Stranger in a Strange Land

Growing up in the south, you learn how to name those from an unfortunate northern state. When they visit, they’re Yankees. When they decide to move and make a home, they’re called Damn Yankees.
When I found out, I would be moving north to a smaller town, I half expected to get the same in reverse. Instead, I felt like an oddity.
Truly though, not every southerner has a dislike for the north. Honestly, most are more than excited to meet and welcome most to their community. The phrase “Southern Hospitality” was not created as a joke. There is a different politeness I took for granted. I don’t find the north rude in any way, just different. Fast food employees look at me funny when I reply with no and yes ma’am.
In a small town in Ohio, it is even more than just different. I’ve decided I must have moved into the Twilight Zone. Growing up in Georgia and South Carolina, I dealt with my fair share of rednecks, white trash, hicks, country folk, and what ever other name you want to throw out to go with the stereotypes. Some how even with all the experience nothing prepared me for the racism of this town. Some times, it is over whelming. I’m embarrassed to be near some of them when they open their mouths and know not what they say. However not a day goes by that I don’t see multiple mix-race couples and their children.
I also don’t have a day without being followed by the confederate flag. Yes, the confederate flag. Every other pick-up truck seems to wave the red x in some fashion. I thought at first that these vehicles belonged to out of state students coming to get an education at the local tech college. All seem to have Ohio and Michigan plates. Now I know I am no history scholar, but I’m pretty sure neither state fought on that losing side. (And yes I am a southern fully aware of the fact that we lost. We completely ran out of funds and healthy soldiers and lost. I shouldn't even say "we." I wasn't there) Wasn’t Michigan even one of those neutral states?
I asked one local about the battle flag every where. His reply “Well I don’t wave it because of the south. I wave because of what it means.”
“And what exactly do you think it means?” I tried my best not to sound condescending. It’s hard though when you studied the history and were raised to be knowledgeable about such things. I was in no way made to be proud about the history, but at least to know it.
“Well the whole idea of being a rebel and not willing under to some bigger corporation or government.”
Really!?
I guess that’s not all completely wrong. But you have to wonder why you don’t just go ahead and draw an A and wrap a circle around it. In my effort to try to see the good in people I’m going to hope that the rest of the “Dixie Folk” in town also think the same way and are not just waving it because they are racist pricks or think that it’s cool.

I also get to hear constantly, “Where is your accent??”
The funny story here is that my parents truly did not want us to end up sounding extremely southern. Look at your media. Would you want your children to be forever associated with the stereotypes that follow that twangy drawl? Blue Collar Comedy Tour? Dukes of Hazard? Deliverance? King of the Hill? I happen to laugh at all of that. Well maybe not Deliverance. I don’t however want someone to hear my accent and expect me to be any of these characters.
At a tender young age in a town called Swainsboro, Georgia, my brother and I attend a day care while our parents worked. One day we came home and my brother proceeded to tell my mother about his day.
“Momma, my Fainger hurts.” For those that don’t know, you pronounce the word “finger” as “fay-en-ger.”
This was quite possibly the last time my brother mispronounced that word.
A friend asked the other day after I explained this, “but how do you just not have an accent? I don’t understand how you get rid of it.”
Have you ever seen My Fair Lady?
The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plains. I am awesome at the song, but still tone deaf.
With all the practice though of sounding as un-accented as possible, I still can not avoid the slip up when drunk, tired, or talking to my Nana.
Even without the accent, I still stand out like a sore thumb. I use words that are native apparently to only the south. A soft drink is a soda. That small rodent in the field is a critter. Pepsi is not a drink of choice. Coke is better. Pecan is pea-can not pea-con. And when I ask for an onion, I’m really asking for a very specific sweet onion, a Vidalia.
And speaking of food, I never knew there was a difference in southern fried chicken, southern biscuits, and southern pound cake. In fact, I laughed when I saw these labels at the grocery store. “What the hell is the difference?” Sadly, I found out.
In our local Meijer, (which is just a unionized version of a super Wal-Mart)there is a “world foods” aisle. The basics of Asian, Spanish, German, and what they call Italian are there. There is even a small section of British foods. Nestled between the German and “other” category, I found something so unsettling that I laughed aloud in the middle of the store.
There is a Southern Section!
Four feet devoted to what is supposed to introduce the north to southern cooking. I will tell you though; I haven’t bought a single thing in the section. No good southern woman should. There are canned black eyed-peas, collard, mustard, and turnip greens. There is a succotash that looks like a cafeteria lady made it. If you like extremely overcooked summer squash, they have it. I did see a cornbread mix, but wouldn’t you know it’s made by Jiffy, along with the southern biscuit mix that claims “just add water.” If I’m making biscuits, there are other necessities such as lard/Crisco and buttermilk. The rest of the section is littered with Cajun and Creole mixes. A note to the rest of the world: Cajun is not really just southern food. It is such a mix of French, Spanish and southern that it belongs in its own particular class. If you're going to put Tony Chachere's in a southern section, you might as well move the Zatarain’s out of the rice aisle too.
I am extremely thankful that my family taught me how to cook. It’s also good they are only a phone call away when I need them. What passes here for “soul food” is well, just plain interesting to me. This would be one of those times that "interesting" is not really said with a positive connatation. Mashed potatoes in my opinion, and this is only my opinion, do not belong in bowl with home made egg noodles and chicken broth. However, three different meats are completely acceptable on the table, as well as hot sauce when you serve me breakfast.
Some days I miss a good southern town where a few things are certain. There is always a Baptist church, a waffle house and the smell of a local BBQ and fried chicken shack.