My southern identity was put before the court of public opinion today and I was found guilty, guilty I say by a biased jury of one. I was wrongfully questioned, and thus accused of being a foreigner in God’s country, where fried fare, whole hog bbq, sweet tea, and nanner puddin’ are always on the menu. 

While shootin’ the Bojangles’ breeze with an older gentleman in overhauls, probably rollin’ in cash, like the hogs he owns in mud, he quipped, “where you from, son”? “You ain’t got much’uvah suthin’ accent”. I thought, “Lawd have mercy!” With just a few words, like the call of a concrete jungle, my adopted accent betrayed my heritage, and like a wayward foreigner in a far away land, my vernacular visa had just been revoked.

I was offended. My down home proclivities I hold dear seemed somehow tainted. Was I suddenly an imposter? Had I betrayed my upbringin’? Would Sweet’N Low become my preferred sugar substitute? Is kale now my new sausage gravy? After all these years of living amongst suburban folk, had I become citified sophisticated? It was if Junior Samples had waved his magic tire iron and turned my camo pants into skinny jeans and the Cabela’s sweatshirt on my husky sized back had shrunk to that of a J. Crew slim fit dress shirt. It was a low moment.

After all these years of living amongst suburban folk, had I become citified sophisticated?

So, I’m just over hear ponderin’. Ponderin’ on what dues I need to pay or good deeds that need doin’ to earn back my fried chicken and collard green credentials. Maybe I’ll move to some rural NC county, like American Spanish students who immerse themselves in Latin America to learn the language. I dunno, but sumthin’s got to change. 

I need more syrup in my drawl, y’all!
The rural South, a place where old Live Oaks flourish, dirt roads seem endless, corn fields are as big as whole oceans, and little pink houses dot the landscape. Diners, where “honey”, “darlin’”, and “dear” are honorary nicknames. A small place where porches are for sittin’ and lemonade is for sippin’. “C’mon over and sit a spell” is a Sunday afternoon tradition and dinner on the grounds is prepared and served as if church royalty had been invited. But I digress.

Though the South has its dark corners and times of the past we loathe, when our behavior was less than who God created us to be, we still like to think our cotton is high, we’re always fixin’ to do somethin’, dinner is supper, and “bless your heart” is not always a term of endearment.