Here is Sky’s winning story

Nothin’ Picayune About It

By Sky Lott

Most people have never heard of Picayune, Mississippi.

And if they have, it’s usually because they know the definition.

Picayune.

Small. Trivial. Insignificant.

I’ve always found that ironic.

Growing up, I was told Picayune was a Choctaw word, passed down through word of mouth, the way most things traveled in my hometown. News spread fast, like one big game of telephone. Right or wrong, by day’s end everyone had heard a version. Years later, I learned many trace the name instead to the Spanish picayún, a small coin that became synonymous with little value. Whatever its origin, there was never anything insignificant about the place that raised me.

I grew up in Goodyear, a neighborhood built by Black families tied to the lumber mill. My great-grandparents worked there, buying homes still in our family today. Those houses didn’t just survive; they held generations. I grew up intergenerationally before I knew the word. Home wasn’t just my parents. It was grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and whoever needed a room. There was always another chair, another plate, another child being watched by whoever was closest. Even if someone couldn’t remember my name, they knew whose face I wore. “That’s Joice’s granddaughter.” “Lil’ Tika!” My cheekbones belonged to one side, my smile to the other. In Picayune, people placed you before naming you. I walked town with confidence only a child has because I belonged everywhere. Every Walmart trip became twenty conversations. I thought every town worked that way. It didn’t.

The truth is, I couldn’t wait to leave. Like many small-town kids, I wanted bigger cities, opportunities, dreams. I wanted to know who I could become where no one knew my family. Even after my family moved to Ohio, Picayune kept calling me back. Every summer, I had my itinerary. Don’s Seafood for a shrimp po’boy with extra tartar sauce. Buddy Hop for a burger. Granny G’s for spearmint snowball with condensed milk. Paul’s Pastry before heading north for smiley-face cookies. Looking back, I was a travel foodie before I knew the name. Those restaurants weren’t just food. They were reunions. Each stop came with hugs, laughter, stories that got better every time. Food is rarely just food. It’s memory, identity, community.

Nothing represented my hometown more than Mother’s Day weekend. Every year, community pooled money for a celebration in the park. Smoke drifted from grills. Music carried through neighborhood. Children ran between chairs while mothers, grandmothers, aunties laughed like they had nowhere else to be. We didn’t know we were preserving culture. We thought we were just going to Mother’s Day in the park. Looking back, I realize I grew up in a community shaped by matriarchs. They stretched paychecks, opened homes, raised children not always their own, always room for one more.

The ugly truth about Mississippi was that Black and white communities often built separate worlds. Ours built traditions, businesses, celebrations, support systems. We weren’t waiting for investment. We invested in each other. Then life changed. Mill closed. Hurricane Katrina came. Homes sat empty. Faces disappeared. New ones arrived. Driving through Picayune today, I look for the town I remember. Then Mother’s Day weekend comes. Grills are lit. Music starts. Younger men who once ran the park now organize it, honor the women who raised them. Those who left return carrying new ideas and responsibility to give back. Katrina couldn’t wash away the soul of Picayune. Resilience was inherited.

Somewhere between leaving and traveling, I realized I wasn’t searching for places different from Picayune. I was searching for places that felt like it. These days, I start with neighborhoods, not skylines. I want to know where generations stayed, which restaurant everyone swears by, who the matriarchs are. That’s where a place introduces itself. That’s where I listen. The farther I’ve traveled, the more I’ve realized I’ve been looking for Picayune. Not streets. Not buildings. The feeling. The feeling of being remembered. The feeling of a restaurant knowing your order. The feeling of community making room for one more chair. I’ve found pieces everywhere. Never all in one place. People hear “picayune” and think small. I think of a town that taught me stories aren’t found in landmarks, but in people. There has never been nothin’ picayune about it—not then, not now, not ever, not in Picayune, Mississippi at all.