You Aren’t From Around Here, Are You
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One of my high school art students, recently from Ireland, was stopped by the assistant principal as she strolled down the center of the main hallway smoking a cigarette. “You aren’t from around here, are you,” he said as he gently guided her into his office. I’ve often remembered that phrase as I have gone about living in the South. After 30 years, I’m still not from around here.
I’m always taken aback when, upon meeting someone new, I’m asked about my church affiliation. It goes like this: “Hi,mynameisEleanorandI’msogladtomeetyou.Whatchurchdoyougoto?” Now I realize that this is a background gathering question to see if we have anything in common or know any of the same people, but since I don’t go to church I’m immediately at a loss. I’ve tried the truth, but saying, “I don’t go to church” is an instant conversation stopper. You would think by now I would have come up with some sort of clever, pat answer. Something like, “Oh, I attend the Church of the Soft Mattress. We are fervent believers of Sunday Sleeping In.” But I have also lived in the Bible belt long enough to realize that a comment like that would be considered impolite so I simply mumble around about being “spiritual”.
I grew up in a family where the only comment made when someone sneezed was, “Cover your mouth.” I never learned “Bless You” as an instant response. In the South, if someone anywhere nearby sneezes, 15 people will automatically “Bless” that person. I try, but before my brain can remind my mouth to say the words, we’ve all moved on. And, as if neglecting to “Bless” someone who sneezes isn’t bad enough, I’ve recently come to understand that my non-bless-you action is considered by some as rude. Apparently, I am inadvertently wishing bad karma to any and all sneezers. It’s rather puzzling to me. You may be met with a glare, but no one ever comments if you cough, burp or blow your nose!
The word “bless” occurs in another frequently heard phrase. I understand this one a bit better. If anyone says to you, “Well, bless your heart” know that while you may not be considered exactly stupid, you are just not catching on to something that is very obvious to everyone else. The many nuanced, “Bless your heart,” often said as a gentle, socially polite putdown can also be a combination of genuine concern and putdown as in, “Bless your heart, I’m so sorry for all your troubles.” The inference, of course, being, “But what on earth did you think was going to happen?” I try at all costs to avoid having my heart blessed!
I grew up in Oklahoma to parents from Kansas and Missouri. I called my mother and fathers' friends Mr. or Mrs. and if we knew them very well, I called those adult friends by their first names. As it often happens, I raised my children the same way. When the first grade teacher called to tell me that she was concerned about my sons' behavior, I envisioned many things. It never occurred to me that she was calling to complain that he was rude and disrespectful. I was shocked. “What has he done?” I asked. “Well,” she sniffed, “he replies with only yes or no.” I was baffled, but then she continued, “He never says, Yes Ma’am or No Ma’am.” Ahhh, now I understood. It was the Ma’am/Sir dilemma. Eventually, we solved the problem by instructing our clueless son that he must always answer her by saying, “Yes, Mrs. Smith” or “No, Mrs. Smith”. Interestingly enough, a sign of respect can easily be turned around and one of the ugliest comments I ever heard from a high school student was that “Yes, Ma’am” dripping with anger and sarcasm.
I was going on a bus trip to Niagara Falls with a group I knew little about. A friend had asked me to accompany her and the low cost was definitely a selling point. I had quizzed Jan beforehand: “Were these her church friends?” No. “Did this group frequently travel together?” She wasn’t sure, but she was certain we would make new and lasting friends as we traveled the many miles from Memphis to Niagara Falls. I researched the Falls by watching a PBS documentary, several movies set in the Falls area and by reading books of fiction inspired by all that rushing water. Coincidently, it was about the time that Nik Wallenda walked a wire across the Falls and I watched it live on TV. I was set for an adventure.
We met the bus at a location central for most of the travelers - the Wal-Mart parking lot of a small town near Memphis. We loaded our bags and climbed aboard. Although we were 30 minutes early, most seats were already taken and as we made our way to a couple of empty spots toward the rear we passed through a sea of excited conversation. I felt my jaw drop in amazement. Now I have lived in Memphis for many years and have generally become accustomed to the “Southern Drawl”. I have learned many of the language short cuts – y’all, hep, fixin’ to, carry. As in: “Y’all, I’m fixin’ to carry your sister to the doctor so come hep me set the table.” Except for an occasional y’all, this sort of talk was discouraged in our home. I remember the time my young son announced that he was, “fixin’ to go to Glen’s house to play”. I brought him up short by sternly reminding him that he could fix the car, fix a situation, fix a hole in the wall, but he could never be fixin’ to do anything!
This day on the bus, however, what assailed my ears was the sound of another language. Eventually, I realized that what I was hearing was “small town Southern” and it was decidedly different from the “city Southern” I was accustomed to. I discovered that it works both ways as many on the trip tagged me as a Northerner and asked if I was from New York City. Over the years, I’ve confused people with my speech patterns. Growing up in Oklahoma I never had the Okie twang of many and living in California and St. Louis added several new layers to my way of speaking. Strangely, when I lived in St. Louis many people decided I was from the South and when I moved south, suddenly I was a Yankee.
Niagara Falls is magnificent. Everything wonderful that you’ve heard about the Falls is true and my friend and I had a lovely time together, but bus travel proved to be my least favorite mode of transportation. It was a long, tiring ride. To while away the miles we played games – an honor bound scavenger hunt of sorts (find a school, parking lot, red car, water tower, etc.), travel bingo and there was a tangled essay where we were to circle all the books of the Bible hidden in the story. Needless to say, I did not score high on that one. There were prizes for the winners and while we traveled, treats were constantly being passed up and down the aisle. I could have easily eaten my weight in candy and chips! Bringing treats to share was considered by many as mandatory and there seemed to be a contest to see who brought the fanciest and best snack. I gave my top vote to the woman who brought handmade chocolate bunnies. The small packets of peanuts I brought for myself impressed no one.
Generally, when we stopped to eat, the bus parked in an area where there were several restaurant choices, but once a lone Burger King was our luncheon destination. As we slowly climbed off the bus and made our way to the restaurant (the restroom being the primary target) I suddenly realized I was in that group of old people my husband and I had been wary of when traveling. “Oh, no! Old people!” one of us would exclaim as the bus load of senior citizens gingerly disembarked and headed to the restaurant ahead of us. The bias, of course, is that old people are dazed and confused and slow. Southerners are not thought to be especially bright in the first place so in the South old people suffer from the stigma of being slow in both body and mind. If you want a dim bulb character in a movie, give him a southern accent. If you really want to make a point, give him that drawl and a grizzled beard and you’ve got your comic relief.
When my daughter headed to New York City to art school after high school graduation she was immediately met with every Southern stereotype imaginable: did she wear shoes? Have electricity. Indoor plumbing? Had she seen snow? She quickly dropped any hint of y’all and took on some “Northern ways” referring to everyone as “youse guys”.
The question about the snow, however, is almost right. It does snow in Memphis, but not much. A good snowfall is on every child’s winter wish list. However, six flakes can send everyone to the grocery store for bread, milk and eggs and as meteorologists rhapsodize over their highs and lows and fronts moving across colorful maps one might think that the sun will never shine again. That attitude can be contagious and many times I’ve found myself in the bad weather grocery store crush.
Soon after moving to Memphis from St. Louis I was awakened one morning by the radio announcer’s list of school closings. “What has happened,” I wondered anxiously as I looked out the window expecting to see at least a foot of snow. Nope, the grass was barely covered and as far as I could tell the streets were clear. In the 10 years I lived in St. Louis, only 5 snow days were called and each winter snow covered the ground for weeks. My husband viewed it as a competition. After every snowfall he dug the car out of the driveway and slid to work where he and his co-workers would swap stories and try to one-up each other with their close calls. Then they would leave early and reverse the entire process. Now I love this about the South - wonderfully mild winters with little snow and cold. I don’t even own a heavy coat. The summers? Well, they are hot!
My mother never made mac and cheese, the ultimate Southern comfort food (sometimes listed as a vegetable on restaurant menus), and since I didn’t know any better, I fed my children from the blue box – a travesty here in the South. I loved pimento cheese, pork barbeque and sausage biscuits from the moment I tasted them. Grits and fried okra took a bit longer to learn to love and the jury is still out on cornbread dressing and sweet tea. Buying pulled pork for the first time was an experience. Looking at the meat tinged with pink when I got home, I was aghast. Oh no, undercooked pork. Trichinosis was lurking in the carry out tray! I called the restaurant. “Where are you from?” the owner asked as I explained my concern. When I answered that I was from Oklahoma he sighed, “Okay, that explains it. We do PORK around here, not beef! Your meat is pink because it’s smoked. It’s fine.” And it was!
I was concerned for my daughter in New York City for while I might not be from the South, she is. How would she fare, a Southern girl in this cold and heartless place? I asked her about the attitudes of those in the fabled city. Were they as brusque and rude as I’d heard? “Well, Mom,” she said, “no one says ‘Good Morning’ to everyone they meet along the street as they do at home. If you ask someone a question, you’ll get the answer, but people don’t chat.” Ah, chatting. Now I understood. In the South, while waiting in any line, you will suddenly find that a complete stranger has engaged you in conversation and is offering more personal information than you could possibly imagine. For some reason standing in close proximity can make you best friends for those few moments.
This chatting can be construed as friendly or intrusive. I consider it a friendly Southern way and have come to enjoy these checkout line chats. One day as I shopped in the fabric store I was asked what I planned to do with the small yardage of material in my basket. When I answered that I was making hats to send to Vietnam for women suffering from cancer, this stranger immediately pulled out a pen, wrote down her phone number and said I should call. She had leftover fabric from hundreds of projects and I was welcome to all I needed. Later we met and she gave me a huge box of material. Where did we meet? Why, in the parking lot of Wal-Mart, of course.