Sometimes, it’s hard being Southern. You find yourself belittled by folks the world over, who don’t even know you, or haven’t even been to the South, and who are judging your friends, family, and culture, based on an idea of the American South. You sometimes think that people truly think that talks slow = dumber than a box of rocks. You realize that people probably think that everyone sounds like a character on True Blood, or that all the popular girls at your high school probably modeled themselves after Scarlett O’Hara.
I once had a coworker in Denver ask me if I could have someone in Atlanta find him some Mint Julep cups and mail them to him. I was like, “Mint Julep cups? What the hell is a mint julep cup?” It turns out that my coworker, despite his two college degrees, thought that all southerners drank Mint Juleps. I explained to him that I had not once ever heard of someone drinking a mint julep, except possibly at a Derby party, and only then, it was probably as show. (Incidentally, it turns out that there is such a thing as a julep cup. Who knew?)
I felt sorry for him. But then, sometimes? I feel sorry for me. I’m a Southerner. I know tons and tons of smart and witty and forward-thinking Southerners, who aren’t racists, homophobes, hunting militia members, or fanatical religious snake handlers. And I cling to that knowledge, knowing that the world does not completely know what they are talking about. That we are not all one and the same.
I remember that there are things about being southern that I love, but that other more liberal, more educated, more progressive, people might find distasteful. There are so many things about my traditional Southern upbringing that I LOVE. I love the cooking, and the college football, and the Braves, and gardening, and fishing, and our fascinating (and often tragic) history. I love the sayings the old people say, like “cuter than a speckled pup under a red wagon.” I love that I could go visit a house today that my great, great, great, great, great grandfather lived in in 1752, before America was even a country. I love that I remember I love that i knew my grandparents and spent tons of time with them, that i lived across the street from my cousins, and that my daddy taught me to shoot a shotgun when i turned ten years old. I would cut off my pinkie finger if I could have my grandma make hoecake for me one more time. I love that people here smile at one another, and say “Hey!” to strangers, and kids call me ma’am. I like all y’all’s southern accents (That’s you, Virginia, and you, mountains of TN and NC, and you, SE coast, and you in New Orleans.)
And i get mad that people make fun of us, or lump us all together, and yet I still refer to people as “Damn Yankees.” I love some of you Yankees and you are my friends, but dang, you ain’t from here, are ya? And I justify calling you a damn Yankee, because my Grandma told me herself that her Grandma used to tell her about when she was a girl in 1860s Fredericksburg, and she and her sister were out picking berries to feed the family, because the Damn Yankees let the pigs into the root cellar to eat all the family’s potatoes, and they found the dead yankee and stole his handkerchief, and then they took turns spitting on him.
True story.
I’m not sure where I’m going with this, except that I vacillate wildly between being proud of where I am from because I know it is a vital part of who i am, and at the same time, groaning inwardly every time another dumbass makes us all look like assholes.
And I end up walking a high wire balancing act in raising my children, in picking and choosing the things that I want to pass on to them. Things I definitely want to pass on, off the top of my head:
How to make Fried Green Tomatoes and Hoecake
A love for boiled peanuts (Hopefully, they will pronounce it “balled”)
Braves and Bulldog Love (Will accept an Auburn fan, but disown any Gators or Tide fans.)
Good manners (yes, sir, no sir, Please, wave when someone lets you cut in traffic, write thank you notes, etc.)
Belief in right to own fire arm, even if you do not want to own one yourself. (There. I said it.)
How to clean fish
The right way to make cornbread
Belief in personal responsibility
Frugality
Importance of not owing anybody anything if you can help it.
Etc.
Things I will also like to pass on to my child:
Belief that we are all created equal
Belief in freedom of religion (and freedom to not practice religion at all)
Those last two . . . well, the first sets me apart a bit from some of my fellow southerners, and the second from most of them. I admit it.
But what I was reminded of this week? It isn’t just Southerners. I forget that sometimes, but there are people all over the country who don’t believe those last two. And that makes me simultaneously angry, sad, and happy.
Angry that the issue came up here in my neighborhood. Sad that we have come so far, and yet not far enough, and happy that it wasn’t just Southern folks doing it this time.
My kid wants to join the Boy Scouts. They hand out the scouting stuff at school. Turns out the Boy Scouts doesn’t want gays to hold “leadership positions” in the Boy Scouts of America, but Dekalb county has Boy Scout reps come into the schools and
I want my kid to have the scouting experience. Camping and badges and the cute little uniform and learning how to build stuff. Have you ever met an Eagle Scout? Every one I’ve ever met was awesome. I’m pretty sure there are lots of gay men, who had very traditional upbringings, who would also like for their kids to have the scouting experience. And their kid can. But their Dads won’t be allowed to participate. And if you’re an Atheist or Agnostic? Well, you can’t join either.
