A feature from the Spring 2019 issue.  Hancock’s art, which includes paintings, fabricated toys, a theatrical performance, and a graphic novel, defies categorization and pulses with an almost religious intensity. Much of his work has followed the denizens of his alternate… by Trenton Doyle Hancock and Maurice Carlos Ruffin | Mar, 2019

 A Letter from the Editor, Summer 2019. At the Oxford American, we receive many pitches for stories in the category of “pilgrimages,” or “literary road trips,” or “retracing X’s steps.” I understand the appeal: the traveler can see with her… by Eliza Borné | Jun, 2019

On the architecture of white supremacy Let us look again, now, at this beautiful house, read it this time as a series of universally legible signs for white supremacy. You arrive on horseback and wait outside a gate—the first of… by C. Morgan Babst | Mar, 2019

An installment in John T. Edge’s Points South column, Local Fare. Calamity and travel arrest time. They beg focus and feed insights. Tourism has taken on some of the functions that religion once served. Here in America, we have ritualized restaurant… by John T. Edge | Mar, 2019

A Points South essay from the Spring 2019 issue Like many other locals, I had never valued the glades. I had never learned to see past the scraggly trees and the rocky fields. A chance Google search one day told… by Rachel Louise Martin | Mar, 2019

A featured short story from the Spring 2019 issue. I understood that he had a crush on me, because there is no service that deserves a greater-than-one-hundred-percent gratuity, but the money seemed harmless when it came out of his wallet,… by Kevin Wilson | Mar, 2019

A Points South essay from the Spring 2019 issue I hesitated at the sight of the banner so close to my home and was suddenly wary. Weary. I saw the flag and without thinking thought it code: Patriot. MAGA. Make… by Karen Good Marable | Mar, 2019

An Omnivore essay from the Spring 2019 issue.  Due to his health, Leon Redbone can no longer be interviewed. In a way, he’s become a version of the old-time musicians he so admired, about whom little is known: You can… by Megan Pugh | Mar, 2019

In performance, Edgar looks like the child of his stories. He cocks his head and raises his eyes slowly, like a boy caught delivering a Valentine. His hands he keeps close, sometimes turning his wrists outwards at the hips, sometimes tying his long, pale fingers together and pressing them to his huddled body.

A featured short story from the Summer 2019 issue.

Mother had no shortage of repulsive qualities, but the most disturbing was her laugh. Otherworldly. Piercing. A stranger would fall on the ice or a double-crossing cop would get his comeuppance from a mobster on television and this wretched, menacing cackle would emerge as though she kept a raven on a choke-chain between her gargantuan breasts.

A featured short story from the Summer 2019 issue.

You’ve always wished your mother, who is so deft with the cards, would learn to read fortunes. You want her to tell your future, holding nothing back. You want all of it confirmed, your luck and your losses. You haven’t asked her, though. You can imagine her shaking her head, incredulous again that you, superstitious girl, are her daughter. That you long to convert each game into a prophesy.

 

During the colicky first weeks following the birth of our son, Beckett, my wife and I took turns rising in the night to get him back to sleep. Without recourse to breast milk or the pacifying whispers Emily floated into his burning little ears, I often resorted to dancing him around the living room of our termite-infested rental on Capitol Hill, all the while singing whatever lyrics I could call to mind.

For whatever reason, the one song that presented itself wholesale was “I’m No Stranger to the Rain,” the cantering Sonny Curtis number that Keith Whitley took to the top of the country music charts in 1989.
Like many of Foster’s compositions, “Oh! Susanna” was a black-face minstrel song. It was his breakthrough hit as a songwriter, a song that surely would have been a number one single if such a measurement had existed in the mid-nineteenth-century. The song quickly spread all over the country through its many publications and permutations on sheet music and as traveling minstrel troupes all over the country thrilled crowds with the tale of long-distance, lost, confused love, others began adapting Foster’s irresistible melody for their own purposes.

How to describe our hero... Musician? Artist? Furniture maker? Visionary hermit? All-of-the-above? Yes, all-of-the-above. That would be it. Hidden away in a secretive corner of a haunted-looking house in the fading Delta cotton town of Rosedale, Mississippi, Mr. Moore seems equal parts R. Crumb, Daniel Johnston and Boo Radley—with a dose of PT Barnum thrown in.

“Take it off now!” he said, and put the gun back against my neck. Now I had no control. Somehow, I felt as if I’d had a distinct advantage, some power, in being smarter than them. Even if I had been a hundred times smarter than both of them put together, once that gun was back at my neck, I realized I had no power whatsoever.

An installment of Big Chief Tablet.

The Bravest Man In The Universe, Bobby Womack’s first album of original material since 1994, is already being heralded as a late-career triumph, a classic comeback tale of aging soul singer being rejuvenated by a younger producer.

An installment in John T. Edge’s Points South column, Local Fare.

Costumes transform their bar into a theatrical production, Feizal said to me that day in the jungle room. “You watch someone put on a Big Bird suit and then you ask, what will the Big Bird do? You give two banana costumes to two guys and then stand back to watch what happens. Pretty soon the dude at the bar in the banana costume sees the dude in the booth in the banana costume. They hug. And they start buying each other drinks.”