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This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit rooted.substack.comOur April Bottom Reader Book Club was truly a one-of-a-kind experience. Instead of our usual livestream, we needed to accommodate the tech needs of our featured writer Joesph Patri Brown, who is incarcerated on Parchman’s death row. Through a highly technical set-up of propped cardboard boxes in my co-facilitator Dr. Alison Turner’s office, we were able to bring Joesph in for a Zoom session to discuss his powerful and structure-defying memoir The Image They Had Painted.This was a deeply impactful discussion for all involved, not least of all for Joesph, who grew up in Natchez and has expressed his desire for his story to reach fellow Mississippians directly. We kicked off the conversation by hearing how Joesph and Alison, Joesph’s editor, created the book’s dual dedications. The book can be read in either direction—on one side, it is dedicated to those exonerated, on the other, those executed. Throughout his thirty-four years on death row, Joesph has maintained his innocence, and worked to overturn his conviction. During those decades he has known many men who have been executed and a much smaller number who have been exonerated.While this discussion had heavy moments, there was also plenty of lightness and laughter. As Joesph reminded Alison and me multiple times while preparing for the book club: Just have fun. We had a great time celebrating Joesph and The Image They Had Painted. I hope you, too, enjoy the recording of this conversation.You can listen to these book club recordings in the Substack app, in your web browser, or on Spotify Subscribe to Rooted on Spotify to get notifications when new episodes are released. Recorded book club conversations are only available to paid subscribers, but the live book club sessions will continue to be free and open to all readers.Read along with the Bottom Readers!May 27 - When We Were Murderous, Time-Traveling Women with Ellen Morris PrewittJune 30 - The Seven Daughters of Dupree by Nikesha Elise Williams with guest host Exodus BrownlowJuly 15 - The Irish Goodbye by Beth Ann Fennelly with guest host Catherine Simone GrayAugust 25 - America, U.S.A. by Eddie Glaude with guest host Talamieka Brice

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit rooted.substack.comSince I’ve started doing the Bottom Reader Book Club livestreams at home, I’m always aware of the possibility that my four-year-old could go rogue during her bedtime routine and come busting into the room where I’m recording, ready to take center stage among the talking heads on screen. This week, I took comfort in the fact that should this situation occur, my fellow book club conversation partners would absolutely understand (spoiler alert: there were no bedtime breakouts! Dad for the win.). Not only are Katie Pierce and Catherine Simone Gray both mothers, but they find creative inspiration in both the beauty and exhaustion of motherhood. Katie Pierce’s new memoir, Foxes for Everybody: Twenty-Four Hours of Early Motherhood, is a profound study of the marvels of parenthood that coexist alongside sleep deprivation and the chaos of getting out the door on a school morning.I loved hearing from Katie about the unique structure of the book—twenty four essays that correspond with the hours of the day—and the way the book’s structure mirrors the many sleepless nights of early parenthood. We also discussed our thoughts on the parallels between writing and parenting, and how to create balance between dark and light, humor and heaviness in a collection.You can listen to these book club recordings in the Substack app, in your web browser, or on Spotify Subscribe to Rooted on Spotify to get notifications when new episodes are released. Recorded book club conversations are only available to paid subscribers, but the live book club sessions will continue to be free and open to all readers.See Catherine and her husband Michael Kardos on tour for their newly released books!April 6: Friendly City Books at Bushy’s Clubhouse, ColumbusApril 7: Lemuria Books, JacksonApril 8: Off Square Books, OxfordApril 9: Mississippi State UniversityRead along with the Bottom Readers!April 30 - The Image They Had Painted with Joesph Patri Brown and Alison TurnerMay - When We Were Murderous, Time-Traveling Women with Ellen Morris Prewitt

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit rooted.substack.comOn February 24, the Bottom Reader Book Club dipped out of watching the State of the Union and showed our patriotism in another way: we discussed W. Ralph Eubanks’ groundbreaking book When It’s Darkness on the Delta: How America’s Richest Soil Became Its Poorest Land. If you read the book—and listen to the book club discussion—it quickly becomes clear that the story Ralph is telling is not simply a regional one, but a national one. Ralph tackles the mythology of the Delta, and in doing so, he unwinds the beliefs that have shaped our country’s policies related to poverty, hunger, agriculture, healthcare, and civil rights.I always appreciate the perspective my book club co-host Talamieka Brice brings to the table. As she said during our conversation: “This book burst my heart wide open.” When It’s Darkness on the Delta is indeed a heart- and head-opening book. Our hourlong discussion flew by, and I’ve spent a log of time reflecting on the takeaways since then. I hope you enjoy the discussion—and drop a comment to let us know what you thought of the book.You can listen to these book club recordings in the Substack app, in your web browser, or on Spotify . Subscribe to the show on Spotify to get notifications when new episodes are released. Recorded book club conversations are only available to paid subscribers, but the live book club sessions will continue to be free and open to all readers.Thank you Psychedelic Literature, Chistopher Norment, and many others for tuning into my live book club with W. Ralph Eubanks and Talamieka Brice! Join me for my next live conversation in the app.Ralph on how the subtitle of the book evolved:Ralph on why writing this book scared him:How poet, essayist and playwright June Jordan became “the muse” for this book:Bottom Reader Book club is continuing in 2026…Read along with us!March 31: Foxes for Everybody: Twenty-Four Hours of Early Motherhood with Catherine Simone Gray and author Catherine PierceApril 28 - Joesph Patri Brown’s The Image They Had Painted

I’ve long admired writer Beth Ann Fennelly—a fellow Mississippi transplant and memoirist. Not only did I devour her last book (and first collection of micro-memoirs), Heating & Cooling, but I later went back to her 2006 epistolary memoir Great with Child, which was a balm during my COVID-era pregnancy. Mississippi’s former poet laureate needs no introduction—which is fitting considering how I completely failed to introduce her at the start of our conversation! Beth Ann Fennelly’s forthcoming book, The Irish Goodbye, is a powerful follow-up to Heating and Cooling, and as Beth Ann shared in our conversation, the cover was intentionally designed to be in conversation with the 2017 collection. During our conversation, Beth Ann talked about how the micro-memoir (a term she coined) combines her favorite elements from the genres she writes in, about how she whittled her manuscript into it’s current form, and about writing through and into grief. And yes, she spoke about learning to revise the stories she once believed about herself—something I found deeply relatable.By the way, we caught up less than twenty-four hours after power was (thankfully, finally) restored to Beth Ann’s Oxford home. Read this essay she just published in Garden & Gun about surviving the storm and losing a beloved tree.The Irish Goodbye: Micro-Memoirs comes out February 24 and is available now for pre-order. Head to Beth Ann’s website to see her upcoming calendar of book tour events. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit rooted.substack.comI kicked off the first Bottom Reader Book Club of 2026 with friends! Rather than our usual author chat, I talked with Leslie Barker, a director and playwright, and Talamieka Brice, a visual artist and filmmaker, about the 2023 novel Biography of X by Tupelo native Catherine Lacey. It felt appropriate to talk with artist friends about this fictional biography of a “deified” multi-hyphenate artist. We talked about Lacey’s world building, in which she envisions an alternate history of the United States, and mused on why we think she isn’t widely recognized or celebrated as a Mississippi writer, despite Mississippians’ tendency to claim any celebrated figure with a connection to the state. This was a fun and thought-provoking discussion—especially because we didn’t always agree. If you’ve read Biography of X or any of Lacey’s other books, let me know what you thought! Big thanks to Leslie and Talamieka—as well as all the readers who tuned in for the livestream.You can listen to these book club recordings in the Substack app, in your web browser, or on Spotify. Subscribe to the show on Spotify to get notifications when new episodes are released. Recorded book club conversations are only available to paid subscribers, but the live book club sessions will continue to be free and open to all readers.On Catherine Lacey’s love and critique of the South:On why we both judge and pity X:On how we’d view the book differently if X was a man:Bottom Reader Book club is continuing in 2026…Read along with us!February 24 at 7pm CT: When It’s Darkness on the Delta with author W. Ralph Eubanks and Talamieka BriceMarch: Foxes for Everybody: Twenty-Four Hours of Early Motherhood with author Catherine PierceApril: The Image They Had Painted with author Joesph Patri BrownRooted Magazine is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit rooted.substack.comOur Bottom Reader Book Club Discussion with Addie Citchens was so good it included a spontaneous bursting into song! I loved chatting with Addie and Talamieka about Dominion, a fast-paced, thrilling drama set in a fictional Delta town that is closely modeled on Clarksdale, MS. Talamieka and I both found the book totally immersive despite having completely different entry points and perspectives to draw from. During our conversation, we talked about power dynamics in small towns, why it took so long for Addie to figure out the ending of the book, and vulnerability and validation in fiction. I’ll share some clips below, but this is definitely a conversation you’ll want to enjoy in full!You can listen to these book club recordings in the Substack app, in your web browser, or on Spotify. Subscribe to the show on Spotify to get notifications when new episodes are released. Recorded book club conversations are only available to paid subscribers, but the live book club sessions will continue to be free and open to all readers.Thank you Psychedelic Literature, Natalie, MS Liner Notes, Randi, Dorothy Abbott, and many others for tuning into my live video with Talamieka Brice and Addie E. Citchens! Join me for my next live video in the app.Addie on exploring power and “relative power” reveal about character:Why Addie thinks you should judge her hometown:Why the ending of the book felt impossible to write:Bottom Reader Book club is continuing in 2026…Read along with us!January 27 at 7pm CT: Biography of X by Catherine Lacey with Leslie Barker and Talamieka BriceFebruary 24 at 7pm CT: When It’s Darkness on the Delta with author W. Ralph Eubanks and Talamieka BriceMarch: Foxes for Everybody: Twenty-Four Hours of Early Motherhood with author Catherine Pierce

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit rooted.substack.comLast week, Talamieka Brice and I had a fabulous book club chat with Addie Citchens about her novel Dominion. BUT before I send that out, I must share this delightful conversation that Shira Muroff and I had with author Robert Busby waaaayy back in October about Robert’s debut story collection Bodock. Robert talked about his job as a satellite TV technician and the story it inspired, growing up in Pontotoc, Mississippi, and fictionalizing traumatic rites of passage. I’ll share some clips below, but I hope you can listen (or watch) the whole book club session!You can listen to these book club recordings in the Substack app, in your web browser, or on Spotify . Subscribe to the show on Spotify to get notifications when new episodes are released. Recorded book club conversations are only available to paid subscribers, but the live book club sessions will continue to be free and open to all readers.Thank you Chistopher Norment, Elizabeth Robinson, and many others for tuning into the live video with Shira and Robert Busby! I hope you enjoy the replay of this fun and thought-provoking conversation.Robert on creating a sympathetic character who makes terrible life choices:How many boys have accidentally killed animals with a BB gun???On the devastation of the Mid-South Ice Storm of 1994:Bottom Reader Book club is continuing in 2026…Read along with us!January: Biography of X by Catherine Lacey with Leslie Barker and Talamieka BriceFebruary: When It’s Darkness on the Delta with author W. Ralph Eubanks

This is the latest installment in the Chronicles from Parchman series, a monthly column by writer L. Patri, who has been fighting his wrongful conviction on Parchman’s death row for over thirty years. Listen to the voiceover if you want to hear Mr. Patri read this essay.Demand for a moratorium is not a call to coddle criminals. It is a demand for accountability and integrity. It is a demand that we investigate how and why multiple innocent people have been sentenced to die. It is a demand that we hold law enforcement, prosecutors, and expert witnesses whose actions can lead to state-sanctioned murder accountable. The State of Mississippi’s continuing pursuit of executions, including its recent unaliving of Charles Ray Crawford despite known systemic failures, is not justice—it is a willful disregard for human life and the principles of a fair legal system. Mississippi’s death penalty system isn’t merely flawed; it is built upon a foundation of discredited science and unreliable evidence. The death penalty is the most extreme and irreversible form of punishment, and we cannot afford to use it when human error is so prevalent. It is time for Mississippi to put on its Big-Boy drawers and take responsibility.The term “exoneree” means a person who has been officially cleared of all charges related to the crime. In other words, “exoneration” means that prosecutors, judges, and oftentimes juries, got it completely wrong and were ready to kill an innocent person. As of 2025, seven people have been exonerated from Mississippi’s death row after being wrongfully convicted and sentenced to death. They are:1. Curtis Flowers (exonerated 2020). Curtis was tried six times for the same 1996 quadruple murder. The first three convictions were overturned by the Mississippi Supreme Court, and the next two trials ended in mistrials. The sixth conviction was overturned by the U.S. Supreme Court in 2019 (Flowers v. Mississippi) due to prosecutorial misconduct, specifically the racially discriminatory use of peremptory strikes by District Attorney Doug Evans. In September 2020, all charges against Curtis were dismissed with prejudice, meaning they cannot be refiled. While this ended the case and he was released, the legal basis was prosecutorial misconduct.2. Eddie Lee Howard (exonerated 2021). Eddie was convicted in 1994 of the murder and rape of an eighty-four-year-old woman. He was exonerated when his conviction was heavily based on the discredited testimony of Dr. Steven Hayne and bite-mark analysis, which has been largely rejected as junk science. DNA testing later excluded Howard and pointed to another perpetrator.3. Sherwood Brown (exonerated 2021). Sherwood was convicted of a 1994 murder during a robbery in Desoto County. He was exonerated when the Mississippi Supreme Court ruled he received an unfair trial because the prosecution withheld critical DNA evidence that pointed to other suspects.4. Kennedy Brewer (exonerated 2008). Kennedy Brewer was convicted in 1995 of the murder and rape of his girlfriend’s three-year-old daughter. He was exonerated when DNA testing from the crime scene, fought for by the Innocence Project, excluded Brewer and matched another man, Justin Albert Johnson.5. Michelle Byrom (exonerated 2014) Michelle was convicted in 2000 of murder-for-hire in the death of her husband. In 2014, the Mississippi Supreme Court took the extraordinary step of overturning her conviction and death sentence before her execution, citing ineffective assistance of counsel. The court noted that her son had repeatedly confessed to the murder, a fact her trial lawyers failed to properly present. Facing the prospect of a new trial, Byrom pleaded guilty to a greatly reduced charge of manslaughter and was released for time served.6. Corey Maye (2011) Corey was convicted of capital murder and sentenced to death for the 2001 shooting of a police officer during a raid on his home. He claimed he did not know the intruders were police and was acting in self-defense to protect his family. His conviction was a major point of controversy in the legal world. His sentence was eventually reduced to manslaughter, and he was released in 2011 for time served after accepting a plea deal.7. Sabrina Butler (exonerated 1995). Sabrina was convicted of capital murder in the 1989 death of her nine-month-old son in Columbus. She was exonerated at a retrial, when her defense successfully argued that the child’s death was not a homicide but the result of a rare medical condition, and that his injuries were consistent with Butler’s attempts to perform CPR. She was acquitted.This list of exonerations is evidence of a broken system. Though the judicial branch has at times corrected its own worst errors by vacating convictions, the leaders of Mississippi have chosen to perpetuate this broken system rather than reform it. The political branch chooses to expand, not restrict, their execution machinery by granting the Department of Corrections broad discretion in carrying out executions, having at their disposal such methods as lethal injection, nitrogen hypoxia, electrocution, firing squad, and hanging. They should have used instead a spark of creativity to call for investigations into the root causes of these repeated miscarriages of justice.Again, seven individuals from Mississippi’s death row have been found to be innocent. Let these exonerees serve as a reminder of the fallibility of the Mississippi criminal justice system. Until Mississippi puts a halt to its executions and conducts a full, transparent investigation, every leader who supports the death penalty is complicit in a system that has been proven incapable of guaranteeing it will not kill an innocent person.If Mississippi chooses to be pro death penalty, then Mississippians should take ownership and responsibility to ensure that all measures have been taken so that no innocent persons will be unalived. We must stop this nonsense notion that it is inevitable and acceptable that “sometimes” we get it wrong. NO! We should never get it wrong because that life taken can never be given back. Mississippi can’t return my breath of Life, so I need Mississippi to get this WRONG right.L. Patri is of Black and Natchez Indian descent, and he is the father of one daughter and a grandfather of five grandchildren. He was born on the river in Natchez, Mississippi, and for the past three decades, he has been challenging his wrongful conviction of capital murder. He writes in multiple and hybrid genres, including thought pieces, journalism, short fiction, letters, and memoir.Rooted Magazine is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support our work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Last month:Last year: This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe

This is the latest installment in the Chronicles from Parchman series, a monthly column by writer L. Patri, who has been fighting his wrongful conviction on Parchman’s death row for over thirty years. Listen to the voiceover if you want to hear Mr. Patri read this essay.About time, if you want to know my opinion. For three months, starting on November 1, 2023, I had been living in solitary confinement on Mississippi’s death row for an RVR (Rule Violation Report) about having a contraband cell phone. For the past two weeks, the prison administration had been stalling and b**********g me about moving me out of solitary. Meanwhile, they had moved other men who had been in solitary for a much shorter time than I had. Finally, I requested to talk to the Watch Commander supervising Unit 29. He left (taking his sweet time) and later ordered that 29J Building oversee my moving out of confinement. As I said, it was about time.So. The past two days, I’d been carrying out the moving day routine that I’ve done for over two and a half decades now. If I had to guess, I’d say I’ve done this over 50 times, starting at Unit 32C, then in 32B, and now in 29J.Let me take you back in time and rewind some of the b******t I’ve had to endure that caused this routine to come into existence. Listen. In the summer of 1997—but don’t quote me exactly, as my memory is shitty these days—about four state prisoners escaped from Unit 32C; supposedly, two death row guys were involved. That escape happened on a Friday but it wasn’t until Sunday or Monday when the administration realized these men were gone. Finally, a guard noticed that some windows had been cut out and two guys under state custody were missing. All hell broke loose. They began shaking down every cell in earnest to check every window. That is when they found out that a death row guy was also involved because when they banged on his window with that rubber mallet, the whole damn thing fell out.The Mississippi Department of Corrections (MDOC) administration responded with what they must have thought was a good plan. Every three to four days, they would move every guy on death row to a new cell in an ordered fashion like this: I was in cell #94 at this time of the escape, so my first move was into cell #95, while the guy in #95 moved to #96, and so forth. With each move, the guards would shake us down, bang on the windows and bars with rubber mallets, and move us one cell over. I travel as light as possible because years ago, we battled MDOC over the issue of having too much paperwork or personal belongings. To keep down b******t between myself and staff, I only possess the necessary things. One, maybe two items each of personal hygiene and stationery items (except pens—I collect colorful pens like candy) and my legal work. I only possess the legal work that I am filing at the present. I can fit all my personal things in two laundry bags or one legal box. Yeah, a hope chest type thing.Now. The problem with this moving procedure is that I could fall in behind some really nasty, filthy man—and believe me when I tell you, back then there were some unreal men who would leave semen on the walls and floor, spend their days digging in their noses and leaving funky boogers everywhere, and leave behind piss spots and rotten food. Then there were men who thought that because we were being forced to move every three to four days, that it was not on them to clean up their cells, so they began leaving filth behind. I guess guys got confused about the “good for the goose, good for the gander” mentality. Because this isn’t good for goose, gander, or gerrymander; it’s just wrong all the way around.MDOC moved us this way for almost a year until some of us got fed up and began resisting. When they told us to pack up, we told them to pack it up. When they told us to get handcuffs to move, they had to call in more manpower to force us to move because they could only move us one at a time, as back then we couldn’t be out together. It would take them ten to twelve hours rather than four to five hours, and then we refused to go until they cleaned, or should I say half-ass cleaned, the cell before we moved into it.Now, I’m thinking most of y’all are saying, ”That ain’t resisting, fool,” and quite possibly you are right. However, Parchman’s death row is run a little differently than the prison you’re probably imagining, as our guards barely do any work at all. But it didn’t used to be that way. Until recently, we were shackled and waist-chained down in irons, and the guards had to haul every item, each time we moved. That’s fifty-plus men and so many countless boxes of legal papers and books and s**t. These days, when we pack up and move ourselves with them just standing around watching, it is way easier than it is for MDOC to send twenty or more guards to move us as they tote around every guy’s possessions. I guess you can say that “resistance” means that if I have no choice and I have to move, then I am going to be moved.Eventually they ended that nonsense of moving us every few days. But during this time period, I had developed a cleaning system that I continue to this day that puts me at ease no matter which man lives in the cell before me and no matter how many poisonous insects think they will keep living there after I move in.It goes like this. Before washing and scrubbing and cleaning, I take the bottle of hand sanitizer I use for germs, and I use the spray bottle to squirt liquid into every nook, cranny, crease, crack, and crevice in the cell. Then I take my lighter and set it ablaze so that fire runs throughout, like wildfire or lightning. One strike and it turns straight through and burns for five or six minutes, hopefully clearing the cracks out of every pest and insect. I do this because at one point in these three decades that I’ve been in this hellhole, I used to sleep on the floor, laying down only a sheet or a blanket. I still never sleep on the mattress here, and I don’t want anyone crawling in my bed unwanted as I sleep. So far, I believe this has worked, as I’ve never been bit by a spider or any other insect, unless you count these blood-sucking Mississippi mosquitoes every year. I still haven’t found a solution to those except knocking their ass out of the air with flip-flops. The problem with that is that when I pop these little suckers, blood sprays all over the walls, so then I have to sanitize and clean that up, too. Ugh! Serenity now.I spray and set fire to the whole room for at least five rounds. When I feel comfortable in my mind that I have it all cleared out, I set about sweeping up, washing down every inch of the walls, floor, ceiling, bed, window, door, and bars, you feel me. I use my water hose, which is made from the tubing casing on coaxial cables that I fit into the sink spout and push an ink pen tip on into the other end, which causes the water to shoot out sharply. This really digs up grime and dirt and is able to fully clear the window’s screen on the outside as well as the inside. Once I’ve cleaned and mopped up the water, I need rest because this is hard work. I am not using a broom or mop but am literally on my hands and knees with a floor rag.You’re hearing this and you’re thinking that’s one really clean guy, right? Wrong. I’m just trying not to have disease carriers and poisonous things crawling into my bed. I prefer to sleep alone if I can’t sleep with who I want, and trust me when I tell you that there isn’t anything inside these cold walls and steel that I want sleeping in my bed.Now that I’ve said this, maybe you’re noticing the same thing that just flashed across my mind: this state isn’t satisfied trying to put a needle in my arm to poison and kill me; they have literally placed me in a death trap where poisonous insects can kill me in case they don’t. Damn. This is really ruthless. Listen, though. This next man who moves into the cells that I vacate—lucky joker! He has a cleaning service, pest control, and all. He can just move in and plop or flop down and fall asleep. I should be charging for my services.L. Patri is of Black and Natchez Indian descent, and he is the father of one daughter and a grandfather of five grandchildren. He was born on the river in Natchez, Mississippi, and for the past three decades, he has been challenging his wrongful conviction of capital murder. He writes in multiple and hybrid genres, including thought pieces, journalism, short fiction, letters, and memoir.Rooted Magazine is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support our work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Last month:Last year: This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit rooted.substack.comThank you to everyone who tuned into my Bottom Reader Book Club conversation with Talamieka Brice and Preston Lauterbach earlier this month. Talamieka is an award-winning Mississippi artist and filmmaker who grew up on the blues—she was the perfect conversation partner for our talk with author Preston Lauterbach about his latest book, Before Elvis: The African American Musicians Who Made the King. The book is a deep dive into the lives and legacies of the Black musicians (many of whom have ties to Mississippi) who influenced Elvis Presley’s music and stage presence. In our hourlong discussion, we touched on Lauterbach’s inspiration for writing the book, the incredible life of blues artists like Big Mama Thornton and Arthur Crudup, the psychic weight of being a musical impostor, the exploitative nature of the music industry, and more. Below I’ll share some highlights from our conversation, but I hope you can listen (or watch) the whole book club session!Who Gets the Gold and the Glory?Talamieka made a great comment about the book’s cover, and what a striking image it is to have Elvis’s silhouette filled in with a collage of the musicians profiled in the book. Preston agreed.It's about the gold and the glory. The thing that I think we're really concerned about and have been for a long time is, “Was Elvis racist?” And while I don't necessarily think he was, I think that there are much bigger issues that this story allows us to explore that are way more pertinent to American culture. And that is who is recognized as important and who is compensated as important. And when you look at the faces of those people that make up that composite of Elvis Presley [on the book cover], I don't think anybody in there got any money nor much glory. So really, to me, this was an opportunity to spotlight those historic figures.Big Mama Thornton’s FreedomThe story of Big Mama Thornton that Preston tells in the book is one that resonated most with Talamieka and me. Here was a woman whose legacy has been defined by her chart-topping song “Hound Dog,” which was later performed by Elvis, ultimately skyrocketing him to fame. As a Black woman trying to make it in the predatory music industry, she experienced a lot of hardship, a lot of unfairness. But she also ended up performing around the world to crowds of adoring fans. As Preston argues, Big Mama Thornton’s legacy shouldn’t be defined by the disparities between her and Elvis, because she didn’t see herself that way.Elvis is on top of the world. Elvis has all the money. But in the years just before his death in 1977, Big Mama Thornton's out on the road. She's living a full life. She's completely free. And Elvis doesn't have that freedom. He's got the money. He's got the fame, but he's a prisoner. Big Mama was out doing her thing. She was being her true self in exactly the way she wanted to. She didn't make a lot of money. I'm definitely not here to suggest otherwise in terms of getting her due. Again, I don't love narrative of, “well, we should pity this person because of these disparities.” No, we should celebrate how powerful the person was, how brilliant the artist was, how brave the artist was, and how unburdened the artist was from all this b******t we're arguing about. She didn't give a damn. She was going to drink her old granddad whiskey as she was driving down the road, trying not to hit anything and terrify her passengers. She was having a damn party.On the Parallel Paths of Phineas Newborn Jr. and Elvis PresleyThe story of the Newborn brothers—Calvin Newborn and Phineas Newborn Jr.—and their connection to Elvis Presley is one of the more surprising and circuitous tales in the book. Preston had a personal connection to Calvin, having interviewed him early on his career, and then returning to Calvin when he realized the tangible impact he had with Elvis. The Newborn brothers were more interested heading for the “jazz mountaintop,” but Preston makes a case for the parallels between Elvis and Phineas Newborn Jr., who is wildly hailed as one of the greatest jazz pianists of all time.Nobody at that time realized that the king of rock and roll and the phenom of jazz were both rooted in Memphis blues, not just in a cosmic sense, but in a very straight, very real sense. They played in the same club. They had the same musicians around them. They had the same drummer giving them the beat. I mean, it's even more interesting than just saying, well, it was something in the water or it's in their DNA. No, they were at the same time playing with the same people. And you listen to the two artists and you would never know. You would never know that they come from the same scene. But it gives you a window of the excellence of Memphis music at the time.And finally, Preston left us with a song recommendation. He says to check out one of Elvis’s favorite groups, the Spirit of Memphis Quartet, and the song “On Calvary” in particular. Here it is!Thank you to Beth Kander, MS Liner Notes, Susan M Glisson, and many others for tuning into the live video. Big thanks to Preston Lauterbach for taking the time to talk to us about his book, and to Talamieka Brice for her incredible co-facilitation. I hope you enjoy the replay of this terrific and thought-provoking conversation.Save the date! Our next book club conversation will take place live on Substack on October 21 at 7pm. I’ll be discussing the short story collection Bodock with author Robert Busby along with my co-moderator Shira Muroff.You can listen to these book club recordings in the Substack app, in your web browser, or on Spotify. Subscribe to the show on Spotify to get notifications when new episodes are released. Recorded book club conversations are only available to paid subscribers, but the live book club sessions will continue to be free and open to all readers.Last month:Last year:

This is the latest installment in the Chronicles from Parchman series, a monthly column by writer L. Patri, who has been fighting his wrongful conviction on Parchman’s death row for over thirty years. Listen to the voiceover if you want to hear Mr. Patri read this essay.I am finding this to be the hardest story that I have written. So far, it has taken me more than six tries because each time I try, I find myself not being objective. I don’t want to be accusatory and place blame on anyone undeserving; I truly believe the judge who is presiding over my habeas appeal has been fair in his handling of this petition. I also know that this case is very complicated. In the words that state prosecutors used once or twice, it’s “convoluted.” So I fully understand the judge has a lot to consider before he decides how to rule.Objectively, I believe that he must be leaning in my favor, as I believe I have placed many facts before him to do this. Objectively, I know that if he does rule in my favor, then one of the things he has to consider is what impact a favorable ruling for me will have on the State of Mississippi—Natchez in particular. I think he’s aware that if I am exonerated I will go after the district attorney, state district attorney, city and county law enforcement offices in an effort to hold them fully accountable for the more than three decades I have been on death row. I will hold them accountable for the pain and suffering and loss that I’ve endured during those years. The number of irreplaceable people that I have lost to death over the decades. The things I could have shared with them to make lasting memories together. No amount of money can compensate for this loss. No amount of money can compensate for how sleepless nights drain my body when I have nothing to think about except how I can’t control my own day to day living. No amount of money can compensate for three decades of living without being able to tell people or myself a direct answer about what is happening. No amount of money can compensate for always having to suppose a ruling might be in my favor because it’s taking so long, yet also knowing that it very well may not be in my favor.It’s more than five years now that I’ve been in Federal District Court. So I’m constantly anxious for a ruling. Sometimes I’m so anxious for a ruling, that I don’t even care whether or not it’s in my favor, just so long as I get an answer.Again, I want to be objective. I want to be understanding of the situation, yet I find it difficult that it has now been a full year, one month, and two weeks that I have been awaiting a single judge to read, review and make a ruling. It is possible I can be waiting for another day, another week, month, year, or five years, because there is no timetable for the judge to make his ruling. Yet I am not given the same luxury of time. When I filed my application to amend my habeas appeal petition, the judge set a scheduling order that detailed how much time I and the state prosecutors would have to respond to the briefs and motions; if we requested additional time, we would be given a deadline to do so. Knowing this timetable, I calculated approximately how long it would take me to complete my habeas filing which was two years, give or take three months. However, the state prosecutors waited until I had filed my petition, saw what it said and what was in it as far as evidence (documented affidavits, etc.) and then they filed a motion to have the petition dismissed. They must have thought that the district court would go along with them the way the state court did and somehow ignore and dismiss what I am filing in district court. This took a year of going back and forth before the judge denied that garbage motion to dismiss; then, he ordered state prosecutors to file their response to my petition, which took prosecutors another year to do. They filed for extension of time motions before finally filing a 340-plus page response as part of the corpus of documents that the judge is currently reviewing.This was the prosecutors’ way of further playing games: they are in full possession of what they used to put me on death row, whereas I was not given access to the complete files of my case. If it only took me six months to file the petition, then it should have taken them half of that time to respond and refute my claims. And it most definitely should not have taken 340-plus pages to do so when my petition was not half as many pages. Sometimes I try to do the math. It took me three months to file my habeas corpus petition legal brief, then another four/three months for the state prosecutors to respond to that brief’s filing. Then it took me eight/ months to file my memorandum brief plus respond to what the prosecutors had to say in my petition brief. It should have only taken the prosecutors equal time to respond to the memorandum. So what should have taken two and a half years, maybe three years, to complete all fillings for myself and prosecutors, actually took four years. We completed the filing one year and a half ago, and I’ve been awaiting a ruling that could come at any day, a year from now, or five years from now. I am stuck in this grey area.There are times when I see the legal mail officer coming through the gated fences around the administrative building while I’m outside in a basketball recreation yard pen. I will stop what I’m doing until she gets close enough for me to ask who she has mail for. Many times, she will call us out by name. Each time I see her, I am hoping my name is one of the names she’ll call.Objectively, I know the judge, being fair minded, has to read those 340-plus pages. I know he has to weigh and consider them along with the other pieces of the case that he’s weighing and considering. I know he has to take his time before he decides, but does that time need to be immeasurable? For someone in my situation who has been sitting inside of a concrete and steel cage for more than three decades, I can’t help but wonder just how long such a ruling should take—two years? Five years? Ten? As these years pass, will my health take a downward spiral? Will I live that much longer? These are the things that go through my mind. I find myself counting the time that’s passing the way I did today. It’s more than five years now that I’ve been in Federal District Court. So I’m constantly anxious for a ruling. Sometimes I’m so anxious for a ruling, that I don’t even care whether or not it’s in my favor, just so long as I get an answer. Obviously I want the ruling to be in my favor, but I don’t like just sitting in this cage waiting as the years pass me by, you understand. Yea, I know. It sounds crazy.There are times when I see the legal mail officer coming through the gated fences around the administrative building while I’m outside in a basketball recreation yard pen. I will stop what I’m doing until she gets close enough for me to ask who she has mail for. Many times, she will call us out by name. Each time I see her, I am hoping my name is one of the names she’ll call. If I’m inside unit 29 J Building and sitting in my cell and I hear someone call out that legal maiI is on the zone, I will get up off the steel rack bed and go stand at the cell door. I watch as the same officer walks onto the zone, around the steel tables, and up the nineteen stairs to pass the mail out to whomever is getting it. I’ll just stand there. Watching. Hoping that she’ll come to my door, that she’s going to call my name with some letter from the court about how the judge has ruled. I find myself feeling disappointed that it’s not me she’s coming to see. Every time this happens, I have to readjust my mind and settle myself mentally once again into the waiting because I have no control over when my petition will be ruled on.In some regards, I count myself lucky that I have many other things to occupy my mind and my time. I have people in my life who will listen to my doubts and concerns and tell me reassuring things that help me to remain positive and forward thinking. In this way, I don’t feel like I am waiting alone, even if I am the only person in this single man cage. There are some times throughout the day that I find harder than others, though. Early morning is one of them. Sitting alone in the early hours of the morning, I try to guess at why it’s taking over a year and half without a ruling. I watch and listen as others around me get legal mail of some sort and then I try to decipher what is happening to them in their rulings in preparation of if happening in my ruling.I have days where I don’t want to talk to anyone or do anything except sit alone in this cell because I’m angry and I just want to pull at my hair and scream my frustrations at the walls, at the people around me. I get to a point some days that I lose appetite and don’t feel like eating so I curl up in a fetal position and stare at the ceiling or I sit on the steel top bunk and stare out the window. Seeing nothing. Hearing nothing. Losing track of time because at these moments, time means nothing. I would like to call family and friends but I don’t want to hear them ask me about my case. I don’t have an answer except, “I’m waiting.”L. Patri is of Black and Natchez Indian descent, and he is the father of one daughter and a grandfather of five grandchildren. He was born on the river in Natchez, Mississippi, and for the past three decades, he has been challenging his wrongful conviction of capital murder. He writes in multiple and hybrid genres, including thought pieces, journalism, short fiction, letters, and memoir.Rooted Magazine is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support our work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Last month: One year ago: This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit rooted.substack.comThank you to everyone who tuned into my Bottom Reader Book Club conversation with Martha Park on Wednesday. I appreciated your thoughtful questions and comments. Martha is a writer and illustrator from Memphis, Tennessee, and the author of the recently released World Without End: Essays on the Apocalypse and After, a collection of essays that deal with climate crisis, faith and doubt, motherhood, and more. I decided to share some highlights from the conversation below. Please let me know if you’ve read the book and if you have a favorite essay!Solutions vs. SurpriseI asked Martha about the significance of the roseate spoonbills on the cover (which she designed and illustrated). She described how the birds’ presence in a restored wetland area that was initially intended for ivory-billed woodpeckers represented less of a solution to the climate crisis than a moment of unexpected surprise and wonder. There’s so much we can learn when we let go of expectations of a specific outcome, especially when nature is involved.

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit rooted.substack.comLast month I had the pleasure of joining the Bottom Reader Book Club for the first time as the author guest, rather than facilitator. It was thrilling to be on the other side of the proverbial table, knowing that I’d be in good hands with my perceptive friend and fellow 2025 debut author Catherine Simone Gray as facilitator and our cohort of gracious and insightful readers tuning in with their insights and questions. There’s a reason why multiple authors have said that the Bottom Reader Book Club discussions rank among their favorite author appearances—these are conversations that go below the surface, touching on writers’ craft decisions, their missteps and unexpected triumphs, their conceptions of place and home, the nitty gritty of their journeys to publication. In our conversation about Split the Baby, we talked about why I decided against reaching out to my former stepmother during the writing of the book, my shock of discovering the role of the Klan in a Colorado town where I spent a large chunk of my childhood, and how my understanding of home has changed since I started Rooted just a few years ago. I hope you enjoy the conversation!You can listen to these book club recordings in the Substack app, in your web browser, or on Spotify. Subscribe to the show on Spotify to get notifications when new episodes are released. Recorded book club conversations are only available to paid subscribers, but the live book club sessions will continue to be free and open to all readers.My deep gratitude to Catherine and the Bottom Readers who joined the call. Thanks again to our partners: Mississippi Book Festival, Lemuria Books, and Friendly City Books. Save the date! Our next book club conversation will take place on August 6 at 7pm with Martha Park about her debut book, World Without End: Essays on Apocalypse and After. Plan ahead and check out our upcoming book club picks!August 6 at 7pm: World Without End: Essays on Apocalypse and After with author Martha ParkSeptember 3 at 7pm: Before Elvis: The African American Musicians Who Made the King with author Preston Lauterbach and moderator Talamieka BriceSeptember 13: Don’t miss the Mississippi Book Festival!

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit rooted.substack.comI’ve been sitting too long on this wonderfully rich conversation that our Bottom Reader Book Club had in May with memoirist and TV writer Sarah LaBrie about her debut memoir No One Gets to Fall Apart—I’m so glad to finally share the recording with paid subscribers. No One Gets to Fall Apart grapples with the toll that a mother’s mental illness takes on her daughter, its effects rippling outward to the family as a whole. The book’s subject matter is heavy, but Sarah’s approach is light—she deftly draws on literature and philosophy to bolster her narrative, while also taking the reader along her parallel journey of writing a “failed” novel. In our conversation, Sarah shared the evolution of the title for her memoir, talked about the way Houston still feels like home despite now being firmly rooted in Los Angeles, and also explained the inspiration for the branching structure of her book, which, yes, she envisioned “like a river breaking off into tributaries.” I found that image so striking!You can listen to these book club recordings in the Substack app, in your web browser, or on Spotify. Subscribe to the show on Spotify to get notifications when new episodes are released. Recorded book club conversations are only available to paid subscribers, but the live book club sessions will continue to be free and open to all readers.Thank you, Sarah, and the Bottom Readers who joined the call and asked such insightful questions! And thank you, Shira Muroff, for jumping in to facilitate this conversation with me at the last minute. Thanks again to our partners: Mississippi Book Festival, Lemuria Books, and Friendly City Books. The team at Red Squared recorded and produced this discussion at their studio in The Hangar.Plan ahead and check out our upcoming book club picks!August 6 at 7pm: World Without End: Essays on Apocalypse and After with author Martha ParkSeptember 3 at 7pm: Before Elvis: The African American Musicians Who Made the King with author Preston Lauterbach and moderator Talamieka BriceSeptember 13: Don’t miss the Mississippi Book Festival!

This is the latest installment in the Chronicles from Parchman series, a monthly column by writer, L. Patri, who has been fighting his wrongful conviction on Parchman’s death row for over thirty years. You can listen to the voiceover if you want to listen to Mr. Patri reading “Robbery by Default.” Please read the postscript for a dispatch from Mr. Patri regarding the upcoming execution date of Richard Jordan. When it comes to having access to people on the outsideAs a death row prisoner, I have rights that must abide.At this prison, MDOC gives me three ways to communicateAnd they contracted Global Tel to bring the systems up to dateI’m having serious concerns, so this upgrade is up for debateAs I don’t believe GTL is even a third-rate.Because if they are the only game in townIt becomes robbery by default that’s going down.It’s more akin to a Ponzi scheme conThat’s robbing the s**t out of me without using a gun.MDOC and GTL are f*****g up my daysHolding my connection hostage in multiple waysAt 5 cents a minute, I’m allowed access to video callsAs long as I use the portal stand nailed to the guard tower wallThe majority of the time, I’m catching hell just trying to log in.When I finally succeed, it cuts off and kicks me out againThinking I might have better luck, I try a regular call by phoneI dial the numbers and pay by debit to call homeThe static is so bad that my family can’t hear what I’m sayingAnd when I complain to MDOC and GTL, they mean mug me as if I’m not payingThey had me giddy as f**k after 33 years in a cellWhen they told me I’d be able to send an emailBut this goddamn wifi keeps hijacking my messages so they don’t get savedAny time someone decides to use the microwaveError! Login failed! You are currently logged into another device #112206Hmm, now ain’t that some s**t.At these inflated prices, they’re treating me like a sharecropper’s slaveAnd they’re picking my pockets, ensuring they get paidI’m feeling like a junkie, a goddamn cluckerWho’s fiending for a fix from these crooked motherfuckersYou best believe when service is this shitty all the timeThat some funky-ass crook is stealing my last dime.I don’t know what to do, I’m at my wit’s endBecause GTL is causing smokescreens between me, family, and friendsIf I get a contraband cell phone, MDOC makes that a sinNo matter what I do, I can’t f*****g win.Having lived on Mississippi Death Row for over three decades I have watched twenty men walk to the death chamber to be murdered at the hands of the State. I have watched six men walk back to claim their freedom after serving decades fighting not to be murdered at the hands of the State.Mississippi has an upcoming execution scheduled, June 25th, for a seventy-nine-year-old man—Richard Jordan, a man who has been on death row for the past fifty years. Richard is a man whom the prison allows to be out of his cell all day, from 3:30am until 6pm. What does that say that after fifty plus years that the State now deems it necessary to kill this man? What does it also say that religious and anti-death penalty organizations are willing to wait until this man has been set a date, or wait until the day this man is executed before speaking out and speaking up about the injustice and inhumanity to this process within our judicial system? So, here is some food for thought: when Rome nailed Jesus Christ to the cross, that was an execution. How can people of faith claim to be followers of Jesus yet continue to stand on the sidelines and watch as States like Mississippi continue to execute people? L. Patri - June 19, 2025Rooted Magazine is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support our work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit rooted.substack.comIn April, we talked with author Neesha Powell-Ingabire—who was just nominated for Georgia Author of the Year!—about their debut memoir-in-essays Come By Here. Neesha was vulnerable, honest, and authentic. She talked about how in writing about her own family history, she uncovered important moments in Black history that helped her understand her coastal Georgia roots in a new way. We also spoke about power of tears and the importance of reviving and reclaiming Black agricultural knowledge and traditions. Neesha also broke down their writing process—how a journalism background did and did not translate to writing more personal essays.You can listen to these book club recordings in the Substack app, in your web browser, or on Spotify1. Subscribe to the show on Spotify to get notifications when new episodes are released. Recorded book club conversations are only available to paid subscribers, but the live book club sessions will continue to be free and open to all readers.Thank you, Neesha! Thanks again to our partners: Mississippi Book Festival, Lemuria Books, and Friendly City Books. The team at Red Squared records and produces these discussions at their studio in The Hangar.Plan ahead and check out our upcoming book club picks!June 26 at 7pm: Split the Baby with (me!) Lauren Rhoades and moderator Catherine Simone GrayAugust 6 at 7pm: World Without End: Essays on Apocalypse and After with author Martha ParkSeptember 3 at 7pm: Before Elvis: The African American Musicians Who Made the King with author Preston Lauterbach and moderator Talamieka BriceRED SQUARED is an award-winning, Black-owned video and film production company based in Jackson, Mississippi. We bring stories to life through documentaries, commercials, and live event coverage, with a deep commitment to Mississippi’s culture, history, and community. Subscribe to RED SQUARED for updates and behind-the-scenes stories.

This is the latest installment in the Chronicles from Parchman series, a monthly column by writer, L. Patri, who has been fighting his wrongful conviction on Parchman’s death row for over thirty years. This week, Mr. Patri and I were able to record him reading his essay. Click “Listen to Post” if you want the audio experience. Important to note for this essay—though he writes under the pseudonym “L. Patri,” our author’s first name is Joesph.They tell me the dead don’t sleep, eat, nor rest, that they come to those they love in their hour of need. I suppose that is why I sit here now, waiting and watching P.Nut and thinking about how long I’ve known him. He’s up in age now, fifty-five, so that makes me seventy-five, even though I have not aged in human years for quite some time, as I was fifty when I left the world of the living. As I’m unsure about how this whole “coming back” thing actually works, I will suppose, again, that I must look close to how he remembers me in life, though P.Nut has changed over these many years that I’ve been away. But I still think it’s best that I left, though I doubt he’ll agree. So I am hesitant, as I don’t know what his reaction will be after seeing me again.On the day I met P.Nut, I was walking through the path in the woods that ran close by my sister’s home, fallen leaves swishing around my feet, when I noticed this kid playing with the hogs. Throwing old rinds from different sorts of fruit and corn seeds into the mud to watch them root it out and eat. I took him to be about six, and because I lived nearby, I asked him what he was doing, whose child he was, and why he was out there all alone. The kid just looked at me like he was dumbfounded and mumbled something I didn’t quite catch. So I took a step closer, and he bolted. I tell you. I’d never seen a child that fast, and he didn’t miss a beat as he hopped over the fence and began yelling.“S**t,” I said. “I didn’t mean ta frighten ya, boy.”I happened to catch a name he was screaming like some wild banshee: “Uncle Mann! Uncle Mann!” I knew then that I’d get on round to the house because Uncle Mann, who also went by Bear, didn’t hold quarters to someone messing with his kin. I did find it funny, albeit a little scary, that I didn’t recognize the boy, because he was still relatively new in 1975-74, you understand. But that ain’t no excuse, as my sister was his grandmomma, and her oldest daughter his momma. I should’ve known.Anyway, as I was saying. P.Nut has grown old, gray hairs in his face showing signs of the stress he must’ve been living with these many years inside a cage. I know I should’ve come back long before now, but I tell you. The boy just plumb pushed me away after the death of his aunt Betty Jo in 1984. Never did see a kid so close to his aunt that way; he even left home to live with her when she grew up and got her own place. But I think I can understand a little of that now-a-days, because Betty Jo was a real killa disco lady, ya hear, and all her friends were just like her. She never had a day that wasn’t a party and you have to know. In 1980-79, disco was live and jumping. Plus, Betty let the boy do what he wanted, you understand.So I can’t blame him, like I said. But before her death, me and the kid got to know each other. Turns out we had the same name—Joe or Joseph—though P.Nut preferred his nickname. Once I scooted on round to the house so Bear didn’t come out shooting that rifle of his, that’s how I got to know P.Nut. His momma, my niece, was close by, and he hid behind her legs, pointing at me like I was out to kidnap him and all. I tell you.We finally sat down in his Granny Nellie’s house, out on the car porch, as she had built a wall around the thing and turned it into a sitting room that had two long, tinted windows, maybe four feet long. You could watch what was going on outside in the yard and the street, but can’t nobody see you in the room. I never did see such a thing like that before, and so I went up to it and made sure they wasn’t jiving me, understand, and sho-nuff, I knocked on the window and kids were looking this way and that-a-way but didn't see who’s doing it. Ha!My baby sister Nellie was sitting in her chair by a side door that led out to the side of the house, as this room had three doors. Four, if you count the door to the washroom that was on her right side. One door led out to the front of the house, and the other door led you into the house, and she was just sitting there sipping on those Milwaukee beers, smoking her prince albert pipe tobacco, and just a grinning. Nellie and me are part Natchez Indian from a tribe that used to claim these lands way back when, and you can see more Indian in her than you can our momma Hattie, who was sitting on the couch next to the wall that led you into the house.Momma Hattie was also smoking her pipe tobacco and cussing like some crazy lady. She was a big woman compared to Nellie, in size, height, and weight, and mean as a snake if you pissed her off. I tell you. I’ve seen the woman pick up a snake and throw it clear across that road out yonder and whack a kid that sassed her! So, I try to be as nice as can be in her presence. But my sister Nellie didn’t have such a temperament. She would just shush you quiet.Besides Bear, myself, and P.Nut, P.Nut’s momma, Lee, was there, as I said, and the boy was still hiding behind her leg. That woman was just as huge as Momma Hattie. Everybody called her Erma Lee and she was every bit as tall as six feet four inches and weighed around 260-50 pounds. She could hold her own, as she’d been running in the streets since age thirteen, working in bars and clubs and such, to get money and help her momma with her six siblings, who were still in school trying to get some learning. Erma Lee had five kids of her own by that time, and in 1975-74, when she was twenty-four or twenty-three years of age, she was shacking up with the youngest boy’s daddy, a truck driver. She drove, too, here and there, on the road with him, but not much. He was married, they say.Bear, well, I guess the name says it all there. He was Erma Lee’s brother and well over six feet six inches. He drove logger trucks for Harvey B. + Sons, hauling pulpwood all across Mississippi and Louisiana. Eventually, their brother Samuel, and Lee’s husband Charles, who she married in 1976, both worked for the logging company, too. They were close knitted as any family could be.I get ahead of myself talking family. P.Nut finally let go of his mother’s leg and ventured out to see who I was. Although I didn’t introduce myself by name, he had heard his folks call me Joe, you see. I am his mother’s uncle, and she’s just about as close me as P.Nut is close to his Aunt Betty Jo. But listen, because I guess things is getting just a tad bit confusing to you. Let me go back to where I started, before I got all sentimental about the family.Later on, after that first meeting with P.Nut, when he was around six years old, his mother lived close by to his Granny Nellie in a place called La Grange. A rural area in Natchez, Mississippi, where Country folks migrated to when they left the Deep Country down on Lower Woodville Road and out in Kingston Way. Years earlier, the Klan had burned out his Great Granny Hattie and the family one winter night. But P.Nut, who was only four or three, doesn't actually recall much of that. Only what he’s heard his sister tell, as she was around eight or seven years old and remembers walking in the cold night. So this one particular night, P.Nut decided he wanted to go home, and because their house wasn’t so far away from his Granny Nellie’s home, if he took to the woods and used the short cuts of the bypass, it was maybe three or two minutes, you see. It was getting on dark around this time, but the family didn’t worry much about their children in the ‘70s and ‘60s because, as I told you, everybody just about knew everybody in that community, and most were related kin one way or another. So P.Nut was free to roam the woods, as all the children did.Coming out of the wooded by-pass behind the house next door to his home, sat down in a cul-de-sac, he climbed the small hill and walked up to the house. Peeping through the window he saw his momma fighting with his baby brother’s daddy. Then he heard gunshots. Frozen in place, he watched his momma kill George. That was the night I—Uncle Joe—came into being for P.Nut. The boy kind of latched onto me in the few days his momma spent in jail.The child wasn’t afraid about what he had just seen because he saw that his momma was okay. But he didn’t run to her or let her know what he had seen, and it wouldn’t be until his adult years that he ever told anyone except Baby George when they were teenagers living in Louisiana around 1982. That conversation came about when George first met his daddy's people and a boy named Walter Jones made it look like his daddy was a good man, but he wasn’ because he always fought P.Nut’s momma, you see, as he was abusive that way. As George Sr. and George Jr. are no longer of this world, I guess I’ll let them be and sleep on.As the years passed and P.Nut was growing up, his momma was huge on the church thing. She’d go about three times a week, revivals and all. Thinking back, I guess she had her own demons she was wrestling with, but that didn’t matter, because when she went, so did he, and he actually liked the church. Can’t say that he ever tried to preach, but the kid did sing every chance he got.During these times—I guess he was around the age of twelve or eleven—his real daddy took deathly ill and died. His momma always made him go see his daddy before he died. He lived in Roxie, Mississippi, just off the highway, and his daddy’s parents, his grannies Greybeard and Martha Hunt, lived there, too. There wasn’t much of a relationship between him and his daddy, or the dozen or so siblings his daddy had sired. They were much older, you see, but again, we will let the dead rest in peace. Needless to say, P.Nut didn't feel much of anything about that side of the family except when it came to his siblings Marilyn and Louis and Julius. They’re all gone now, and he doesn’t actually know where any of them are laid to rest, but he remembers that a plot or two of land in the old country may hold some of their remains.Looking at him now, he’s sitting on an iron bed inside a barren, cold steel cage, still trying to retain some hope, some dignity about the life he was raised into. Yet I can tell it’s all but faded and that he must begin forming and building other relationships if he’s to survive the cold winter months ahead.I see the lost look of agony from wondering if some people may live to see a new year. Sadness has tightened its grip at his throat, and he fights to breathe, so he lays on his back and draws up his knees to his chest. All of his life, people have compared him to the biblical character Joseph, and he’s steadfastly rejected that notion. But I see now, as he sees, that there may be some truth in the story, as he’s gone through similar trials. Many years ago, we agreed to part ways so that he could experience the world and the life that he created, though I doubt he’ll agree with that assessment. But I’m sure he’ll admit that his lifestyle played a part in his current situation, because growing up his life mirrored mine in the ways that we fucked up.He and I bumped heads hard on how to handle what happened to him. While I believe that when you take part, either directly or indirectly, in the lifestyle you choose to live, you are responsible for the consequences—whether or not they are beyond your control. But he saw it differently. P.Nut didn’t do what they said he did; he didn’t think his lifestyle had anything to do with why he got here. The bottom line was that P.Nut had much growing up and maturing to do, and I was standing in his way. He couldn’t become me, nor I him, even though we shared a common end. I had lived my life long before, now I was just pictures on the wall, existing inside some family member’s memories. I was a namesake he imitated and wanted to be one day, so he mirrored my life in prison at a young age, the ways that I lived the street life—with drugs, women, booze, and gambling. His idolization of me, turned my reality into his fantasy.So I no longer call him P.Nut. Starting today, he’s a Joe who has conquered himself to where he now knows and accepts himself. The same way P.Nut, I mean Joe, had to learn to know and accept himself from our first biblical Joe, who was sold into bondage by his brothers. Life is a box of chocolates, and I think I’ve eaten enough of these sugary treats.Well, I believe it’s time I stop standing in this corner nook watching and step forward to see if he really has changed. I’ve been away for so long. Decades, now. Because I, too, needed the growth that time and space have provided, even if the circumstances were dire. I’ve got to tell him that time has run short. There aren't many days left on this clock. I came back to find out if he’s at peace with himself, to find out if the good he’s done will balance against the bad he’s done in this life. Can he find rest in knowing that it wasn’t me he needed to live up to, but himself? I have to know if the rage and anger and madness has dissipated, and if his eyes were to close tonight, would he be at peace. Does he forgive the wrongs done to him and by him and, more than anything, does he forgive me, Joe, and the other Joe for being that crux he couldn’t find a way through or over or under? Does he forgive himself, is what I need to know.Hmm, I guess my timing is good, as the song he’s hearing now is called “Still Here” from the speaker in his radio. It’s a song he’s known all his life growing up in the church. I can hear him humming along, so I smile and step out into the light——God-damn f*****g clown next door. S**t! Now yelling and cursing, slamming his hand on the metal panel attached to the door f*****g awakes me. Man. I can kick into your funky ass with this dumb ass noise! F**k! Waking me out my peace. All f*****g daylight hours, this little s**t don’t make a sound, and every goddamn night he act like he’s losing his mind. Straight b******t, I tell you. Motherfucker! If you actually crazy, fool, you don’t have certain times every f*****g night that you lose your mind. Geez! Silly ass clown. Crazy mother f*****s don’t know they’re crazy. I’m getting tired of this dumb s**t. Yeah. True. I can fully understand guys doing s**t to help their cases and possibly save their lives, but this s**t is just stupid. The major and administration have been walking around here every day and this sorry ass idiot plays like he’s asleep. Don’t say s**t! No yelling, no spitting, no cursing. But then he keeps breaking my f*****g rest and sleep in the a.m. hours when s**t is quiet. Ugh! Man! Seriously. If I can catch this motherfucker, I will give his sorry ass something to be crazy about.Man, nah. What the f**k you want, Joe? Dude, I know you, so I know you been here a minute watching and s**t, and honestly, now isn’t the time to be f*****g with me on that zen s**t. I got too much I’m trying to get done. I see you standing there with that quirky ass smile playing on your face like you're ready to start laughing. I’m jumping back and forth between legal work, helping others with legal work, class assignments, and so much other s**t as it pops in my head, because I only have a good day left on a lot of it. So, if you will excuse me for a second, sit over there and let me be, Brother. Now is not the time. Listen.It’s only four days before my fifty-fifth birthday and you’ve been gone too long now. Things have changed. I don’t talk inside of myself a lot anymore. So right now, you just need to wait, okay? For years, that age—fifty-five—played havoc for me because even though I know it’s superstitious s**t, I had two uncles die at fifty-five in back-to-back years. My mom was fifty-two when she went, but I’ll be fifty-five on Saturday. My sister Red is now fifty-eight, and my sister Baby Girl is fifty-three, and even though I have my days of melancholy, I do think we three still have plenty of life to go. That is, if I make it through this ordeal. If I continue to live inside with all this b******t around me, though, I can’t say, because so much is beginning to affect me. There was a time that I didn't allow much of anything to do that. You see, around the age of twelve to eleven years old, I lived in a world of abuse. Not necessarily abuse to me, personally, even though my parents didn’t spare the rod when it came to ass-whipping. My mom and Charles had married in 1976 and that s**t was always a rocky thing on weekends because Charles—now I’m going to begin calling Charles my dad, so don’t be confused, as I’m not speaking on my biological father A.J. Abrams, okay—would go out on town on weekends, Friday and Saturday, and get drunk on Seagram's gin and come home wanting to fight. Usually it was with my moms for some s**t or the other, or us kids over some trivial s**t like the television or dirty rooms. During the week, my dad was damn cool. He cooked, cleaned, did s**t with us, and all that, but as I said, on weekends. He was just mean.But abuse ran across the board where we came from, and we’ve witnessed it a-plenty, especially in the country La Grange and places like that. We both know women caught hell. Cause as you know, Uncle Joe, you beat the hell out of Martha. LeRoy, I’m not so sure about, but Blue beat the hell out of Nancy, Fred beat the hell out of Elizabeth, Charlie beat the hell out of Nancy, who is your sister, Julius beat the hell out of Molly, and on and on and on, you understand. So, the ass beating I took from Momma and Dad wasn’t something I dwelled on as it was natural, I guess you could say, when I fucked up. And believe me, I fucked up a lot.However, I did have issues. Listen, I pissed my bed for years, and that got me a beating, too. I think I stopped around thirteen or twelve years old, I was so afraid at one point that I would refuse to drink anything, believing that if I didn't drink before bed, then I wouldn't piss the bed, and I wouldn’t get beat. That s**t didn’t work! I would try to stay awake all night. That didn't work, either. I’m telling you. I was fucked up around this time. Three or two years prior, I was struck by a car going to my grandparents’ home. I was having seizures and black-outs, killer headaches and s**t, and through it all, I had no clue how to tell anyone or talk to anyone, you know. Sure. I had good days, fun days and things. I was a child. What the hell did I know, but I had serious problems, and I struggled around other children. Most of them knew I pissed the bed, how could they not, when my siblings teased me all the time about it, whether at home alone or around other people. So eventually I went into myself, I guess is the way to describe it.Now Uncle Joe has always been in my life as far back as I can remember. I shouldn’ta pushed him back in the corner like that, coming to visit me after all this time. He was a great huge man that my momma really loved. Did he put his hand on my shoulder? Why’d I brush that s**t away? The way he looked at me when I was ranting and raving, like I’m six years old again and hiding behind my mom’s skirt. I can still feel him here, he’s got to be. Come, sit there on my bed for a minute.One of my favorite memories of Joe is the time we took a black and white picture together at the homeplace on Lower Woodville Road, that one the klan burned out in 1972. I was sitting on his knee, both of us smiling. Long time ago, but I still recall. Last time I saw that photo, Grandmomma had it in a shoe box in her closet at the LaGrange home.I know why he’s here. After years of state prosecutors wasting my life inside of a cage, he’s come to give me strength. He can feel my resolve starting to weaken. Even though he hasn’t been in my life since the age of about seven, here he is, inside this cage with me, rolling a joint on my bed. Leaning back on my pillow, propped up against my wall, just like me.Reckon you can say that I had an identity crisis growing up. Two Josephs to choose from, and me not knowing who I am or how I fit into this equation. I had the church folks taking my name and selling me into slavery by my Brothers, suffering many years in bondage, and I had the family folks calling me Joe because they really was talking about Uncle Joe, and Uncle Joe was real, you know. He wasn't just an old story from a very old book. Eventually, something had to give, and it did. Now, I’m not gonna dwell long as I think I have reached my time to begin wrapping up other things in my life, and since I live around stupid people, I have to take these quiet moments when I can to rest. So. Listen to this.Around the age of thirteen or twelve, I began noticing the world around me. I went to church with my momma because, like I told you, that’s what we did. Three days out of the week. But this was just regular Sunday church day, and pretty much all my family attended Mount Zion Baptist Church down on Lower Woodville Road, across the papermill. A small white clapboard, modest church that held maybe ten rows of pews on either side with a red carpet running down the aisle to the preacher’s pulpit sitting directly center. The elders sat on the first two rows, all in white, as well as the ushers. The preacher’s chair sat directly behind the pulpit with four chairs, two on either side of that chair, and a choir pit was behind those, where my momma and I sat, cause Momma could sing, too, you understand. Our reverend was a Mr. White, dressed in white pants, red shirt, black shoes, and his hair slicked back like they wore back then. The women loved him, and I guess the men did, too, because Reverend White knew how to preach. Every four or three words, he would throw in a “huh” and “eh” and he be sweating like it was 100 degrees even though it was rather cool inside the church because they had air conditioning and ceiling fans going.But, like I said. Reverend White, he be preaching, and on this particular day, he was all Fire + Brimstone, Hell + Heaven, and the sins of the wicked that lust, you see, and he’ll get all loud, and then go quiet, and would even step away from the pulpit to get down to pews, where my family and family friends sat, and be in their faces about the sins of evil, wicked people. Mind you, now. S**t! Just telling this story got me back in time and talk, running so fast in my mind that I hope I don’t miss my words, but listen. Reverend White goes on and on for a good thirty minutes to an hour, and he’s sweating like an overworked mule, and it damn near got me scared to death. So, he ends, and the choir jumps in and we do a song, and I tell Momma I need to use the bathroom. No s**t. I believe he scared me that bad. She lets me go, and they keep singing, as Reverend White takes his break. Exiting from the choir pit to my right, as the men’s and boys’ toilets were on the right, the women’s and girls’ on the left, I head to the bathroom, but now I don’t have to go. Since there is a side door that leads outside, that’s where I go, because I figure I can sneak next door to Uncle Boogie’s house, as he only lived maybe thirty feet away, and to the corner store that’s maybe another forty feet, and get some candy, because my great granny’s home is on that hill on the other side. Yep. The house that the klan burned down.Anyway, that’s exactly what I do, and it took no time at all as I ran all the way there and back so Momma wouldn't come looking, you know. I head back around the backside of the church to go in, and I see Reverend White sitting on the steps and he’s drinking. Now I am not stupid, and having lived around Uncle Boogie, I know what’s in the mason jar. Moonshine. And it hit me.That was my wake-up call. That lying s.o.b. Now, I am saying s.o.b. today, but no such thought like that crossed my mind or my lips then. However, my church days took a blow and I guess since then, I’ve never given it that much thought. Eventually, slowly, I pulled away from the church, but I never told Momma why. I just made other excuses or found reasons to be with my dad on weekends, as he didn’t go to church. So. The Bible’s Joseph took a back seat, and around this time, I was learning more and more about Uncle Joe. It fascinated me that he shot someone, and that he was in Parchman all that time I didn't know where he had gone. He liked the streets, and booze, and women, and eventually I headed down that same road. I came to Parchman at eighteen or seventeen years old, even though I had not shot anyone to get there. So. Uncle Joe and I have prison in common, as well as our name. I got to tell you, and then I’ll let y’all be and get my sleep. You know. It’s goddamn funny the tricks life will play on a motherfucker, because all the time I was being Uncle Joe’s Joe, my f*****g life actually turned out like Joe—Joseph—in that old book. Because as Black people, we call one another Brothers and Sisters, and it was goddamn Brothers and Sisters who got me here.Uncle Joe stands up and I realize how huge of a man he is compared to my smallness. He’s about 240, which is what I would be if I had lived outside a cage for thirty years. It’s as though living inside the cage for so long has shrunken me back to the six-year-old child. When he enfolds me in his embrace, I feel even smaller. As if I’m a child waking from a nightmare and needing to be comforted.Hmm. Ain't that some s**t. Uncle Joe embracing me to give strength in my time of need. Molded inside his warm embrace, my head turns to the right. I can feel the beat of his heart soothing my soul. My eyes rest upon the rarely used holy book sitting on the table. He shushes me quiet, whispering shhh…shhh…Peace. Be still.L. Patri is of Black and Natchez Indian descent, and he is the father of one daughter and a grandfather of five grandchildren. He was born on the river in Natchez, Mississippi, and for the past three decades, he has been challenging his wrongful conviction of capital murder. He writes in multiple and hybrid genres, including thought pieces, journalism, short fiction, letters, and memoir. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit rooted.substack.comI hope you enjoyed reading the Rooted questionnaire of artist and owner of Wolfe Studio Bebe Wolfe. Today, I’m happy to share my full conversation with Bebe just with paid subscribers. You can listen on Substack or via the Rooted podcast on Spotify (other podcasting platforms will only have the preview version). Our conversation meandered from Mississip…

L. Patri reads his essay "Less Than a Chicken," the latest for his column, "Chronicles from Parchman." This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit rooted.substack.comDespite some technical difficulties on my end, our book club discussion with Catherine Simone Gray about her debut memoir Proud Flesh was a delight. Catherine was warm and thoughtful, and our book club participants were so insightful with their questions. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this group of wise, intellectual, and caring readers.We cove…

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit rooted.substack.comLast week Beth Kander joined our book club—moderated by me and Rooted Community Editor Shira Muroff—to talk about her darkly comedic, genre-defying, and utterly original novel I Made It Out of Clay. Beth was charming and funny and generous. She shared how she wrote the first draft of the book in under a month (spoiler alert: lots of coffee). She also talked about the publishing pros and cons of writing a “genre-defying” book, and the research that went into creating a lore-worthy golem. And, as teased in the title, Beth also discussed standing up for her decision to write a female protagonist on the cusp of turning forty instead of, say, thirty. We love to see it! All in all, it was a fabulous discussion. You can listen to these book club recordings in the Substack app, in your web browser, or on Spotify. Subscribe to the show on Spotify to get notifications when new episodes are released. Recorded book club conversations are only available to paid subscribers, but the live book club sessions will continue to be free and open to all readers.Thank you, Beth! Thanks again to our partners: Mississippi Book Festival, Lemuria Books, and Friendly City Books. The team at Red Squared records and produces these discussions at their studio in The Hangar.Plan ahead and check out our upcoming book club picks!March 27: Proud Flesh: A Memoir of Motherhood, Intimate Violence, and Reclaiming Pleasure with author and Rooted contributor Catherine Simone Gray (REGISTER HERE!)April: Come By Here with author Neesha Powell-IngabireMay: No One Gets to Fall Apart with author Sarah LaBrie and moderator John Caleb GrennRED SQUARED is an award-winning, Black-owned video and film production company based in Jackson, Mississippi. We bring stories to life through documentaries, commercials, and live event coverage, with a deep commitment to Mississippi’s culture, history, and community. Subscribe to RED SQUARED for updates and behind-the-scenes stories.

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit rooted.substack.comToday I’m sharing my full recorded interview with Maude Schuyler Clay. This uncut version of our conversation is just for paid subscribers. You can also listen to the episode via the Rooted podcast on Spotify (other podcasting platforms will only have the preview version). Maude is a delightful storyteller, and throughout our conversation she shared anecdotes about the many Mississippi fiction writers she’s collaborated with over the years, including Lewis Nordan, Richard Ford, Brad Watson and Beth Ann Fennelly. She also reflected on her time in New York and some of her favorite moments with her artistic hero, Eudora Welty. I hope you enjoy the conversation!

In December, author Max Hipp joined our book club to talk about his unforgettable collection of stories: What Doesn’t Kill You Opens Your Heart. Max revealed that the stories in this collection span twenty years of writing. As a musician, Max discussed the the distinct ways he approaches writing stories and writing songs. And he also shared his process of fictionalizing real places in his work.Thank you, Max! Thanks again to our partners: Mississippi Book Festival, Lemuria Books, and Friendly City Books. The team at Red Squared records and produces these discussions at their studio in The Hangar.Check out our upcoming book club picks!February: I Made It Out of Clay with author and Rooted contributor Beth KanderMarch: Proud Flesh: A Memoir of Motherhood, Intimate Violence, and Reclaiming Pleasure with author and Rooted contributor Catherine Simone GrayApril: Come By Here with author Neesha Powell-IngabireRED SQUARED is an award-winning, Black-owned video and film production company based in Jackson, Mississippi. We bring stories to life through documentaries, commercials, and live event coverage, with a deep commitment to Mississippi’s culture, history, and community. Subscribe to RED SQUARED for updates and behind-the-scenes stories. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit rooted.substack.comToday I’m sharing the full interview with Curtis Wilkie, which we recorded back in October. We rarely put anything behind a paywall, but this uncut version of our conversation is just for paid subscribers. You can also listen to the episode via the Rooted podcast on Spotify (other podcasting platforms will only have the preview version, see comment belo…

Last month, best-selling author Meryl Wilsner joined our book club to talk about their sapphic soccer romance Cleat Cute. We had a buzzy chat about writing a character with ADHD, miscommunication as narrative device, and imagining a professional women’s soccer team based in New Orleans. Meryl even gave us some insight into what it was like to have their book optioned for TV by soccer superstars Megan Rapinoe and Sue Bird’s production company. And yes, they do keep a giant spreadsheet full of book ideas. This conversation was so much fun—I hope you enjoy it.You can now listen to these recordings on Spotify or Apple Podcasts. Subscribe to the show to get notifications when new episodes are released.Thank you, Meryl! Thanks again to our partners: Mississippi Book Festival, Lemuria Books, and Friendly City Books. The team at Red Squared records and produces these discussion at their studio in The Hangar.Up next: we’ll be talking with Max Hipp about his collection of short stories What Doesn’t Kill You Opens Your Heart. Join the live discussion on Wednesday December 3, 2024. RED SQUARED is an award-winning, Black-owned video and film production company based in Jackson, Mississippi. We bring stories to life through documentaries, commercials, and live event coverage, with a deep commitment to Mississippi’s culture, history, and community. Learn more at redsquared.co. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe

This is the seventh installment in the Chronicles from Parchman series, a monthly column by the talented and prolific writer, L. Patri, who has been incarcerated on Parchman’s death row for over thirty years. This week, Mr. Patri and I were able to record him reading his essay. Click “Listen to Post” if you want the audio experience. For twenty-two years, all of my lawyers were white people. I always had a feeling that they did not understand, comprehend, and really did not give me their all in my fight for my life and freedom. I couldn’t relate to them wholeheartedly because I had it in my mind that they really were just white Mississippi people going through the motions to make it “look good.” After all, I was on death row for the killing of a white woman, so they secretly wanted me dead, too. But they could not just outright f**k over my case.An attorney and client must have a clear and full understanding of what they are saying to each other. Cultural inflections in our tones of speech can cause some attorneys to lose the true meaning of what is being said. People like to think, and in many ways it’s true, that we are all American people. But Blacks and whites are two separate people inside America. That’s why you often hear the word “Ebonics” as a language. I speak fluent English, and if I choose, I speak proper English. You understand. “Cheerio,” “ole chap,” or “just shut it, fellow.” But in the language I speak now, from deep in the southern states of Mississippi and Louisiana, I can tell you this line, “Ima be there no,” when you ask me if I’m coming somewhere with you. When you hear “No, I’m not going to be there,” I’m actually saying, “Yes, I will be there.” The “no” and “yes” are switched depending on who you’re talking to. Then there is the drawl we have where one word sounds like another, such as in a recent interview I did on a recording where I said “the NPD framed me for this crime…” but when they transcribed it, they wrote “EMPD.” So. People will get lost in the translation. When it comes to this legal language, I had to learn how to talk totally different so a lawyer didn’t miss what I was saying, and vice versa.Over 85% of the men I’ve come to know on death row are either borderline or below mental comprehension for basic reading and writing. I was lucky in this regard. Even though I didn’t finish 12th grade, I continued to learn.When I did get Black people to be my lawyers in 2016, it was by chance. JH, another man on death row and two cells away from me at the time, was also from Natchez, Mississippi. He had the same two white lawyers in federal district habeas corpus as I had, so they were back in Natchez on this guy’s case. Prosecutors were saying if they could do that for JH, then I didn’t need new lawyers for my state petition because these lawyers could do that for me, too. Lucky for me, the special judge I had saw it differently. That’s how I got two female Black lawyers. Even luckier for me, the entire team, including investigators and mitigation experts, were also Black!I knew I had to go all out and break my silence if I was to survive this. The team knew my cultural upbringing. So they understood not just what I told them, but how I told it to them. The Black lawyer and the Black investigator had similar life experiences as myself, and I was able to grasp the language and catch the nuances.The first truth and the hardest lesson that I learned about the U.S. judicial system when dealing with death row case appeals is this:Truth: Justice is not equal or fair when it comes to the uneducated, mentally challenged, and poor.Lesson: Those of us who are poor must depend on ourselves to seek out evidence to fight for our own justice. The rich can afford ignorance; the poor cannot.Over 85% of the men I’ve come to know on death row are either borderline or below mental comprehension for basic reading and writing. I was lucky in this regard. Even though I didn’t finish 12th grade, I continued to learn. Even though I ran the streets and stayed in trouble, jail, and prison, I did have some level of quality education so that I could read, understand, and comprehend what I read.One man, SP, has no ability to properly read and understand the legal paperwork that he receives. Only three days ago, I was coming downstairs from the top tier after getting ready to go outside and play “shoot-around” basketball, which is just a game of me moving from one spot to another spot, after each made shot, when someone told me that SP was looking for me. Because of his medical condition, SP doesn’t walk up and down the stairs from the bottom tier to the top tier, which is why he probably didn’t know I was inside my cell.SP and those like him—JB, DW, and TB and many more—wouldn’t stand a chance against the people in the prosecution offices who are trying to murder them. Yes they have lawyers, but speaking from experience, these lawyers do a half-ass job in explaining things clearly to these men.Anyway, I go outside, and I see him down on the far end of the yard, sitting at the picnic table that sits close to the wire fencing that separates J-Bldg from L-Bldg, and he’s reading papers. I can tell this stack is huge, about as thick as War and Peace. So I walk to him and he tells me, “I just got this in, and will you go over it for me.” Of course I agree, but I sit down and thumb through it, just to give him some idea what it might be saying. The 176 pages was my first telling that this ruling would be straight garbage and nonsense, so there’s no way SP would understand any of this.This isn’t my first, third, or fifth time helping him with this type of reading, but I know each time that he’s grateful because I’m the first person he seeks out to help him, and that means a lot to me. Maybe as much as it does to him. So rather than put him to the side and play ball, I sit down and read parts to him that stand out to me, because I know he’s been wanting to know why state prosecutors haven’t turned over the DNA evidence they withheld, which the court ordered them to turn over about four months ago. After some time, and repeating myself over and over and over again to make sure he understands what I’m telling him, I tell him that I will read through everything tonight and sit with him again tomorrow. He agrees. I roll up his papers, intending to go play my game, but end up going back inside to start talking to other guys about the 176 pages of legalese, because I’d never gotten such a ruling, or knew of anyone else with a 176 page ruling. Hell. Maybe eighty pages, but this s**t was crazy, so I knew I wanted to begin reading it as soon as I could. If I didn’t take this time to help and explain, then SP wouldn’t have anyone to help who he thinks has his best interest at heart.SP and those like him—JB, DW, and TB and many more—wouldn’t stand a chance against the people in the prosecution offices who are trying to murder them. Yes they have lawyers, but speaking from experience, these lawyers do a half-ass job in explaining things clearly to these men.Another example: today, DB asked me about SP’s paperwork because a lawyer tried to explain some “wording” the court had ruled on inside SP’s ruling. The court had said they changed “competent” to “incompetent” in a certain section, but that change had not been made. Had it been made, then SP’s mental state would have changed from the state being able to kill him to where they can’t kill him. Mississippi can no longer kill people who are mentally challenged (incompetent). These two little letters—“in”—make a huge difference. SP did not understand that, so he did not grasp the importance of telling his lawyers to make sure the court corrected that mistake.Or take DW, who, in my opinion, has the mindset of a child, unable to write to people and family, and is in desperate need of help. This man for years hobbled around death row with a bad toe on one foot and couldn’t properly take care of it, couldn’t understand that it was a serious condition, that it could have cost him not only the toe, but the foot and the leg, because gangrene started to set in. His mind was such that he would constantly pick at the sore, making it worse, totally unaware of the danger to his health and well-being.Most of the men on death row dumbed ourselves down before we got here to work menial jobs that pay poor wages, and when we got trapped by an unjust system, we didn’t have the intelligence to fight, or the money to fight for the decades that that system keeps us locked in cages. Our education in school was stunted or/and discontinued for one reason or the other. Our minds mentally retarded to one degree or the other. Our income levels were such that we were forced to forego education in order to feed, clothe, and shelter ourselves. Our families. Whatever the circumstance, a combination of one or two (and in some cases three) of these factors led them to death row, in direct conflict with the American judicial system, a system that ignores these factors when it makes the decision that we are better off executed than educated.No lawyer has been or is more invested than I am. So I make my desires and wishes known and become an active participant in saving my life and regaining my freedom. The hard truth is that once I was in the system and on death row, the troubles and impairments I had to begin with have only doubled. Essentially, I am trapped within a system without a viable way to fight against that system. This judicial system severely limits any possibility that I can 1) pay for representation to help my fight, as I can’t work and earn money, and 2) take care of my needs so I can communicate with people in society for quality help or learning.When this system traps us, it doesn’t give us viable tools and opportunities to fight against it, which is why we become dependent on guards for s**t paper, toothpaste, soap, etc, and if and when this system does what it did, such as cut out the legal libraries, dependence really comes in when we interact with our lawyers. Laws are fluid, ever-changing, and if I am not up to date, not just on laws but rules, procedures, in-state and federal, I’m dead!I am lucky that my parents made sure I had quality education, even if I chose not to get that full education, understand. I have met many people in recent years who are young men, aged seventeen to twenty-four, who can’t write correctly or can barely spell. If these men were to ever find themselves trapped in the way that I am, any court filing that they’d have to do on their own wouldn’t get past the clerk’s desk to be filed because words are everything in this fight. A word spelled wrong can be interpreted differently in these courts. Such as: I always filed for “discovery” and they always denied me. I counseled SP to file for “disclosure,” which in many ways is discovery, and they granted it to him.This brings me back to lawyers. On death row, we have to learn our cases better than our lawyers. Every aspect. I may never learn all the rules and laws and procedures. I have a lawyer, who should know them, and I know how to apply them accordingly to the facts that I give them. Lawyers and courts will come and go, and I understand that I am the constant. It is imperative that I learn my case and what it entails, so that I am able to find the correct paths towards my freedom. It helps me to better interact with people who could help explain my case, and how I should go about applying this or that rule.No lawyer has been or is more invested than I am. So I make my desires and wishes known and become an active participant in saving my life and regaining my freedom. I’ve known many lawyers who gladly accept that their clients play no role in their cases, or who do not accept calls or even visit their clients. I’ve known many men who did not know if their lawyer was Black or white until it was close to an execution date being set. Then it becomes clear that the lawyer hasn’t done any work to help your case. He just sat and got a paycheck on your dime. But I wasn’t going to sit quietly by. I was going to have input. I formed a partnership of trust and understanding with my post-conviction attorneys. Otherwise I would be executed by now.L. Patri is of Black and Natchez Indian descent, and he is the father of one daughter and a grandfather of five grandchildren. He was born on the river in Natchez, Mississippi, and for the past three decades, he has been challenging his wrongful conviction of capital murder. He writes in multiple and hybrid genres, including thought pieces, journalism, short fiction, letters, and memoir.Rooted Magazine is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support our work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe

In the fall of 2023, interdisciplinary artist Kristen Tordella-Williams and writer Liz Egan—both former Pink House defenders—invited reflections on the closing of the Jackson Women’s Health Organization. That project became Void, two 24” x 48” artist books with pages made of mended bed sheets and text written in iron dust. The project “commemorates those who preserved access to healthcare that once was tenuously available to all Mississippians. These books serve as a memorial to a community and to the void left behind by the fall of Roe v. Wade.”I got the chance to sit down and talk with Liz and Kristen about this project, their experience as clinic escorts, and also about their thoughts on what it means to make a home—and grow roots—in the post-Roe Deep South. " [I]t was clear from the moment I moved [to Mississippi] that there was a fight against women and against women's access to health care,” Kristen told me. “But living in Mississippi, you can't look away from what's happening politically. It's just a maelstrom of American politics.”For Liz, volunteering at the clinic was the first thing that made her feel rooted to Mississippi. “We find ourselves rooted in a lot of intricate connected ways,” she said. “And so the idea of ‘if you don't like it, you can leave,’ to me really undermines the sense of a place being capable of holding significance…At some point, someone has to stick around to be a voice.”This conversation with Liz Egan and Kristen Tordella-Williams was recorded in Red Squared’s studio in Jackson.Further reading:Void was part of Kristen Tordella-Williams’s larger solo exhibition Dark Matter in the Hudson Galleries at the Mississippi University for Women.More about the Pink House Defenders’ leaders Derenda Hancock and Kim GibsonThe NPR podcast BannedNo One Asked You documentary This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe

In August, best-selling author Aimee Nezhukumatathil joined our book club to talk about her delectable and life-giving collection of food essays, Bite by Bite: Nourishments and Jamborees. The chat was hopping with questions and comments from listeners, and Aimee graciously responded to them all. (Most memorably, Eric shared that he tried the rice cooking hack that Aimee writes about in her essay on rice, much to the author’s delight.) Our conversation meandered from the lighthearted to the deeply personal, as we touched on topics like the pleasure of reading books with beautiful illustrations (each chapter of Bite by Bite starts with an illustration by Fumi Nakamura), to searching for joy and connection in times of darkness, to the importance of writing about race and identity. As usual, the book club starts off with a reading from the author, which is a real treat (as Tatia aptly noted in the discussion). I hope you enjoy this conversation.You can now listen to these recordings on Spotify or Apple Podcasts. Subscribe to the show in your app to get notifications when new episodes are released.If you want to go the extra mile, leave Bite by Bite a five star review on Goodreads and Amazon (even if you didn’t buy the book on Amazon), share a picture of the book to your social media, or recommend it to a friend. These small actions can make a big difference to the authors whose books mean so much to us.Thank you, Aimee! And thanks again to our partners: Mississippi Book Festival, Lemuria Books, and Friendly City Books. Thank you to the team at Red Squared for recording our production at their studio in The Hangar.Up next: catch us at the Mississippi Book Festival TOMORROW! I’ll be moderating the Southern Fiction panel with Minrose Gwin, Mary Annaïse Heglar, Gerry Wilson, and Jamie Quatro. I can’t wait!Rooted Magazine is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support our work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe

Last month, author Boyce Upholt joined our book club to talk about his ambitious and riveting history, The Great River: The Making and Unmaking of the Mississippi. There was a vibrant discussion in the book club chat! Folks asked great questions and Boyce captivated us with his knowledge and stories about Earthworks, the Army Corps of Engineers (yes, he makes engineering history interesting!), and the future he sees for flood control on the Mississippi. Boyce will be in Jackson for the Mississippi Book Festival on September 14, so you can get him to sign your book then. And if you’re interested in more of Boyce’s writing on nature in the South, subscribe to his excellent newsletter, southlands. You can now listen to these recordings on Spotify or Apple Podcasts. Subscribe to the show in your app to get notifications when new episodes are released.If you want to go the extra mile, leave The Great River a five star review on Goodreads and Amazon (even if you didn’t buy the book on Amazon), share a picture of the book to your social media, or recommend it to a friend. These small actions can make a big difference to the authors whose books mean so much to us.Thank you, Boyce! And thanks again to our partners: Mississippi Book Festival, Lemuria Books, and Friendly City Books. Thank you to the team at Red Squared for recording our production at their studio in The Hangar.Up next: we’re reading Bite by Bite: Nourishments and Jamborees by Aimee Nezhukumatathil. Join us on August 29 at 7 p.m. CT.Rooted Magazine is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support our work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe

Last month, author Gerry Wilson joined our book club to talk about her richly imagined Southern Gothic novel, That Pinson Girl. She talked to us about writing about the influenza epidemic of 1918 while in the early days of the COVID pandemic, the family stories that served as inspiration for her characters, and the difficulty—and fun—of writing from a villain’s POV. Our book club members (me included!) really loved the novel. If you haven’t read it yet, I highly suggest picking up a copy of That Pinson Girl from your local bookstore or library.You can now listen to these recordings on Spotify or Apple Podcasts. Subscribe to the show in your app to get notifications when new episodes are released. If you want to go the extra mile, leave That Pinson Girl a five star review on Goodreads and Amazon (even if you didn’t buy the book on Amazon), share a picture of the book to your social media, or recommend it to a friend. These small actions can make a big difference to the authors whose books mean so much to us.Thank you, Gerry! And thanks again to our partners: Mississippi Book Festival, Lemuria Books, and Friendly City Books. Thank you to the team at Red Squared for recording our production at their studio in The Hangar. Up next: we’re reading The Great River: The Making and Unmaking of the Mississippi by Boyce Upholt. Join us on July 25 at 7 p.m.And in if you’re in the Jackson area this Thursday July 11, we’ll be doing a Happy Hour Book Club Meet-Up at Aplos, starting at 5 p.m. If you haven’t already told me you’re coming, you can respond to this email! (That way I know how big of a table to reserve.) This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe

In May, Dionne Ford joined our book club to talk about her luminous and forthright memoir Go Back and Get It: A Memoir of Race, Inheritance, and Intergenerational Healing. We talked about her writing process, finding the photo that started her quest through the annals of historical archives and genealogical records to find her ancestors, and the many research detours she took along the way. I especially loved hearing her talk about her experiences in Mississippi, including that she was able to bring her father, who was born here, back to Mississippi for the first time since leaving the state as a child. Also, Dionne will be at the Mississippi Book Festival on September 14 in Jackson! I hope you can come out to hear her talk about the book in person. I’ll be there!You can now listen to these recordings on Spotify or Apple Podcasts. Subscribe to the show in your app to get notifications when new episodes are released. Note: This was my first time using Streamyard, and I’m sorry to say that there were technical difficulties on my end that cause my video to freeze throughout the recording. Fortunately, the audio worked throughout and Dionne’s video is great!If you want to go the extra mile, leave Go Back and Get it a five star review on Goodreads and Amazon (even if you didn’t buy the book on Amazon), share a picture of the book to your social media, or recommend it to a friend. These small actions can make a big difference to the authors whose books mean so much to us.Thank you, Dionne! And thanks again to our partners: Mississippi Book Festival, Lemuria Books, and Friendly City Books. Thank you to the team at Red Squared for recording our production at their studio in The Hangar. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe

In April, Harrison Scott Key joined our book club to talk about his heartbreaking and hilarious memoir How to Stay Married. I think we were all struck by how open and honest Harrison was about his life and writing. He talked to us about his writing process, why religion and spirituality is such an important piece of the book, and what it’s been like to have a deeply personal and vulnerable memoir out in the world. I think you will enjoy this discussion even if you haven’t read the book.You can now listen to these recordings on Spotify or Apple Podcasts. Subscribe to the show in your app to get notifications when new episodes are released. (Warning: there is some cussing in this episode.) If you want to go the extra mile, leave How to Stay Married a five star review on Goodreads and Amazon (even if you didn’t buy the book on Amazon), share a picture of the book to your social media, or recommend it to a friend. These small actions can make a big difference to the authors whose books mean so much to us.Thank you, Harrison! And thanks again to our partners: Mississippi Book Festival, Lemuria Books, and Friendly City Books. Thank you to the team at Red Squared for recording our production with intention and care at their studio in The Hangar.Catch up on past book club discussions here: This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe

In March, I talked with Katy Simpson Smith and Rooted book club members about Katy’s layered and immersive novel, The Weeds. Katy spoke about her research process, how her experience in academia shaped the narrative arc of one of the protagonists, and the surprising ways in which her home state creeped into the novel. This was a fun discussion. Even if you haven’t read the book, I think you will enjoy listening in. There are no spoilers in this one!If you want to go the extra mile, leave The Weeds a five star review on Goodreads and Amazon (even if you didn’t buy the book on Amazon), share a picture of the book to your social media, or recommend it to a friend. These small actions can make a big difference to the authors whose books mean so much to us.Thank you, Katy! And thanks again to our partners: Mississippi Book Festival, Lemuria Books, and Friendly City Books. Thank you to the team at Red Squared for recording our production with intention and care at their studio in The Hangar. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe

In February, I talked with Tyriek White and Rooted book club members about Tyriek’s lyrical and award-winning novel We Are a Haunting (Astra House, 2023). Tyriek spoke about the meaning behind his beautiful book cover, his unique approach to crafting setting and character, and the ways in which living in Mississippi influenced the writing of this book. This was a deep and valuable discussion. Even if you haven’t read the book, I think you will enjoy listening in. Just know that we do discuss a couple light spoilers.If you want to go the extra mile, leave We Are A Haunting a five star review on Goodreads and Amazon (even if you didn’t buy the book on Amazon), share a picture of the book to your social media, or recommend it to a friend. These small actions can make a big difference to the authors whose books mean so much to us.Thank you, Tyriek! And thanks again to our partners: Mississippi Book Festival, Lemuria Books, and Friendly City Books. Thank you to the team at Red Squared for recording our production with tons of intention and care at their studio in The Hangar. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe

In January, I talked with Ellen Ann Fentress and the book club squad about her brilliant memoir The Steps We Take: A Memoir of Southern Reckoning (University Press of Mississippi, 2023). Ellen Ann always speaks with candor and clarity about even the most complex and uncomfortable of topics. I enjoyed diving into this rich discussion with her and the rest of our fabulously insightful participants. Talking about The Steps We Take was a great kick-off to the Rooted Book Club! I hope you enjoy this replay.If you want to go the extra mile, leave The Steps We Take a five star review on Amazon (even if you didn’t buy the book on Amazon) and Goodreads, share a picture of the book to your social media, or recommend it to a friend! These small actions can make a big difference to the authors whose books mean so much to us.Thank you, Ellen Ann! And thanks again to our partners: Mississippi Book Festival, Lemuria Books, and Friendly City Books. Thank you to the team at Red Squared Communication & Design for recording our production with tons of intention and care at their studio in The Hangar.Get updates on all future Rooted Book Club meetings and replays. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rooted.substack.com/subscribe