They say the South is full of storytellers, but I am unconvinced. It may be more accurate to say that it is full of people who are very, very tired. At least this was my childhood experience in Tennessee and Mississippi, where there was very little to do but shoot things or get them pregnant.
I grew up in a family where women did things for men. If you tell a roomful of my male relatives that dinner is ready, they will walk to the unset table and sit like dutiful children, waiting for the meal to be chauffeured to them by the nearest woman.
The time has come, on the eve of that sacred holy day when the great hero of mankind took corporeal form to right the wrongs of human history, to right a lesser wrong, to let the healing begin, perhaps by creating a fresh wound. As a wise man once said, you cannot make an omelet without publicly humiliating your loved ones.