The South, Cinema, and My Own Experience

Watching Mississippi Burning, one of my favorite movies, is an experience I have repeated countless times. Each viewing deepens my appreciation for its portrayal of the 1960s South - a place of deep contradictions, where violence and bigotry coexisted with everyday kindness and civility. Unlike many films that rely on stereotypes, Mississippi Burning presents a nuanced depiction of a small Mississippi town, where racism isn’t confined to a handful of Klansmen but is instead woven into the fabric of society.

One of the most fascinating characters in the film is Mayor Tilman, played masterfully by R. Lee Ermey - an actor I greatly admire. Tilman isn’t the kind of overtly hateful racist seen in other films. Instead, he represents a different, but just as dangerous, form of complicity. He abhors the Klan’s violence and sees it as reckless, yet he still upholds the system that allows it to exist. This brand of pragmatism was common among Southern politicians of the era. Many weren’t rabid segregationists, but they also weren’t willing to challenge the racial order. They prioritized "stability" and "tradition," believing that outright violence was bad for business but that integration was worse. Tilman embodies this mentality perfectly - calm, measured, and utterly unwilling to take a real stand.

As I reflected on this film, I couldn’t help but compare it to my own experiences in the South. In the 1990s, during my commercial flight training, I crisscrossed the United States on cross-country flights, landing in towns and cities both large and small. As a non-white person of Pakistani origin, I had certain expectations - after all, the South had a reputation for being less welcoming to outsiders. But what I found surprised me.

Everywhere I went, I encountered people who were incredibly kind and hospitable. In small-town diners, locals struck up conversations with me, genuinely curious about my background and my flying. At tiny airfields, mechanics and pilots treated me like one of their own, sharing stories, offering advice, and sometimes even giving me a ride into town. In many ways, the warmth I experienced in the South was unmatched by anywhere else in the country.

This contrast between the South of Mississippi Burning and the South I knew personally made me reflect on how much had changed - and, in some ways, how much remained the same. The open hostility of the 1960s had largely disappeared, but I often wondered how much of that old mindset lingered beneath the surface. Were the same small-town kindness and politeness I experienced in the ‘90s once extended to Black Southerners - so long as they "knew their place"? Had the South changed, or had it simply learned to mask its old attitudes behind a new veneer of politeness?

What Mississippi Burning captures so well is that racism is rarely just about violent extremists - it’s often upheld by people who see themselves as good, honest citizens. And yet, my own experiences in the South remind me that people are more than just products of their history. I met Southerners who welcomed me wholeheartedly, despite my being an outsider. Perhaps that speaks to real progress. Or perhaps, as always, the truth is more complicated.