Woodson

Gryphon Woodson, a new high school graduate, grabbed a pair of goggles and a black bandanna to cover her face.

“I thought there were gonna be more people here,” Woodson said.

The next morning, Woodson showed up to the quiet Federal Building, where she and a handful of other young women were outnumbered by journalists.

At the sight of them, Woodson tied her bandanna around her face and started marching back and forth, screaming: “Immigrants are not the problem! Immigrants are never the problem!”

I have others, like Grammy’s peas, her strawberries, her fig preserves—I was raised on what came out of her garden on Woodson Ridge in north Mississippi, just outside of Oxford.