Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

"Saturday Drive" by Natasha Trethewey captures a vivid snapshot of a Southern weekend journey that transcends its physical dimensions to explore the intricacies of memory, class, race, and aspiration. The poem unfolds as a leisurely drive, emphasizing the details of the environment and the sensory experiences of the two characters, Uncle Son and the young girl, but it also serves as a metaphorical vehicle for various overlapping journeys through social landscape and personal memory.

The poem commences by setting up the stage for the journey: a 1959 Cadillac on Highway 49, a road populated by various landmarks of everyday life in the South-liquor stores, barber shops, and car washes. Uncle Son's slow driving suggests a purposeful, almost meditative interaction with the environment, a setting where pace equates to a form of resistance against hurry, against the blurring of details.

Seated next to him, the girl becomes a quiet but significant counterpart. Her actions-folding lace gloves, smoothing the edges of a makeshift coin bank-speak of modest luxury and humble aspirations. The coin bank, "a single slit in the top just big enough to look through and see nothing but dark," is particularly poignant. It symbolizes limited visibility into the future, a horizon bounded by circumstance but also shrouded in mystery, perhaps hopeful, perhaps devoid of light.

As they turn onto I-90, the landscape shifts and speeds up, contrasting "the green Gulf on one side, the white-columned mansions of folks with names like ours-Dixon, Dedeaux, and Davis-on the other." This change in scenery encapsulates a divide not just in geography but also in socioeconomic status, class, and racial history. The mansions stand as quiet but imposing reminders of an affluent lifestyle, which seems somewhat approachable yet separate, indicating the complexities of upward mobility for people of color in the South.

The poem's focus on sensory experience deepens as they approach New Orleans. The girl is attuned to "the air's heady scents-leather, shave tonic, tobacco-each one a way to recall this drive." These scents become mnemonic devices, ways to lock this experience into memory. They encapsulate the tactile, the immediate, while also serving as future anchors to this shared moment.

At their destination, Uncle Son buys records, "new music for his Owl Club jukebox," offering the girl the promise that "she'll have each one soon." These records, "still shiny enough to see her face in," conclude the poem on a note of reflection and aspiration. Music becomes a form of continuity, the black discs echoing both the road they've just traveled and the 'black glass' of the water mentioned earlier, and holding out a promise of unscratched, untarnished futures.

In sum, "Saturday Drive" is more than a mere portrayal of a weekend outing; it is a tapestry of relational dynamics, social observation, and poignant symbolism. Through the lens of a simple drive, Trethewey opens up a rich, multi-dimensional space, rendering the familiar unfamiliar and inviting us to contemplate what lies beyond what is immediately visible.

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