, shirts, and other gimcrackery. That moment killed any sort of positive impression I might have had of the place. So much so, that I would advise against visiting the museum and the gift shop. If Elvis were there he would have been mighty disappointed.
Ironically, it was fan appreciation day.
But if you're ever in Tupelo, go sit on Elvis's porch swing for a while, and if you're lucky enough to be there on a day when church is in session, just listen.
