The Unwritten South: the introduction to a piece for Creative Nonfiction

I’m sitting in a very tall library, and I’m eye-level with the tops of very tall trees.
There is a white-ish skunk stripe in the sky between the two dreamy-toned pinks and blues of the post-sunset. The branches and fresh buds are black against the sky.
I’m surrounded by books. The eighth floor of the library is dedicated to literature and I feel at home against the back wall, stuck between the world of books and its sacrificial source.
For study breaks, I glance out the window; a large yellow house looks like a small cottage. The front yard is neatly trimmed, but the back is the jam-packed junk closet of a tidy house—like the box beneath the bed that hides the nudie magazines, or the eternally-closed garage that holds fifty years of hoarding.
It gets dark so I start gazing at the books. At first, I just see hues. Brown bookshelves, lighter carpet, blue chairs. I’m among rows of the crisp and the faded, the shelved and the disheveled. Hues of all sorts, sardined into organized little blocks of literature. I love being among literature; it’s like creating good karma for myself. Sometimes I lay my head on a book like a pillow, hoping for osmosis to seep brilliance into my brain.
"Fields of Fury" jumps out in a faded-embossed title. Then "A Diary from Dixie" and "Experiment in Rebellion."
Strange, I think.
Then the entire Confederate section of the Civil War attacks my computer-tired eyes in environmental confusion.
Confederacy! I look left.
Confederacy! I look right.
Confederacy!
I start feeling uncomfortable and attacked. Ashamed, even, that half of me doesn’t recognize the battles and generals in the titles, and half of me wants to reject this red, white and blue pseudo-persona that used to hang in the front window of an old house down the hill. History.
Confederate and Dixie and South leap into my mind with Scarlett O’Hara’s southern-sweet, manipulative voice.
"We Need Men" sits in big, blocky letters.
I think, "God, yes," and correct myself with feminist scrutiny.
Then I see it.
This book will not contain my history or have the essence of me within its old pages.
But its title does.
And my unwritten, southern self will remain unwritten no longer.
I'm taking the title, too.