The last time I shook David Bowen’s hand, he was a congressman, and I was a Stennis Scholar at Mississippi State. The scholarship generously provided a trip to Washington, D.C., the summer between my junior and senior years. My fellow scholar, Jim Young (now an attorney in Jackson), and I were sent north. It was my first time going anywhere near the Mason-Dixon Line.
We visited Bowen’s office in 1982 on one of those constituency calls. He was gracious, confident, handsome. So was Jim. I was less poised, wearing a flimsy red-and-white striped dress, probably from Wal-Mart or Cato, that hit just below the knee at that spot attractive on no one, except maybe bagpipers. I wore stockings with my white sandals. From the photo of the three of us smiling brightly, I can tell I needed a haircut. And, truth be known, I looked hungover.
Both Jim and I were aiming for law schools then, preferably in Washington, D.C., probably to be near the hallowed political process: Georgetown, George Washington or American University. When Bowen heard that we were applying to law schools, he followed with the question we were used to hearing: “Ole Miss?” Er, no, we said. We want to study outside Mississippi, preferably in D.C. He answered, “Those schools are hard to get into, you know.” That smarted a little, I must say, even though it was true. But it was motivational. Jim indeed attended Georgetown, and graduated; I went to George Washington, got bored after a semester, and decided the Reagan political process wasn’t so thrilling after all. But we did get into those schools.
Last week, I shook Bowen’s hand again at an opening of his photographs at Gallery 119 (119 South President Street, 969-9040) Downtown. He’s proved himself a bit of a Renaissance man, especially since he retired from Congress in 1982. He writes plays, and his black-and-white photos are subtle and powerful. On exhibit are photos he’s shot in locales from his Tate County home to Italy. He said at the reception that he recently switched from color to black and white, adding almost quizzically that more people want to buy them now.
I told an exuberant Bowen about this magazine and about meeting him in D.C. back when. I could have told him that his comment stung back in 1982, but ultimately it helped motivate me to show people, including Mississippi’s elected officials, that young people from Mississippi (even from trailer parks) can aspire to big things. I truly believe his remark helped strengthen my resolve.
As the gallery crowd started to thin, Bowen commented that he wasn’t online, yet, and doesn’t even get e-mail. The evening ended with editor JoAnne Prichard Morris explaining in detail how the former congressman could and should get Road Runner hooked up.
“It’ll change your life!” she promised, her hands dancing a jig in mid-air. “Well, I guess I’ll have to try it,” Bowen said with resignation. It all seemed fitting, somehow.
