Po’ Monkey’s: Portrait of a Juke Joint by Will Jacks

Author:Will Jacks
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University Press of Mississippi
Published: 2019-09-14T16:00:00+00:00

PHOTOGRAPHS

PHOTOGRAPHER’S STATEMENT

Willie Seaberry knew who I was, but I don’t think he ever knew my name. My father told me once that he’d seen Willie in the small town where we lived, a dozen miles from Po’ Monkey’s. He introduced himself as Will Jacks’s father. Willie smiled and nodded his head. That was Willie’s default movement when he wanted you to feel special: he nodded his head.

I just chuckled when my dad told me of the encounter. I was thrilled that my dad was proud enough of me to introduce himself to Willie Seaberry, but I knew the truth. Had my father told him that his son was the guy that brought a camera out to Po’ Monkey’s every week, Willie would have known exactly who I was. To Willie Seaberry, I was the Portrait Man.

I first visited Po’ Monkey’s while working on an assignment for a regional magazine. Over three or four Thursday nights each month—the one night each week that Po’ Monkey’s was open—I made a journey down a dusty gravel road. The juke joint was only a few miles from my home, but the locale seemed to be foreign, exotic. I sat quietly, by myself, making photographs as discreetly as possible. I drank a few beers, made a few pictures, then made my way back home. I didn’t know anyone there; they didn’t know me. I felt odd. Intrusive. Incorrect.

But after a few weeks, I decided to leave my camera at home. I was determined to overcome my shyness and start a conversation with a stranger. It’s hard to remember now—it’s been so many years—but this is probably when I first met Wendy, Willie’s niece, and Greg, who collected the cover charge. Eventually we became friends of a kind: we’d sit in the front booth, near the cash register. Wendy liked to have her photo made. Greg, not so much—though he never refused it. (Much later, Wendy would ask if I’d be the godfather to her twenty-year-old daughter, Meme; this seemed a perfectly logical question in this magical space. Of course I agreed.)

After another month of visits, I brought my camera back inside. I sat with Greg and Wendy for a bit, then eased around the space, staying close to the walls, making photos. Eventually I’d meet someone new, take a seat nearby, and we’d chat for a while. Sometimes my new acquaintance would be traveling the Mississippi Delta from far away—Sweden, perhaps—and I’d tell them about life in the Delta, what it’s like, at least, from my point of view. Though I was quickly learning that my point of view wasn’t as universal as I’d thought.

Six months or so after my first visit, my article was published. I received some praise from friends and family, but I felt guilty. I had only scratched the surface. I’d simply captured images of a fascinating place. I didn’t know what they meant. So I decided to keep going back. I didn’t know what it was, but there was something I needed to learn.

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