Youmans is currently working on a memoir titled “Wise Cracker: A Good Girl in the Deep South.” She has authored two award-winning poetry collections: “Lyla Dore” published by Red Hen Press and “Dirt Eaters” from the Contemporary Poetry Series. Additionally, she serves as a professor in the MFA program at the University of Nebraska at Omaha.
In 2017, I took a trip with my two teenage children from Jacksonville, Florida, to Plains, Georgia, to attend a Sunday school lesson taught by Jimmy Carter at Maranatha Baptist Church. My son Gibson, a passionate fan of the Carter presidency, requested the journey to celebrate his 17th birthday. He had recently completed a high school history paper on Jimmy Carter’s administration and the rise of conservatism in America, and we were all feeling the effects of Donald Trump’s alarming inauguration speech earlier that month.
The three of us spent a serene Saturday exploring Plains, visiting key sites such as Carter’s childhood home, his peanut farm, his brother Billy’s gas station, and the train depot that served as the headquarters for Carter’s 1976 presidential campaign. As a family, we enjoyed the Carter visitor center, located in the high school where both Future President Carter and First Lady Roslyn once studied. We admired Carter’s Nobel Peace Prize and took pictures sitting at a replica of his Oval Office desk. As we moved through the exhibits, it was easy to be transported back to 1976.
That year, I was a 10-year-old living in Jacksonville, fully immersed in the celebrations of the American Bicentennial. The festivities permeated all aspects of life—television, magazines, clothing, and an abundance of commemorative items. I eagerly collected Stars and Stripes stickers from cereal boxes and sent away for a Bicentennial-themed scratch-and-sniff coloring book.
The atmosphere felt like a nationwide festive gathering, and I was fully engaged. My mother often remarked that I was happiest when every day was a celebration, and this time truly felt like one.
As a devoted child, my enthusiasm for the Bicentennial was evident through various personal tributes, including memorizing military hymns and the Gettysburg Address and reenacting performances in my neighborhood. I took great pride in the four poems I wrote to honor the nation’s birthday, which won me the northeast Florida Girl Scouts regional talent show amidst stiff competition.
In addition to the Bicentennial festivities, I was thrilled by the prospect of a southern peanut farmer, share a legacy with my father’s family, running for president. Jimmy Carter’s calm demeanor and genuine intelligence made him relatable and easy to admire. I felt an odd sense of pride, as if he and his family were part of our extended family.
I often dreamt of coincidentally meeting him, imagining there was a chance the Carter campaign would choose us as their “average American family.” I envisioned a fun evening spent with his daughter, Amy, resulting in sleepovers at the White House.
Despite my hopes, my father did not vote for Carter. However, I took a stand in our fifth-grade class election, casting my vote in defiance. I still recall my father’s sentiment that it was refreshing to see a Southern man on television without derogatory stereotypes.
Over time, my understanding of patriotism evolved. I perceived a shift starting in 1979 with the rise of conservative Christian voter groups, and it intensified during the “Republican Revolution” in 1994 and the emergence of the Tea Party in 2009. By the time Donald Trump was elected in 2016, it felt as though patriotism had been co-opted by the Republican Party and a significant faction of Christianity.
After the events of January 6, my perspective on patriotism changed irrevocably, shifting from a shared sense of pride to feelings of anger and control.
Yet, during that day in Plains in 2017, the essence of traditional patriotism came rushing back, inspiring a rekindled hope and connection to the past.
The following day, as Jimmy Carter taught Sunday school, sharing his warmth with my children and me, I felt a surge of nostalgia reminiscent of my 10-year-old self. I left Plains with a lingering question—would there ever be another president like him?
Now, eight years later, I reflect on that journey, recognizing in the speeches given by Kamala Harris and Tim Walz the same vision Carter advocated for—that true governance reflects how it serves not just the few but the many. With respect and affection, I celebrate Uncle Jimmy, who will turn 100 soon, a testament to the enduring impact of goodness and hope. Even more than I felt that day in Plains, I now have renewed faith in our shared aspirations that seem fresh once more.